Shattered Love | Scorch Trials

Rose

  My feet land with a thud against the hard concrete ground below me, vibrations running through my legs from the hard fall. Brenda stands in front of me, pulling out a flashlight to illuminate the dark space.

We're in a tunnel. Graffiti is written all over the walls. Vines of some plant grow along the sides, reaching all the way to the top on some parts. They look faded green, almost brown, and they might have been the source of the awful smell burning my nose.

"What is that stuff?" I ask her as she tosses me another flashlight.

"It grows on the bodies of the infected." She answers. Images of the Crank that attacked me play through my head, the vines covering the back of her head where hair should be the only thing growing.

"Does that mean there will be Goners down here?" I ask, flinching at the nickname I gave them.

"Nice way to put it. And yeah, they will. Keep your eyes opened and take this." She hands me a long, slender knife that gives me chills just holding it.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

"Nope. But, I've explored these tunnels thousands of times. As long as we find a way out, I can lead us to the supermarket where we'll meet Jorge,"

"And my friends." I add.

She chuckles. "Yes. Them too," She takes a deep breath. "So, your one of Wicked's lab rats?" I nod my head.

We continue to walk in silence, an eerie feeling crawling up my spine as if we're being followed. But every time I turn around and aim my flashlight behind me, only echoes sound through the halls.

As we walk, I begin to study the graffiti along the walls. All bright colors, something you would not expect in such a dull world. Pictures of plants and animals, murals and people. All of them are faded against the concrete, cracked and picked at. The graffiti of the world before the Sun Flares.

The newest drawings are what's horrifying. Pictures of babies holding onto their mothers, who have scars and wounds all over their tired faces. A picture of the sun with a devil face, a drawing of a hand that is wrinkled, bloody, and wounded reaching for a fresh, clean hand. All the years of suffering are portrayed on these walls, making my heart sink into the pit of my stomach.

My flashlight grazes along the wall, black and bold lettering catching my attention. I step back and take in the words completely, reading them out loud.

"Olivia, you're the real leader."

That's what it says. My voice bounces of the walls, tumbling through the tunnel.

"Look, it's over here too." Brenda says behind me, pointing at the same letters on the opposite wall. I travel my hands along the sides, the same five words repeat themselves on the walls for who knows how long. The paint is fresh, slightly staining the tips of my fingers.