Rush The Game

workout.
    Holding up his hand, Jackson puts the brakes on and presses back against the stone wall. Then he leans forward very slowly and peers around the corner. Apparently satisfied by what he does—or doesn’t—see, he signals us to move.
    We round another corner. I’m hit by light so bright it’s like sunshine on a July afternoon, the glare amplified by white walls, white floor, white ceiling, all polished to a perfect shine. I jerk to a stop, horror congealing like day-old bacon fat.
    The room is full of people. Humans.
    Dead humans.
    Before me stretch rows and rows of girls, lying on their backs, eyes closed, limbs bare. Strips of white cloth drape their chests and hips, like tube tops and short skirts. At first glance, they look like they’re floating, but when I look more carefully, I see that they’re on white gurneys that blend with the walls and floor, white on white on white.
    The sounds of beeps and hisses hum in the background. Their chests rise and fall in synchronized rhythm.
    So I was wrong. They aren’t dead.
    They’re all attached to machines and tubes. I don’t know if the machines are human technology or alien knockoffs, but I recognize some and can figure out the rest. Three weeks into her chemo, Mom ended up in the ICU with pneumonia. One of the ways I coped with seeing her there was by finding out everything I could about the machines that were keeping her alive. A lot of the stuff here looks familiar. There are monitors that beep softly and respirators doing the breathing. There are tubes in the girls’ legs or near their collarbones; one of the nurses in the ICU said those measure things like oxygen in the blood. The tubes in their chests drain fluid and keep their lungs from collapsing.
    “Oh man,” Luka says, and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Oh man, this is not good. There are so many of them.”
    “What is this place?” I ask. “Who are these people?”
    “This is bigger than the facility in Arizona.” Luka shakes his head. “This is bad, Miki.”
    “Bad in more ways than one,” Tyrone says. “Security was too light for a place like this, even if they were so sure of themselves that they thought we wouldn’t find them. A handful of guards for a place this size?” He looks at Jackson. “You think it’s a trap?”
    “Lousy trap if that’s what it is,” Jackson says. “More likely, we got lucky. Could be a change in shift, or security was sent off-site to attend to something else.” Something in his voice catches my attention, like he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying. And I silently curse those stupid shades because I suspect he’s watching me, but I can’t be sure. He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Stop talking and start working. Tyrone, get the supplies. Smash everything that’s breakable. Luka, Miki, help me with the machines.”
    “Who are they?” I ask again. “What’s wrong with them?”
    “There’s nothing wrong with them.” Jackson’s tone is dark and rough. “And nothing right, either.”
    The sound of glass shattering makes me turn. Tyrone’s standing near the far wall. I thought it was just a wall, but now I see that it’s a series of smooth-fronted cabinets. Tyrone has one open and he’s sweeping his outstretched arm along the shelves. Whatever doesn’t break as it hits the ground, he shatters with the heel of his boot.
    “Nothing wrong with them?” I turn back to Jackson. “They’re unconscious. They’re hooked up to machines.”
    I wrinkle my nose. The smell in here is off. Medicinal mixed with something sort of earthy, like Dad’s compost bin. Not pleasant, that’s for sure.
    Jackson’s finished offering explanations. I should probably count myself lucky that he gave me as much as he did. “Get moving,” he says.
    Luka crosses to the row of gurneys nearest Tyrone. With a grimace, he reaches out and turns off the respirator. The girl’s chest deflates and doesn’t rise again.
    The sight of that dredges up horrific memories of Mom breathing her last, the sound of her exhalation and then just . . . nothing. Suddenly, I’m not here. I’m back there, with her.
    “Wait! No!” I lunge forward but get nowhere because Jackson grabs my arm.
    “They aren’t people.” He hits a button on the respirator closest to us, turning it off.
    “What are you doing? You’re killing them.” I shove his hands away and reach for the switch. On some level, I realize that I’m not reacting in a way that makes