Get Out If You Can

Matt | They Lied, They Died

When I wake up, I feel like I've been stabbed a million times with hundreds of needles. Funny way to feel – but oh, this is hell, right? No way I'd land up in Heaven. That would be an insult to my memory – 'cause if I'm dead, then I'm a fancy-schmancy memory, right?

"God, he's alive!"

That was unexpected.

I force my eyes open, and when they finally do, I wish I hadn't ever tried. Everything in front of me is white. Too white. Blazing white. I think I'm blinded.

"He is alive!"

"News to me," I say, surprised that I can say anything at all, and I try to sit up. I can't. It hurts too much. Shit, I hate being alive. "Am I, though?"

"Of course you are!" I'd like to see the face of the person who said that, but I can't, they've got other plans. My vision's obscured by someone flinging themselves on me.

That someone's got messily-cut honey-blond hair, and when I say messily, I mean messily – though it must look good, I guess. That someone is Emilie Badeaux, and though my body's aching and she's not helping, I don't have a problem.

"Emilie, he's fucking fractured." A deeper voice comes from the side. Where am I? Well, wherever I am, it's comfortable. Since everything is white, I'm most definitely lying on a bed, and I'm fractured, apparently – I guess I'm in a hospital.

"You've been out for hours!" Emilie's arms leave me a bit too soon, but I'm not going to say that out loud – yet. "We thought you were –"

"We didn't think anything, to be honest," someone with red hair – oh, wow, Hunter's alive too! – says, crouching down next to my bed. "We knew you were fine. Only Emilie hyperventilated – shit, sorry, but that's what you did, really." He shrugs as Emilie shoots him a look.

"You look great," I say, looking at her, because a) she does, and b) the fire from the Manor's singed half of her hair off and someone needs to tell her she wears it well.

"Like, honestly," I add, because she's looking at me all suspicious.

"It doesn't matter," she says, sitting on a chair next to Diego. He's on a bed like I am, and there are a gazillion more little contraptions here and there stuck to him – shit, what happened?

"Diego got shot in the shoulder area," Emilie says, catching my stare. "The docs said if the bullet was a centimeter closer he'd be a fatal case. Thankfully he'll recover soon."

"Shit, man, it hurts, right?" I ask, leaning on my side to look at him. Now that my vision has partially cleared, I can see him – sort of. And even though he's busted as fuck he'd still look good on some fancy-pants clothing catalog. I'm not checking him out, I'm just, well, evaluating the situation.

"Of course it does," he says, rolling his eyes. I bet it's the only part of his body that he can move. "I didn't even pass out as soon as you guys did. After she shot me by accident, she shot herself in the mouth, and," he grimaces, "I had to watch. Thank God there was smoke."

"Oh, fuck, wait." My brain hurts, thinking. "She's dead for real now?"

"Hey, look," Hunter says, and there's some funny emotion in his voice. The dread in me rises like a fucking Ring of Fire volcano. "We couldn't save them," he says, his head bowed. "Five died in the flames. The funeral's tomorrow — technically today, because it's, um, already tomorrow," he says, and I wince at the word 'funeral'. "I'm, um, going."

"Fuck." I will forever respect the person who invented that word. "Fuck. They all died?"

"We hoped they didn't," Hunter says. "They resuscitated me and Emilie pretty fast, so we were there to watch what was happening. The docs came out of the ICU and said they'd had it bad. On one hand, they were trapped in those nylon cloth bags, and on the other, they were tired as shit. In the fire, they choked."