In my Blood

CHAPTER 21 - A Thousand Tiny Diamonds

We walk for ten minutes before we hear it. The gunshot. Ringing through the once silent air. I freeze, feeling the suffocating feeling return, closing around my throat and chest. We all stop walking, feeling the ominous weight of death crushing down on our shoulders. Despite the sun's intense rays coating my body, I feel the coldest chill run down my spine, trailing down through my legs, filling my body with an icy wave of sadness. With my heart sinking to the pit of my chest, aching like an internal wound, I find myself putting one foot in front of the other, and carry on down the sandy slope, beads of sweat trickling down my temple as my throat burns.   

The wind is calm as we walk through the desert. It's muggy, and still. I hear the crunch of the sand beneath my feet, the sound of a stone bouncing off Minho's boot. And breathing. Deep and consistent breathing coming from Newt, like a steady tune, his nostrils flaring as if in anger while he stares ahead at the desert with cold eyes, scanning the horizon. Thomas' loud yet shallow breaths, looking to his feet as they trudge forward, his eyebrows sewn together in worry. And the rapid, quivering breaths coming from Frypan, who is still desperately trying to hold back his sobs as he lags behind the group.

My tears don't come until later that night, by the fire we set up at our camp for the night. But it's nothing like before; they're quiet. Tears that flow, almost gracefully, down my cheeks one at a time. I'm too exhausted to sob, to scream. I just let the tears come peacefully, as do the others.

Minho is the first one to speak since it happened. Glowing embers from the flames rise high into the still night air, floating to the ground, illuminating our harrowed faces.

"I thought we were meant to be immune," he mutters.

"Not all of us," I mutter bluntly, lacking all emotion. I see Newt looking at me with concentration, before turning his head back to the fire, and clearing his throat.

"If Winston got infected, then we can assume so can the rest of us," he says grimly.

Teresa speaks up. "But (y/n)'s been fine for now. How can we even tell who's immune and who's not?"

Minutes pass with tense silence.

"I never thought I'd say this," Frypan sniffs, his eyes glistening from tears in the golden light of the fire. "I miss the Glade."

Everyone falls silent again. No one wants to admit that they agree. I miss the initial unity of the place, everyone doing their own job and having a purpose. Here – without rules – we're broken. We've lost someone... and who knows how long it'll be before we lose someone else...

I shake my head, as if trying to rid myself of the thought. I feel horrible for thinking that. I suddenly stand up, wiping sand off from my trousers.

"I just... I'll be back soon," I say quietly, picking my way through the rubble on the floor to get away from the fire. I hear someone else following behind, and immediately know who it is by the irregular pattern of their walk: Newt.

I don't complain. I can't imagine being alone right now. We walk silently for about fifty metres, my feet bare on the now cool sand. We walk up a dune, not too steep, until we're at the top. Then I turn around and I hug him. But this time, it's different. I'm the one who pulls Newt towards me, not the other way around. I love how his body feels against mine... his arms muscular, yet soft and comfortable, his chest hard but familiarly relaxing as it moves in and out with each deep breath.

When I pull away, I see in the white moonlight that below his eyes, his skin is damp with tears. I carefully brush them away with my fingertips, but don't pull my hand away from his face. They rest on his cheeks, and I rub my thumb in a circular motion, just as he did the other night in the cave with the Cranks. I notice that he has a red cut below his right eye.