Newt had a bullet in his brain.
He didn’t understand why he was still alive. He didn’t understand much of anything. Vague memories cycled through his diseased mind, and he knew that death was about to come upon him. Whatever essence the world called life, it was quickly draining from him, not in drops, but in torrential cascades through a broken dam.
Tommy had shot him.
Lost in the rage of the Flare, Newt had forced him to do it. He’d begged him to do it. He’d berated him to do it. He knew this only through flashes of images and feelings, almost like it had all been a dream. But the sharp pain in his skull and the fading of the world let him know that it had been all too real. The Flare had ignited in him like never before, an eruption of pure insanity. He’d been almost blind from the white fog, unable to hear over the rush of noise in his ears, the rage so complete that it took complete control, as if some mad tyrant had hijacked his soul.
The details were faint and vanishing from view.
“Newt.”
A woman’s voice. Softly spoken, directly into his ear. He immediately thought of angels and heaven, wondered if he was about to find out some very good news about the afterlife.
The angel continued. “Newt, I hope you can hear me. I’m sorry to say your vitals are fading and we don’t have much time. We tried to save you, I give you my word. We tried with every power at our disposal to save you.”
He tried to speak, but it was clear such a thing would never happen again. Why was this woman speaking to him? Who was it? Why had they tried to save him? Despite his life slipping away, he remembered Keisha. Dante. Jackie. He smiled, if only in his ruined mind.
The voice again.
“Newt, listen to me. There are things you need to know. Sonya is your sister, and she’s alive. I’ll do a better job saving her than I did saving you. I promise.”
Newt had a hard time thinking straight. Harder than ever. Thoughts had ceased to form in any coherent manner. But he was aware of the rush of feeling that spread through his heart. Sonya was alive. Sonya was alive. The joy was matched only by his sadness that he’d never see her again, see her with memories intact.
The angel spoke again.
“Newt, I know you think that your life wasn’t as important as the rest, that somehow you were a waste because you’re not immune.” He heard a rumble of frantic voices that had no shape, but it ended with something like a whimper from the woman before she continued. “Oh, Newt, I’m so sorry. Just know this—Sonya is immune and you aren’t, and you’re siblings, and that’s why we had to study you and will keep doing so after…” She cleared her throat, like thunder in his ears. “There has to be some link there, something that will show why the virus affects you but not her. I’ll work on that to my last breath.”
Newt didn’t know if death was like this for all humans, but he felt it as a presence. Though his mind had collapsed into chaos, he saw Life as a light, and Death as something to snuff it out. Even now it was taking in a deep breath, ready to blow with all the might of the universe, ready to blow out the candle that was Newt. The air rushed out of Death’s mouth, and Newt felt—and saw—the light weakening, weakening, almost gone.
The angel spoke one last time.
“I have your journal, Newt. If it’s my last act on this God-forsaken planet, I’ll get it to Thomas. They need to know what you remembered.”
Tommy , Newt thought. Tommy will understand .
And then the light went out.
