Chapter 6

The conveyor stopped six feet from the furnace, where orange light spread across the bag and turned its darkness red with every breath.

A knuckle tapped Moreau's seal before Celia read the tag. “Death at eleven forty-two, but the furnace was booked for eleven thirty. I need a pulse check.”

“Moreau waived it. Burn her.” The guard never looked at the numbers.

I forced two fingers through the seam and scraped along the zipper until I reached steel, where three weak taps—almost nothing against the machinery—brought Celia's attention back.

Her hand disappeared beneath the tray. “The rear sensor is failing. Give me ten seconds, unless you want to explain a jam to Dominic.”

His silence gave us ten seconds. Celia reversed the belt and pulled me behind the partition, the fall jarring my teeth as steel muffled the furnace.

Red emergency bulbs came on as she tore the zipper to my waist; the stolen strip slipped from my neckline, blue backing turned toward the light.

“This isn't a cyanide label.” Celia held the strip without touching the stained edge. “Blue-backed H-17 codes only appear on restricted Moretti transfers. No ordinary body should arrive carrying one.”

The treatment-room tile flashed behind my eyes. More than half the syringe had spilled, and I had awakened before the furnace. Celia folded the strip into my palm. “Can you move?”

“Barely.” The word sounded smaller than the life I was trying to prove.

She believed me without demanding another movement, and something beneath my ribs loosened. Had belief always been this simple before Dante taught me to beg for it?

“I'm Celia.” She kept her voice below the machinery while testing whether my knees could hold. “When the lights return, they count two bodies.”

My legs folded, and she lowered me against the wall rather than wasting time forcing them upright. “Stay awake, Mara. The service hatch is behind me.”

Celia held oxygen over my mouth and wrapped a foil blanket around me; the air cleared my vision without steadying my pulse. “Waking up isn't recovery. The drug is still working.”

Backup power began to hum, starting another conveyor behind us and drawing a slow scrape from the bag lying across it.

The second body was a driver delivered before me. Condensation gathered near his mouth, vanished and returned, and for one shameful instant I wished I had missed it because ignorance made leaving easier. “He's alive.”

“Mara, we have seconds.” Celia's warning tightened as the belt carried him toward the orange light.

I forced the words through my numb mouth. “Then help me stop it.”

“If we miss that hatch, they burn both of you.” She held my wrist beside the escape, making the choice physical without taking it from me.

The scraping put me back beneath the vinyl. Would I leave another person to the fire because stopping it might kill me?

My hand opened before courage arrived.

The belt dragged beneath my knees as I crawled back and caught the bag, pain tearing through my shoulder while the rollers pulled us toward the furnace.

At four feet, Celia steadied the weight while I cut the wire; at two, I found a pulse and shouted, “Hit the stop!”

Celia struck the switch, but momentum carried him beneath the descending door and wrenched my arm until one handle began sliding free.

“Use both handles.” Celia braced herself beside me, taking the second strap. “Pull toward you.”

I looped the loose handle around my forearm while Celia took his shoulders, and together we hauled him clear an instant before the furnace door slammed hard enough to shake the floor.

The lights returned as I opened his airway and guided Celia's hands into compressions. “Open the hatch when he breathes.” Blows against the outer door traveled through the tile.

The man convulsed, coughed against my cheek and dragged in a ragged breath; relief weakened my arms, but one breath was not safety. “Breathe. Stay with me.”

Celia opened the panel and lifted him through while I kept his head aligned against my good shoulder.

The panel closed, but boots flooded the bay and basement locks engaged floor by floor before a loudspeaker crackled. “No one leaves until both bodies are found.”

Against my shoulder, the stranger opened his eyes. “Nico,” he managed, each word roughened by his first breaths. “Moretti transport. They wrote me dead.”