Free Arclight by Josin L. McQuein Page A

him,” Lt. Sykes says. He wraps his arms completely around Trey in an attempt to steady him. He and Mr. Pace pull Trey to the floor to brace his body.
    “I need morphine,” Dr. Wolff says, kneeling down to press Trey’s head against the floor. He swipes his free hand toward the cabinets, and the guard I don’t know starts opening drawers. “Third, left. Orange lettering on the package.”
    “Got it.”
    The guard tosses a plastic wrapper. Mr. Pace catches it and holds a syringe out to Dr. Wolff, who slides the needle into Trey’s upper arm.
    “Relax, son,” he says softly. “I know that’s easier for me to say than it is for you to do, but the medicine should kick in soon.”
    “He won’t make the trip downstairs,” Mr. Pace says in a rough voice. “Honoria sees him like this and—”
    “Get him into a bed,” Dr. Wolff says, nodding. “I’ll do what I can. Hopefully he’ll be in the clear before Honoria ever sees him.”
    Mr. Pace closes the curtain between Jove’s bed and the one I had used, and once Jove’s sequestered, they deposit Trey on my bed. The short drop when they lower him down is too much for his stomach. He throws up again.
    “She overdid it,” Mr. Pace says.
    Trey’s out of it, thrashing with the sheets tangled around his feet. Sweat explodes from his skin as he tries to speak, but no real words come out.
    “She saved his life, Elias.” Dr. Wolff becomes the voice of reason in the room. “There’s a chance to stop them before they trench in. If we’re lucky, he’ll keep his arm.”
    “Don’t lecture me on that sort of luck, Doc. I’m more than familiar with the concept.”
    Another few seconds pass with Mr. Pace trying to get a response from Trey, but Trey’s gone—hopefully to the morphine rather than his injuries. His eyes roll up into his head and close. Even after he’s out, he shakes so much that Lt. Sykes and the other guard have to hold him down.
    Dr. Wolff cuts the sleeve away from Trey’s mangled skin before reaching for the same scraper he’d used on me. I have a feeling that the next emptied stomach will be mine if I watch, so I hide my face against the wall, grateful for Trey’s sake that he isn’t conscious.
    I keep my eyes closed until I hear the scraper hit a metal bowl. Trey’s arm now sports a shallow trench in the muscle where Dr. Wolff cut deep. Flecks of black ash fall to the floor, and both of the men who carried him in back away from it. Mr. Pace sweeps it into a bin, adding Trey’s ruined shirt and the bloody bandages to the pile. Torn pieces of the green patch declaring his status as a final-year student land on top.
    “Clothes,” Mr. Pace orders.
    Both men shuck their jackets and remove their gloves.
    “You need these, Doc?”
    “They’re active.” Dr. Wolff bites the words, bitter like a sour lemon. “Use the incinerator downstairs.”
    Down? The only stairs I’ve ever seen take workmen to the roof so they can replace lightbulbs. All that’s under the Arclight is dirt.
    Mr. Pace sprints toward the medicine room with the bin held at arm’s length.
    Dr. Wolff turns the light over Trey’s bed on so high it bounces back off his skin with a pale violet glow, then snaps a breathing mask over his nose and mouth and turns on the pump beside his bed so it fills with medical smoke.
    “Portman, your hand,” Lt. Sykes says. Surprise makes the nasal whine to his voice worse. “You’re cut.”
    The other man, Portman, glances down at the hand he was using to steady Trey’s arm, raising it toward the light. A scrape stretches across his palm, below the thumb. The skin’s red and irritated in the center, but nothing serious. Around the scrape, a sooty black halo traces the shape.
    “You must’ve ripped a glove,” Lt. Sykes says.
    “Secondary transfer,” Portman argues, trying to wipe the halo away, but the stain sticks fast. “Doc . . .”
    “They’re not in the tissue, yet.” Dr. Wolff rounds Trey’s bed.
    “Do something!”