The System #2 by Shelbi Wescott Page B

Snot streamed down her nose and her wet hair lay in a tangled mass.
    She was on her side; her shoulder bone rested on a groove, she tried to shift away, but everything hurt.  
    “We have to get her to the medic pod.”
    “Gordy…” Blair’s voice was whiny and afraid.
    The young man spun, one hand still resting on Lucy’s back. “That entitled whimpering might work with dad, but not with me. Are you out of your small, ridiculous, mind?”
    “Don’t lecture me. Not now. You don’t think I know how bad this is?”
    “Call the hospital on Floor F. Get the medic pod to get a room for her. Do it now.” He pointed at the door, but Blair didn’t move. He muttered imbecile underneath his breath.  
    “What about the boy, Gordy? He’s a survivor .” She spat the word like it was poison.
    “Leave the boy. He’s not our concern right now.
    “Grant—” Lucy said, and then she coughed, more water dribbling down her chin and to the floor; she thought she tasted something metallic and rusty. She thought of Grant and then to the pain in her chest and then back to Grant. She felt panic, like bile, gurgling up her throat.
    “He’s fine. Just sitting in the tank,” the man named Gordy answered Lucy, but he didn’t even glance down at her. His hand on her shoulder felt mechanical, rigid. He had saved her, this Lucy knew. His face was the face she saw first when she was pulled from the abyss, and she focused in on his crystal blue eyes, the stubble on his chin. She had been in a place of peace, a place absent of pain, and then she felt drawn back—there was the sensation of touch: wetness, roughness, sharpness. Then she saw Gordy’s face and had the uncontrollable urge to vomit.  
    Whatever peace found her in those moments in the tank were gone. For a second, she wished he had just let her die.
    She went to wipe her mouth, but her hand felt weighted down to the floor.
    Lucy coughed again. And again.
    “Get her up,” Gordy commanded.
    “Get the guards to do it. They can say they found her.”
    “You think they’re going to take the blame for this?”
    Blair was quiet.
    “Gordy, please—” she whispered. “Dad—”
    “You better hope the girl lives. If she dies, Dad will never forgive you. Breaking the rules is one thing, but murder Blair. Murder?”
    Blair scowled and climbed off the ground of the tank. “That’s rich, Gordy. That’s hilarious,” she seethed and pointed at him. “Maybe Dad will only love me if I murder seven billion people. God forbid I tank one person.”
    Gordy shot up off the ground and walked right up to his sister; he leaned down over her and backed her up against a wall. His movement was quick, deliberate, and Blair didn’t have time to maneuver away from him. She cowered as he pressed his hand against her shoulder. “Don’t you ever say anything like that ever again or I will tank you . The Kings are members. And you know that it’s different. You know it, Blair. Call the medics.”
    “Even you didn’t think they should be allowed to stay,” Blair challenged in a small voice. “Don’t get all high and mighty now…you wanted them dead once. You didn’t trust Scott. Remember that O-Mighty-One?”
    Gordy gave Blair’s shoulder a second push into the cement wall and then walked away from her, leaving Blair to rub her shoulder. Her chin quivered.
    Lucy coughed and coughed; she gasped for breath. She wanted to shout at them to shut up; she wanted to tell them she was in pain.
    “It’s done. The decision was made long before and it’s done. Call the medics, Blair. Or I’ll have the guards tank you and bury you in the Sand Hills.”
    “Gordy—”
    “Call the Goddamn medics!”
    Blair bristled and huffed, and then sauntered out with her fear disguised with defiance. But Gordy—who was her father’s age, somewhere in his early forties, maybe younger, but not by much—now leaned over her, his eyes narrowed, his face still. He opened his mouth to address her and then