The next day, it becomes clear that no one, at least none of our peers, knows about the death of Mr. Robin Kowalski, who died yesterday in the girls' bathroom after making unnecessary repairs on the simulators. I tried asking Shelia how she found out, but she evaded the question. So now, all I'm left with is a bunch of unanswered questions and one sketchy friend. Actually, no, I take that back. I'm left with two sketchy friends. Not only is Sheila acting weird, but we've also got Elie, who's looking like he's going half crazy. Half the time he's all distant, and sometimes, I even catch him talking to himself. Because that's a normal thing to do. He's also acting really weird about the whole dead-man thing. Both Sheila and Elie seem to have differing opinions on what happened to Kowalski.

It is Sheila's firm belief that someone murdered this guy in cold blood in the girls' bathroom and was also going to kill Elie in the girls' bathroom. Apparently, I "ruined" the killer's plans to kill Elie, and I'm next. Elie, on the other hand, thinks that Kowalski had contracted a deadly extraterrestrial virus, which he insists is true, even though they caught no signs of sickness during the autopsy.

Like I said before, though, both theories are absolutely ridiculous. I mean, really, murder is a little far-fetched, and so is an extraterrestrial virus. These kinds of things don't happen so close to home. Right?

When I arrive at class in the morning, both Sheila and Ellie are arguing again on whose theory is more plausible, and at this point, they're so invested in their theories, that they're literally at each other's throats trying to prove each other wrong. Elie's face is an angry red, and Sheila, who's trying to keep in control, is clearly at the breaking point with her fists clenched at her sides.

I know that as soon as they see me, they're going to ask me to pick a side, so instead of directly facing the situation, I skirt around it. Literally. I'm about two point five steps from avoiding confrontation, when Sheila, with her hawk eyes, spots me. "Elodie, we need you. Come."

I drag myself towards them as slow as possible. This for me means about two steps every five seconds. Groaning, Sheila leaps to her feet and tries to drag Elie to where I'm standing. Straightening, she clears her throat and finally asks, "Who do you think is right?" Oh, boy. See? I knew this would happen.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten to try to match her posture and slowly smooth out my shirt to buy me some time to come up with an answer. "Um, well. Because . . ." I start to throw in filler words to buy me some more time, "the, you know . . . evidence suggests stuff which, therefore, consequently suggests that . . ." They both lean forwards, challenging me to finish my sentence. Wait, what evidence did each have anyway? "Well, neither of you have evidence to support either of your theories," I state.

"Well, that's why they're called theories and not facts," Sheila says.

I uncomfortably clear my throat for about 10 seconds. To stall, of course. Because, see, here's the thing about me. I was never a very social person. I made some friends, somehow (the art of making friends is now lost to me) back when I was in kindergarten, and I didn't really need to find any other friends after that. And now that I had somehow made friends again, I wasn't going to lose one because of a stupid argument about how someone died.

Yes. I'm that bad at confrontations.

Elie seems to recognize my discomfort and butts in, "Fine, you don't have to pick sides. It's just not fair to you." Relief floods through me and I look up with grateful eyes, ready to thank him, but something in his expression makes me freeze. His smile, instead of being a your-welcome kind of smile, is instead excited. Many probably would see this as fine. Except for the fact that is no reason whatsoever to be excited. Someone just died. So, in this instance, it is downright creepy. "You're right!" Elie exclaims. Was he talking to himself again?

Elie notices our inquisitive stares, and his smirk widens, "If we don't have any evidence as Elodie so kindly pointed out," he gives me an all too innocent look, "then we'll just have to go get some evidence."

All gone. All the relief I was feeling? Gone. Goner than the polar bears in the Arctic Circle. Poof. It's been effing incinerated.

Sheila, on the other hand, takes the news very differently, in the sense that she actually looks open to whatever is about to come. "What are you suggesting?" she questions. Elie gives her an proud grin, and by the look on Sheila's face, she knows exactly what he's going to say.

After pausing for effect (such drama queens boys are) Elie says, "We're breaking into the morgue."

Elie waits for the shock waves to die down before continuing, "According to-I mean. Kowalski's corpse is going to sent to the funeral home soon to be prepared for an open-casket funeral. He will be taken out of the morgue at about 7 pm to be transported. We'll have to be there in time to gather evidence. Got it?"

By now, Sheila's recovered from the shock and replies with a snort and a hand on her hip, "And how are we going to break into a morgue, genius?"

Elie frowns, shrugs, "I don't know, I was hoping we'd figure that out after. Or that maybe one of you guys would have some ideas." Sheila's expression turns into one of deep concentration, and it takes me a minute to realize that she's actually on board with the idea of breaking into a morgue just to justify some theories.

"Well," Sheila purses her lip as she thinks, "Are we talking about the morgue on the way to Tomlinson's Creek?" Elie gives her a short nod. "That morgue is short staffed in healthcare security officers. Like, really short staffed. Like, today, there will only be two officers on duty. There was an article in the local newspaper about how short staffed they were . . . ."

Elie's eyes light up as soon as he hears this, "So all we have to do is go in and create a distraction. Wait," Elie frowns as a new thought comes, "the officers are not allowed to leave human remains on the morgue transport cart alone, though." Oh geez, how does he even know this?

Sheila nods, "We'll need two distractions. Leave this one to me," she grins excitedly. Shit. Both my friends were total nutjobs.

"You guys aren't really considering actually doing this, right?" I asked flippantly, to make it clear that I think the whole idea is ridiculous. They both look at me like, "get with the picture sister," and just like that, it's settled.

***

Sheila drives us all to her house just twenty minutes before seven in the very-fitting cover of the dark, and Elie explains the plan to me in a rush while Sheila gets her dog, Amontillado (she named the poor dog after the wine in an Edgar Allan Poe short story), in the car. And then we're off. Apparently, Sheila's going get Amontillado to be riled up to act as distraction number one. According to the plan, Sheila will have to stay outside and come in later to apologize for her "out of control" dog, although, I think it's more because she doesn't want to risk getting caught, while we run inside pretending like we're running away from the dog, so we can get a look at the body.

I feel my nerves build as each minute passes, bringing us closer to the morgue. Street lamps and traffic signals blind away casting shadows in the interior of the car. And all that's there to fill the silence, is the cold and Amontillado's panting. Under the pressure, I can barely breathe. There's also the fact that Amontillado is a shotgun kind of dog. So, when we got into the car, he insisted on sitting shotgun, which is where I'm sitting. Basically, I have a 178-pound dog on my lap. I can't even feel my legs anymore. Elie is sitting in the back seat, looking surprisingly calm, and Sheila is driving while cooing sweet nothings at Amontillado, probably more for herself then the dog.

I don't think any of us even realize when we reach the morgue. We all just sit there staring at the building supposedly carrying corpses, and feeling shocked that it looks so normal. It's just a regular block-like building made of clay bricks. The parking lot is lit by the warm luminescence of the street lamps, which do nothing to calm my stomach.

Slowly, we all make our way out of the car and Sheila gestures to the door with one hand and hooks the finger of her other hand around Amontillado's collar. None of us dare to speak out loud, because the night is as silent as the moon. All that can be heard is the slight rustling of the breeze combing through dead branches. Elie, finally showing signs of anxiety, wrings his hands nervously and whispers, "Are you sure Amontillado can act . . . rabid? He looks pretty calm." All three of us look at the dog to gauge its state of mind. Amontillado is sprawled out lazily on the ground looking up at us through his eyelashes.

Sheila shifts uncomfortably and nudges Amontillado with her foot. "Just go. Start going to the end of the street. Once you're there, turn around and start sprinting towards the doors. Act like something is chasing you when you run through the doors." Elie and I jog to the end of the street, with difficulty. It feels like trying to move while carrying bags of sand. By the time we get to the end of the street though, my fingers tingle with warmth and adrenaline. I'm ready. We swivel around and start sprinting back towards the doors, jumping over cracks in the sidewalk and dodging street lamps.

The combination of sprinting in the dark and apprehension makes it easy to look and feel scared. Soon, both of us are going full speed towards the door looking like we're being chased by a murderer. Elie reaches the door first and nearly crashes into it while trying to open it. He throws it wide open so that Amontillado would have enough time to slip in before it closes, and we both continue running inside screaming, "Mad dog!" like complete idiots. We hear a growl behind us and I'm so caught up in the act, I actually scream. The lady behind the counter looks a little shell-shocked, as if she's not completely sure what's happening, and I jump over the counter and crouch behind it as if I'm hiding, "Call security, call for help!" At this point, Elie jumps over, too, but the woman doesn't notice--she's too busy fumbling for the phone. An officer bursts into the room through a door towards the side and we slip through the door while the officer stares at Amontillado, who looks to be having a seizure.

Together, we start running in the direction of the elevator where a very confused looking officer is standing next to a very dead Kowalski, sheet-covered, on a morgue transport cart. At that moment, the fluorescently lit hallway as our runway. We're running so hard that we almost slam into the officer. "You need to help them!" Elie manages to pant. "The dog. He's breaking everything." Now, I was proud to see how good the plan was going, until now. Because, apparently, this officer was determined to do his job right. And no amount of coercing and coaxing was going to make him leave his position.

"I'm not allowed to leave human remains alone, even if there is an emergency."

Elie and I exchange oh-shit-we're-screwed glances, and Elie, ever the strategist, steps up and gets into the officers face, "Please! They need help. The dog started chasing us and-" he continues fabricating some kind of long story, and I quickly realize that he's distracting the officer so that I can take a look at the body.

Just like in the morning, I skirt around the situation (this time Elie screaming at the officer) so that I'm right next to the corpse. The dead body. I'm next to a dead body. Okay, okay, not a good time to think, Elodie. In a jerky motion, I fist the top of the sheet in my hand and lift it so that I can see the corpse's face. I jump back and drop the cloth when I see who it is. It was the man I had asked the time from before. The one who was adamant that it was 3 o'clock. Oh my gosh. I force myself to look again. There is a y-shaped scar starting from his shoulders, proof that there was indeed an autopsy. I'm about to lift the cloth back over again because there's only so long Elie's distraction can last, but then I see something coating the man's eyelid that looks suspiciously like blood.

I wrap my hand in the sheet and try to brush it off to see what it is. As soon as I do this, something happens that makes my heart stop, and my stomach flip. His skin peels off, almost taking his whole eyelid off with it. Just like in the simulation where I was trapped in the interrogation room. Which means . . . he was infected? And if he was infected, and the same situation was displayed in the simulation, then . . . did someone in the organization know about this disease? Why were they trying to cover it up? Ohmygosh Ohmygosh . . . . It takes me awhile to realize the officer has been calling out to me, but not for the reason I would have expected.

He's not even looking at me, he's kneeled down next to Elie, yelling for me to call for help because on the floor, Elie's collapsed again.

***

Author's Note:

So, what do you guys think? Is there a traitor in their midst? 😱
Lol, I had two snow days to write this and I only just now update! Sorry!
If you liked this chapter, make sure to vote! Comment any questions and tell me if I have any grammar mistakes! Feedback is greatly appreciated ❤️