The System #2 by Shelbi Wescott

Knew who they were. She knew Ethan’s name; it had rolled off her tongue with ease.
    Smiling, certain of her safety, Lucy shook her head. “No. My brother is still in Oregon. He’s injured. I need to get him help. Please, can you take me to my father?”
    “Wait…that boy…was he vaccinated?” the girl took another step toward the glass, her brows knit with confusion and worry.
    “He’s a survivor.”
    “A survivor? What do you mean a survivor? I don’t understand.”
    “He made it past Day Six. He’s immune. Somehow.”
    “Immune. No. He survived the outbreak?” She looked even more concerned. Blair stood there with her mouth tight and her body leaning toward the door, itching to leave.  
    Lucy nodded. Which answer would save her or save him, she wondered.
    After a long pause, the water lapped upward across Lucy’s chest, the girl turned. She scrunched up her features and balled her fists.
    “I’m so sorry,” she sighed. “Please God, forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
    And with that, she turned and ran out of the door, slamming it behind her.  

     
    The water was over Lucy’s head now. She had kicked off her sneakers and they sank to the bottom of the room—the tank, she now realized—and kicked her legs and circled her arms, just like her swim teacher taught her. Treading water was never Lucy’s strong suit, but she was too panicked and the water was rising with too much speed for her to float. Her head dipped beneath the surface and she’d pop back up, assessing the ceiling and estimating how much time she had left before she’d run out of breathing room.  
    Four feet separated her mouth and nose from the top of the tank.
    She prayed and when she did, she felt for Salem’s crucifix, still around her neck. The chain stuck to her neck. She had never prayed before the Release, but during her time with Grant she had picked up on his penchant for reaching out to pray in tough moments. It still seemed silly to hope that there was a higher power, but when she had mocked Grant’s go-to response, he had chided her. Grant had said, “How could it hurt?” And it was a question Lucy took to heart.
    There wasn’t any time to fully process what was happening: the woman knew her, knew her father, but still left her here to die. Escape seemed elusive, but Lucy was hopeful that there would be a way for Grant to avoid this fate. Her prayers now shifted to him. Save Grant. God, please save Grant. How cruel for him to be a miracle and then lose his life like this.
    There were two feet of air remaining.
    Her body rose and bobbed; her head hit the cement above her. She kicked her legs wildly and pushed her hands against the ceiling. Then she swam to a corner and positioned herself between the angles of the walls—one leg bracing against one wall, her other leg bracing against the second wall. She kept losing her grip and sliding down, falling into the crystal clear water, the dry room on the other side of the glass visible through a hazy film.
    One foot remaining. The water slid up her neck and toward her chin. The metal holes flooding the water were now completely underwater; still the water poured outward and still the waters rose. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass, but Lucy couldn’t see what was happening from her vantage point. It looked like people entered the room. Two shapes. Lucy ducked her head under the water and swam over to the glass. She held her breath and propelled herself down, then opened her eyes.
    Blair was back.
    And there was a boy with her.
    A man.
    A young man. A middle-aged man, maybe.
    Lucy couldn’t tell anything else.
    She wondered if they were there to watch her die: if somehow her drowning was a spectacle to be witnessed.  
    But then she noticed that the man had Blair by the arm and they were arguing and Blair tried to pull away, but the boy pushed her toward the glass. For one quick second, Lucy, with her cheeks puffed up with as much air as she could