like I’m about to burst all my seams. Who cares? Who cares? I’d go out on this feeling. It’s been years since I let myself catch it and hold—cling—to it.
My brother is going to come get me. He promised. What are the chances that he’s already out and waiting for me? Good, I know. This is Lucas, after all.
Elise hisses between her teeth when they call for volunteers to take the first bus to a place they call Pierre. Colonel Megaphone finally figures out that we aren’t just going to take his word and ride off into the sunrise, no matter how warm those buses look. I hear him working on some of the older kids, telling them to set a good example, pulling out some kind of handheld device to say, this is where we’re going—look, there are already parents waiting there.
In some ways, it feels like we’ve spent endless days wandering lost through a forest, only to be met with a stranger dangling a sweet, ripe apple in front of us. Another test. It’s a risk, sure—if the thing’s poisoned, we’re all dead. But if we stay here, we’re dead anyway.
And I want to see Lucas. I want that more than anything.
Elise’s gaze rakes down my back as I step forward, following the first few kids heading through the gate. The monster doesn’t care. The monster wants what it wants, and feels strong enough now to push back on anyone who’s stupid enough to get between it and the only thing it has left. I feel like I’m shedding an old skin, one weighed down by scaly ash, as I pass through the entryway and move toward the first bus, up the stairs that lead into the enormous beast’s belly.
There’s a soft-faced woman at the wheel who gives me this little nod of encouragement when my feet slow to a stop so I can look around. I don’t need it. My toes curve like claws against the ground as I square my shoulders and follow the Blue boy in front of me to the back of the bus. The heat kicks on and pierces my frozen skin like a thousand small cuts. It feels so much better than the nothing that gulped me up the minute the PSFs drove me through the gate. If they are taking us to another camp, if the plan is to kill—dispose—of us somehow, then at least we get a few minutes to thaw out after being trapped in the facility’s cold arms.
But I’m going to hope. I’m going to believe.
I’m going to see Lucas.
I pick a window seat on the side opposite the camp. I don’t want to see it ever again. My pulse is kicking so hard as the engine starts for real, and one by one heads appear, coming up the stairs, filling the empty seats. There’s a crackle and pop, drawing my eyes down to where my hands have twisted and crushed the empty water bottle.
A laugh swells up inside me, chased by another, and another, and I can’t figure out why. None of this is funny, but others are doing it too. Some are still crying, and I have no idea where that energy is coming from because they’ve been going at it for hours now.
The bus jerks forward, finds a dirt road running through a field where nothing grows. The land around us is achingly empty, and we seem to fill only a fraction of it, one small sliver moving up its spine. And as we pass low rolling mountains pockmarked with black stone, as we drive through empty towns, that same buzz of hope I felt at the start of the journey begins to fade, settles into a monstrous little growl. Because no matter how far we go, it’s never far enough.
I can still see the camp’s trail of black smoke rising into the clear blue sky.
UNCLAIMED.
I think it is the worst word I’ve ever heard. The worst label they’ve tried to give us, at least. Call us freaks any day of the week, we’re all so used to it that the sting barely registers. But this…it confirms the one fear so many of us have carried around like a blister on our hearts.
Part of me wishes the news and officials would just be honest about it; “unclaimed” is the polite whisper for unwanted. “Unclaimed” means a loose end, something that could change any minute, any day. It’s something that gets lost, or left behind, and