Five meals later, the lock on the door clicks open again. This time, I'm facing the door, knees pulled up to my chest.

Two guards walk in, holding a pair of cuffs.

"Is it time?" I ask, looking up at faces I don't recognize. Neither one of them look even a little sympathetic. One of them nods, and I push myself up off the floor.

There's no point in hiding from what's coming. I can't run, can't escape. Not this time. At least, when I die, there's a chance Isaac and I can be together again, wherever we end up in the afterlife.

One of the guards cuff me, roughly shoving my hands behind my back.

"You don't need to be so rough," I say, glaring at him, "I'm not fighting back."

He flicks me in the back of the head, and I turn back around.

The lights in the hallway hurt my eyes. I squint until my eyes adjust, stumbling out of the room. Pulled upright, I'm shoved forward again.

Lining the hallway are more doors, silver metal reflecting every bit of the bright lights. The doors have numbers on them, painted in white. Occasionally, as we pass one, I hear someone shouting or beating on the door. I'm reminded of the basement back in Dunlap, of the infected nesting in houses.

Pushing the memory back, I concentrate on walking, on trying not to trip as I'm led down the stairwell, to the first floor. One guard walks ahead, the other still behind me, holding my hands. The receptionist behind the counter watches me, eyes more curious than anything. I recognize her as a girl I went to school with. 

The guard in front waves at her, and she presses a button on the counter. The doors slide open, cold air rushing in.

The front steps have been cleared, a metal rod sticking up from the steps. There's a loop close to the ground on the pole. Everything looks just like the first execution I saw. The front lawn is also empty; all the tents have been moved away. They have made room for people to come later.

Snow dusts the ground, lining the concrete steps.

"What day is it?" I ask as the guard pushes me down to my knees, attaching my cuffs to the loop and pole.

"Mid-December," he says, blankly. I nod, situating myself where I'm sitting on my feet, not leaning on my knees. The concrete hurts. It's not supposed to be comfortable, though.

I missed my seventeenth birthday.

"You'll wait here," the guard says, as the other one leaves to go back into the facility, "You're scheduled for the firing squad after work dismisses tonight. It's still early. Hartley says you should have to sit out in the cold for a few hours so people can see you."

I look at up him, my breath spiralling in the cold air between us.

"Can I ask you some questions?" I ask. He looks annoyed but nods. "How often did they feed me?"

"Once a day."

I do a quick count in my head. I was in that room for almost three weeks.

"Who will be in the firing squad?"

"I don't know," he says, shrugging, "It doesn't matter, as long as they do their job. Is that all?"
I bite my lip, shivering.

"Thank you. That's all," I say, and he leaves me alone.

Hours pass, and all I have to do is watch people walk back and forth to work. Some of them stop and stare, others hurry past with their heads down. One person spits at me, cursing angrily as he stomps away. If they only knew what I had been through for them, they wouldn't treat me so bad. Every time someone says something mean, I shake my head, pity filling my chest.

They are so ignorant to the truth, and it's not even their fault.

Children on their break stop to poke at me, laughing at the state of my hair and clothes. They call me filthy, traitor, and killer. I just close my eyes and try not to listen, feeling the tears in my eyes. My desire to scream at them runs strong. I could easily tell them how I saved their lives from the second strand, but then, they would add another name to my growing list of nicknames: psycho.

When the sky begins to grow dark and the afternoon alarm rings to release workers, I breathe a sigh of relief. By now, I just want the ridicule to end.

Hearing the door behind me open, I glance over my shoulder. The first thing I see are the pointy, shiny shoes of my nightmares. I follow his legs up to his face. President Hartley just smiles at me.

"Have a good day, Price?" he asks, holding the door open for the four guards. They have their faces covered with masks, to protect them from the few, if any, supporters I have. At this point, I doubt I have any. One of them walks with a limp, dragging his or her right leg, while another is extra wide, his broad shoulders taking up extra space. One is tall and skinny, and the last is short, blonde hair poking out of the back of his or her mask.

"Oh, it was wonderful," I reply, rolling my eyes.

"Well, you should enjoy your last day on Earth," he says, letting the door shut, "I'm glad it was pleasant."

I make a face at him, turning back around. The yard is beginning to fill up, hushed whispers spreading thin over the crowd. I see faces I know, people I worked with, trained with, talked with, laughed with.

I scan every face, looking in every pair of eyes I can catch. Their faces range from anger, fury, complacency, to sorrow. One older woman is crying, lightly shaking her head as she stares up at me. Eventually, it becomes too much, and I lower my head, staring at my knees.

"Good afternoon!" Hartley says, his voice carrying over the cold wind, "Thank you so much for coming out this wintery afternoon. I promise, we will make this quick."

He steps forward, grabbing a handful of my hair and jerking my head up. I wince, gritting my teeth.

"You all know this girl," he continues, pulling my head up more. My neck stretches painfully. "This is Jaelyn Price, daughter of Doctor Price. Up until a few weeks ago, Jaelyn served as a Wall Guard. We trusted her with protecting us, which was clearly a mistake."

The crowd erupts into roars of cheering. I bite back my anger, tears welling up in my eyes.

"Because, this girl decided that she should be the only person in world with immunity,"
Hartley says, shaking my head, "She broke into the Research Facility two weeks ago and destroyed every last drop of our cure!"

The crowd screams again, and the guards behind me fidget. I scan the faces before me again, searching for anyone with some compassion. In the back, there's a young boy, black messy hair. He isn't cheering; he's simply staring. He looks vaguely familiar, but he's out of uniform. The boy nods his head to me, turning and leaving the crowd.

"Together, you've decided you want her dead," Hartley continues, losing his grip on my hair. He takes a few steps forward, hands on his hips. "And I agree!"

He swings towards the guards, giving them a broad smile.

"Guards, on the count of ten. Ten! Nine!"

The crowd helps him count, chanting almost. I take a deep breath and hold it. I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I did everything I needed to do, I remind myself. Now, it's time to be with Isaac, time to pay for my mistakes and successes.

I look back out at the crowd as they reach three. Where the boy was standing, now I see my father. He has his arms crossed, staring at me, unblinking. What surprises me the most is that he doesn't look worried for me. There's no pain on his face. Instead, the lines around his eyes are full of anger. Anger and something else that I can't place.

"Two... One..."

I close my eyes as I hear the guards cock their guns, boots stomping as they ready themselves into position. The gunshots blend together into one massive sound, and then, everything is quiet again.

Death doesn't hurt. I feel no pain, except the concrete boring into my knees. It is quiet, though, which is to be expected. I breathe a long sigh of relief, opening my eyes to see where I've ended up.

Yet, before me are the same faces I was looking at a minute ago. I'm still before the people, but their faces have changed. Now, it's shock and confusion I see. My body begins to shake in fear. Something's not right. I'm supposed to be dead.

A long minute passes, and someone in the crowd screams.

As if falling out of thin air, a body drops onto the stairs in front of me. It's a mess of blood and black material, slicked back black hair and bone. I look it up and down, searching eyes falling onto those black pointed shoes.

Hartley.

Someone killed Hartley.