Behind closed and guarded doors, of course their Board of Reps weren’t happy that their plan hadn’t fallen through. Whatever their plan was, that is. No one had actually discovered why Better Living was making and force-feeding these pills into people who were obviously already sick. Jeez, who am I kidding? More like they were ready to bring down the country to make them change their minds if they had to. So, that’s exactly what they started.
This is where I got involved. Later, in 2019, when things started affecting the population outside of the company’s shiny white and glass walls and the corrupt hospitals and medical centres, I was evacuated from the city along with all other expats and foreign students, but they must have known we were trying to leave. My “evacuation party,” as they had so thoughtfully put it (with the organisation we had, I was sure they put more effort into coming up with official names for everything than coming up with actual plans), had a couple of the very few police officers left who weren’t owned by Better Living with us. At the edge of the city centre were guard posts of what became known as Draculoids. They were basically security guards with a raised ego because they got to wear a suit that cost more than their salaries and could shoot people and never have to look them in the eyes. When we had to abandon our getaway van, they told us to run and not stop until we were out of Battery City. They were both taken; I still don’t know what happened to them.
I was with the girls from my flat, along with some older people who lived in the same block as us. I didn’t know them all that well, except for passing each other in the stairway to get to the shared laundry. But we ran and ran until our lungs burned, and then we ran some more. We even stopped to coax on the ones who were struggling. When we got to the edge of the city, about the far edge of Zone 1, we found we were being expected. Better Living had set up guard posts around the outskirts of the city, stopping anyone in their tracks. They loaded us into a delivery truck and shut us in the darkness with a BL employee with a rather ferocious-looking gun.
On the way back to the CID (Central Industrial District), the brakes stalled and the truck started veering towards the side of the highway. We couldn’t see outside—who would put windows on the side of a delivery truck?—but we knew something was badly wrong. It kept going until the front left wheel went off into the gutter completely, jerking deep and sharp into the gutter. Because of the weight of the truck it couldn’t be reversed and, in a horrifying moment of weightlessness, it rolled.
There were about twelve of us in the holding area, with no seatbelts, so we went flying. We slid along the floor to the left wall, tipped again, before we came to rest in the top left corner. More than a few had been knocked out, including our “supervisor.” In the impact the door had been warped and thrown open. Outside was chaos; troops ran in from their posts to the front of the vehicle, I guessed trying to help the staff inside. I remember seeing three men running up to the back door to block the way out, but they weren’t quick enough. I jumped out and ran for my life, but I think I was the only one who managed it, at least to get past anyone making a lunge at me. I don’t really know where my sudden energy came from; it was different to getting ready for a race or something. It was more powerful, frightening even. I decided it was a special type of adrenalin that kicked into gear when you knew your life was depending on it. I didn’t catch a glimpse, hear a voice that belonged to either of my school friends. All I knew was that I had to get out of there, so I did. And I never looked behind me.
