smelled something strange. Dampness. Mold. Soil. Thick and choking, like the inside of a crypt.
And then – the bus braked hard. People screamed and tumbled to the floor. The doors – dead and silent until now – suddenly hissed and slammed open.
At first there was only blackness. Then, in the headlights, they saw a wide concrete platform. A metal gate ahead. And tall figures in uniform, holding rifles across their chests.
Anabel smelled something strange. Dampness. Mold. Soil. Thick and choking, like the inside of a crypt.
And then – the bus braked hard. People screamed and tumbled to the floor. The doors – dead and silent until now – suddenly hissed and slammed open.
At first there was only blackness. Then, in the headlights, they saw a wide concrete platform. A metal gate ahead. And tall figures in uniform, holding rifles across their chests. They stood in silence, waiting for those they were meant to receive. To receive like cargo, like disposable material.
Someone tried to run. A shot rang out. No warning. The man collapsed.
Screams. Chaos.
Everyone understood at once: there was no escape.
They were shoved out of the bus – rough hands, rifle butts, blows. Men were herded to one side. Women to another.
Anabel gripped Lucia’s hand with all her strength.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered.
But a gloved hand pulled them apart. The girls were dragged to opposite ends of the platform.
A minute later, the massive gate groaned open – like the mouth of some underground beast.
And they were forced into the corridor beyond. Into the dark.
Where something below was waiting.
They walked. Barefoot. Disoriented.
The corridor was narrow, with damp concrete walls that wept moisture. Somewhere deeper, a constant low hum vibrated through the floor – either machines or something alive, pulsing deep beneath the earth.
Anabel walked as if in a dream, her legs numb. She searched for Lucia’s face, but saw only strangers – wide-eyed, slick with sweat, full of silent dread. The guards in black uniforms drove them forward like cattle to the slaughter.
And every step pulled them farther from the life they had known.
At the end of the tunnel, light met them. But it wasn’t the light of salvation. It was cold, clinical – as if stepping into an autopsy theater. A massive tiled chamber, white and sterile.
Screens glowed along the walls, flashing incomprehensible diagrams and medical data. Figures in white coats moved among the instruments. Their faces were masked, eyes hidden behind protective visors. In the center of the room – metal tables, and strange capsule-like units, like refrigerated containers.
One of them stepped forward. An older man, maybe in his sixties – thin, silver-haired, with the gaze of a predator. His face held no emotion – only clinical detachment, like a surgeon inspecting a frog pinned to a tray.
“Welcome,” he said in cold, accentless Spanish. “Resisting will only make it worse.”
A wave of moans rippled through the group. Someone dropped to their knees. Anabel stood frozen.
Then the man smiled. And it was the worst smile she had ever seen in her life.
The sorting began.
They were examined – blood samples, vitals, scans. Those deemed “suitable” were marked and separated. Those with any sign of illness or weakness were quietly escorted through another door.
Anabel struggled when they took her arm, but gloved hands held her fast.
When her turn came, the silver-haired man studied the tablet in front of him.
“Excellent specimen. Young. Healthy. Prime candidate.”
She tried to scream, but no sound came out.
They strapped a bright red wristband to her arm. Red meant: living donor. Priority harvest.
Later, as they were marched down another corridor, Anabel saw it.
A sign painted above one of the steel doors:
“IMMORTALITY FOUNDATION”
She froze. She remembered the name. She’d heard it before. In whispers. In rumors.
And suddenly she understood everything.
A machine – perfect, invisible, and real. A supply chain of human parts, feeding the needs of billionaires, aging tycoons, world leaders, and celebrities desperate to live longer, if not forever.
They were brought into a lab. Everything was white. Stainless. Silent. Each room held surgical chairs with restraints, tables lined with syringes filled with glowing fluid. Holographic displays floated above them, showing real-time organ diagnostics.
A dead factory.
Sustaining the life of the rich at the price of death for the forgotten.
Anabel sat curled on the cold floor of a small concrete room. They had locked her there after the sorting. Someone was crying in the corner. Her own heartbeat pounded in her skull.
She thought only of Lucia. Was she alive? Where had they taken her?
Time stopped.
Then – a quiet creak. The door cracked open. Anabel froze.
A shadow moved in the doorway – and her heart nearly stopped. But it was Lucia. Alive. Bruised, clothes torn, but breathing.
They ran to each other, clutching tight, faces buried in shoulders.
“We have to go,” Lucia whispered, sobbing. “Now. While we still can…”
She had been taken to a storage room by mistake – filled with supplies and discarded equipment. There, she saw a guard leave his keyring on a desk.
She stole it. And came back.
“How?” Anabel breathed. “Where?”
“I saw a maintenance tunnel. When they marched us in. It’s narrow, but it leads out.”
They didn’t wait. Silent as shadows, they slipped into the corridor.
It was empty. At that moment, somewhere else, the guards were likely busy – disposing of those deemed unfit.
The girls ran.
Every nerve in Anabel’s body screamed to collapse, to cry, to panic – but her will held.
They found the tunnel. A narrow crawlspace behind a rusted ventilation grate. No one had entered it in years. The stench of mildew and rot choked the air.
They squeezed in. The floor was slick, coated with rust and damp soil.
Then – footsteps behind them. They’d been spotted. A beam of light swept through the tunnel. A shout. Dogs barking.
“Faster!” Lucia hissed.
They crawled, dragging themselves over jagged metal and concrete, their knees and elbows torn and bleeding. The voices drew closer. The barking turned into snarling.
Anabel thought: If they catch us… better to die here.
And then – light. A faint, yellowish glow ahead. An exit. Freedom.
They burst from the tunnel and collapsed on a rocky slope.
Night. Stars. The distant shimmer of highway lights.
But their relief died instantly.
Far off on the road – two black cars sat waiting. Engines idling. Headlights on.
Inside: men in uniform. Police. But not the kind that save you.