When we finally make it to the compound, I’m exhausted, thirsty, and really have to use the bathroom. Warner is none of those things, apparently, because Warner is made of uranium or plutonium or some shit, so I have to beg him to let me take a quick break. And by begging him I mean I grab him by the back of the shirt and force him to slow down—and then I basically collapse behind a wall. Warner shoves away from me, and the sound of his irritated exhalation is all I need to know that my “break” is half a second from over.
“We don’t take breaks,” he says sharply. “If you can’t keep up, stay here.”
“Bro, I’m not asking to stop. I’m not even asking for a real break. I just need a second to catch my breath. Two seconds. Maybe five seconds. That’s not crazy. And just because I have to catch my breath doesn’t mean I don’t love J. It means we just ran like a thousand miles. It means my lungs aren’t made of steel.”
“Two miles,” he says. “We ran two miles.”
“In the sun. Uphill. You’re in a fucking suit. Do you even sweat? How are you not tired?”
“If by now you don’t understand, I certainly can’t teach you.” I haul myself to my feet. We start moving again.
“I’m not sure I even want to know what you’re talking about,” I say, lowering my voice as I reach for my gun. We’re rounding the corner to the entrance, where our big, fancy plan to break into the building involves waiting for someone to open the door, and catching that door before it closes.
No luck yet. “Hey,” I whisper.
“What?” Warner sounds annoyed. “How’d you end up proposing?” Silence.
“Come on, bro. I’m curious. Also, I, uh, really have to pee, so if you don’t distract me right now all I’m going to think about is how much I have to pee.”
“You know, sometimes I wish I could remove the part of my brain that stores the things you say to me.”
I ignore that.
“So? How’d you do it?” Someone comes through the door and I tense, ready to jump forward, but there’s not enough time. My body relaxes back against the wall. “Did you get the ring like I told you to?”
“No.”
“What? What do you mean, no?” I hesitate. “Did you at least, like, light a candle? Make her dinner?”
“No.”
“Buy her chocolates? Get down on one knee?” “No.”
“No? No, you didn’t do even one of those things? None of them?” My whispers are turning into whisper-yells. “You didn’t do a single thing I told you to do?”
“No.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Why does it matter?” he asks. “She said yes.”
I groan. “You’re the worst, you know that? The worst. You don’t deserve her.”
Warner sighs. “I thought that was already obvious.” “Hey— Don’t you dare make me feel sorry for y—”
I cut myself off when the door suddenly opens. A small group of doctors (scientists? I don’t know) exits the building, and Warner and I jump to our feet and get into position. This group has just enough people—and they take just long enough exiting—that when I grab the door and hold it open for a few seconds longer, it doesn’t seem to register.
We’re in.
And we’ve only been inside for less than a second before Warner slams me into the wall, knocking the air from my lungs.
“Don’t move,” he whispers. “Not an inch.”
“Why not?” I wheeze.
“Look up,” he says, “but only with your eyes. Don’t move your head. Do you see the cameras?”
“No.”
“They anticipated us,” he says. “They anticipated our moves. Look up again, but do it carefully. Those small black dots are cameras. Sensors. Infrared scanners. Thermal imagers. They’re searching for inconsistencies in the security footage.”
“Shit.”
“Yes.”
“So what do we do?”
“I’m not sure,” Warner says.
“You’re not sure?” I say, trying not to freak out. “How can you not be sure?”
“I’m thinking,” he whispers, irritated. “And I don’t hear you contributing any ideas.”
“Listen, bro, all I know is that I really, really need to p—”
I’m interrupted by the distant sound of a toilet flushing. A moment later, a door swings open. I turn my head a millimeter and realize we’re right next to the men’s bathroom.
Warner and I seize the moment, catching the door before it falls closed. Once inside the bathroom we press up against the wall, our backs to the cold tile. I’m trying hard not to think about all the pee residue touching my body, when Warner exhales.
It’s a brief, quiet sound—but he sounds relieved.
I’m guessing that means there are no scanners or cameras in this bathroom, but I can’t be sure, because Warner doesn’t say a word, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.
We’re not sure if we’re alone in here.
I can’t see him do it, but I’m pretty sure Warner is checking the stalls right now. It’s what I’m doing, anyway. This isn’t a huge bathroom—as I’m sure it’s one of many—and it’s right by the entrance/exit of the building, so right now it doesn’t seem to be getting a lot of traffic.
When we’re both certain the room is clear, Warner says—
“We’re going to go up, through the vent. If you truly need to use the bathroom, do it now.”
“Okay, but why do you have to sound so disgusted about it? Do you really expect me to believe that you never have to use the bathroom? Are basic human needs below you?”
Warner ignores me.
I see the stall door open, and I hear his careful sounds as he climbs the metal cubicles. There’s a large vent in the ceiling just above one of the stalls, and I watch as his invisible hands make short work of the grate.
Quickly, I use the bathroom. And then I wash my hands as loudly as possible, just in case Warner feels the need to make a juvenile comment about my hygiene.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “Are you ready?” And I can tell by the echoing sound of his voice that he’s already halfway up the vent.
“I’m ready. Just let me know when you’re in.”
More careful movement, the metal drumming as he goes. “I’m in,” he says. “Make sure you reattach the grate after you climb up.”
“Got it.”
“On a related note, I hope you’re not claustrophobic. Though if you are .
. . Good luck.”
I take a deep breath. Let it go.
And we begin our journey into hell.
