Fear My Mortality Read Online Free PDF Page B

he did: his collared shirt and tie, black for Implosion, hiding the blood pooling across his heart. I ripped and tore the Basher uniform from his arms and legs and rolled it into a ball, running to the door and throwing it down the corridor.
    Back inside the room, I slipped and buckled. Once kneeling on the splattered floor, I couldn’t get up again. I put my head into my hands, curled over my knees, and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel anything. Not the wet tiles, not my wild hair, not my empty, useless hands. I didn’t try to reach for the emergency intercom again. The lights in it were dead like my brother. Out of order. Like me.
    I hated Josh.
    I hated him for leaving me in his dust. I hated him for calling me a freak. Most of all, I hated him for being a Basher, for dragging me in there, for getting himself killed.
    But he was my brother. And death was not a possibility. Not here. Not now. Not until we were hundreds of years old.
    It must be a mistake. I glanced at him, thinking that any second now his arms and legs would start trembling—enter the pre-healing phase—like they should have already.
    Running footsteps brought me to my feet, and a man I didn’t recognize raced into the room with a large pack slung across his back.
    Relief surged through me. He’d brought the recovery dome. Now he’d bring Josh back.

Chapter Three

     
     
    “Out of the way, girl.” The man skidded to a stop beside Josh, dropping to the ground and swinging the giant pack off his back.
    An oxygen mask came out, followed by an enormous needle filled with dark fluid that the man thumped into Josh’s chest and compressed. He spoke into his mouthpiece, calling for a full recovery transport. “We need it now.”
    He shoved at Josh, half rolling him over, and ripped at the material across Josh’s right shoulder. Beneath his shirt, there was a section of puckered skin, white and warped, about an inch in diameter. The man paused and cursed at it. He cursed again, shaking his head.
    Then he whipped into action, opening out his pack and throwing it upward so that it snapped mid-air into a rigid dome shape. It reminded me of one of those clear umbrellas that stockbrokers in suits always seemed to carry, except without a handle. He pulled it down to the ground so that it encircled Josh’s whole body. He tapped the console and the dome sealed itself to the floor.
    “Stand back,” he said, and I obeyed.
    Only then, I realized that Michael stood at the door. He hadn’t run after all. I’d expected him to be far away by then, but he’d come back with the medic.
    He leaned against the archway as if he was waiting at a bus stop. Bored, uncaring, ignoring the gore adorning his chest and neck—a tattoo of death. I wondered, if I looked closer, whether I’d see signs of strain around his eyes, maybe a tight jaw, frozen shoulders, fear, and uncertainty hidden well.
    The recovery dome flashed, spilling bolts of organic energy into Josh’s body, and I waited for him to respond. Any second now, my brother would gasp, the blood would stop flowing from his chest, and he’d come back to himself.
    The dome was alive with electricity, jolting Josh’s body. The energy inside the dome reached out beyond the umbrella cover, making my skin prickle. I didn’t look at Michael again or watch the medic. The only important thing was Josh’s face. I waited for his eyelids to flutter, his mouth to draw in oxygen.
    The man stood up. He lifted the microphone toward his mouth. He stopped, started to speak, and stopped again. Another curse left his lips and hung in the air. He ran his hand over his eyes and shut them for a moment.
    He lifted the console in his hand, pressed a button, and the silver disco ball stopped spinning, the dimmer lights went up. He pressed something else. “Permission to turn off the recovery dome.”
    Silence. Then, “Because he’s dead.” He put his hand over his eyes. “You heard me.”
    “No.” This wasn’t happening. I