Subject A250: The Fallen

Twenty-Four: Running on Empty

Two days had passed since Trace had escaped the town of cranks. Since then, she'd been driving through relatively empty land, passing nothing but the occasional farm or scattering of a settlement.

All had been long abandoned.

Her petrol had been running low late on the second day of travel, but there were a few abandoned cars on the side of the road and, across them all, she'd managed to siphon enough petrol to last her this far.

Sleep was a distant concept to her; her only attempts had been odd, as she'd never truly fallen into a deep sleep, too distracted and too fearful to let her guard down for even a minute. Instead, whenever she's tried, she'd fallen into this vague trance, existing somewhere between dream and reality, but not quite falling into either category.

With the fatigue, she'd been hallucinating. Not so much in a bad way-- in fact, her hallucinations had been great sources of entertainment. After all, who else could say they'd seen a giant penguin waltzing with a tree, or an entire army of crayons fighting a troop of sausages.

The look of defeat on the surviving sausages' faces was heartbreaking, as they were taken off to prisoner of war camps, but Trace knew that despite this one loss, they weren't far from winning the war.

She shook her head and wiped her eyes and pulled her seat upright again. It was morning, and she had to keep going. There had been no sign of Newt or the van at all so far, despite her careful observation of the map. She was sure they would've come this way-- it was the quickest route.

She supposed they may be taking it in shifts, one guard sleeping while the other drove, allowing them to drive without stopping for days at a time. Maybe they were just superhuman -- robots designed only to steal really nice people and then drive away with them. Maybe they were just figments of her imagination, and she was actually fast asleep, imagining this was all playing out, when really she was lying safely back in the Glade, with her friends all relaxing in hammocks around her.

Maybe she was losing her mind.

Trace pulled the map over from the passenger seat and examined the route she still had to take. There was town up ahead -- the biggest she'd come across since leaving Denver. This one was probably two hours away, along a relatively straight route. She rubbed her eyes again and set the map down, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Trace started the car.

An hour later, she noticed her petrol was running low. Not low enough for her to panic yet, but if she couldn't find an abandoned car or gas station to siphon petrol from in the town ahead, she'd be in big trouble. Big trouble.

"You'll be fine," she muttered to herself. "Just find some petrol and keep driving. Easy as pie... not that you've ever made pie... or eaten it. So, maybe you'll really suck at finding petrol."

She needed Minho right now. He was the designated pep talk guy.

"Be careful. Don't die," she added, hoping to bloody inspire herself. It didn't work.

A little over an hour later, she reached the town. The buildings were bigger here -- some of them six or seven stories high, towering around her. Driving slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, she made her way along the main road, taking note of all the side streets and corners where cranks could be hiding, waiting to take her out at any moment. She kept driving.

Ahead, the road sloped uphill, lined by apartment blocks on either side, their windows all smashed and broken, some of the walls collapsed. The remains of a car lay at the top of the descent, now only a burnt shell. She wondered if that had been as a result of the Flares, or something that had come later in all the madness. She weaved around it, holding her breath subconsciously, only letting it go when she was well past.