I did. . . .
My eyes flare wide open. The room is pitch-black now. The low blue light is out, and I know that someone plunged the room into darkness. Someone. Someone who is in the room with me.
My scalp pulls and tightens under my hair. I know, with the same instinct that tells me I’m not alone, that it’s not Phelps or Rhiannon. It’s not even Caden. Whoever’s here is not friendly.
I can feel his intent, rolling in dark, malevolent waves toward me. It’s almost a tangible odor. Like burnt leaves in my nose.
A switch flips inside me as instinct takes over. Everything drags to a slow crawl. My heartbeat stutters to a deep thud in my ears. I sit up on one elbow and pivot my neck, scanning for any shapes, a flicker of movement against the blanket of dark.
Muscles tense, I push the covers off my legs and drop to the cold concrete. I step slowly in the direction of Phelps’s lab table, going after a weapon. I can see the medical instruments in my mind, where Phelps left them on the stainless-steel rolling tray.
I move blindly, listening, seeing with my memory, feeling with my skin.
I jump as wheels roll across the floor with a whir. A gurney hits a wall with a violent crash. I spin around, staring, my breath a loud saw of air.
Then I hear it. Someone else breathing, too.
Too late, I realize my mistake. I should have kept going for that weapon. I let myself be distracted. My training from Mount Haven kicks in, and all at once I hear my instructors’ advice drilling into me.
Be faster. Outrun your opponent.
I take off for Phelps’s tray table of instruments as those voices play out in my head.
Get your hands on a weapon.
My bare feet smack hard over the concrete.
Embrace the fact that they will always underestimate you.
I feel him behind me before I actually feel him. The rush of air as a hand swipes near my head. Fingertips graze strands of my hair and then latch on, knuckles curling hard into my scalp and then yanking.
Crying out, I drop, counting on the weight of my body to break his hold. Tears spring to my eyes as hair rips free from my scalp. I let gravity do its job; my feet dive first like a baseball player sliding into home. I crash into the stand holding the tray of instruments. Everything rains to the floor in a deafening clatter.
Hopping up in a crouch, I pat the ground until I find something. Fumbling, I wrap my hands around cold steel. The sharp tip of it scores my palm, and I quickly reposition it sharp end out. It’s slick in my bloody palm, so I clench tightly and stand. I swing blind, again and again, in every direction, hoping to make contact. My weapon whistles on the air, but nothing. No contact.
Wild, animal-like sounds escape my lips, but over the sounds I can hear the ragged breathing of another person.
Something crashes into my cheek. I go down hard, fall on my shoulder, and it’s double the fun. I still manage to keep my weapon, but I’m stunned, the pain in my shoulder worse than the throbbing in my face. Something wet trickles down my back and I know I’m bleeding again—the stitches ripped free.
Panting, I shake my head, trying to force myself to move, to think. A body pins me, the weight heavy, punishing. Thighs straddle me and I know I’m screwed. He’s bigger and I’ve lost the upper hand, if I ever had it.
He scoots up until his knees find my shoulders, anchoring me there, fixing me to the floor, incapacitating me. It’s agony. White-hot agony. The pain is so intense I can’t even struggle. A scream starts at the back of my throat but is swiftly killed as two hands grab and squeeze, crushing my windpipe. My lips work, choking, gargling for speech as those hands clench tighter.
Do something! Fight! Move!
I swing, embed the slim blade into flesh. A deep shout tells me I hurt him. I’m not sure where I’ve struck. His arm or his side. The hands on me loosen for a brief moment before tightening again with renewed determination. Clearly I didn’t hurt him badly enough. Or he’s just so unhinged that pain takes a backseat to his thirst for killing.
He shakes me as he’s choking me, and the back of my head cracks against the floor. Bright spots flash over the darkness. I flex my hand around the weapon and yank it out, then plunge it in again. This time there’s no shout. He stiffens above me. Wetness spills over my fingers like a geyser, and I know I hit something vital. His hands release me, fingers slipping from around my throat, and he slumps over me.
I struggle to push my face free so that I can breathe. My fingers claw an opening for myself, and I suck in air.
I can’t move for the longest time. Even as my body grows wet under him, soaked in his blood, I just lie there in the dark, spent.
My muscles spasm and quiver. I’m a useless lump. If someone wanted to finish me off right now, they’d find no resistance. Every breath hurts passing through my ravaged throat. I try to inhale through my nose, but I’m too starved for oxygen. I can’t stop my lungs from pulling air in and out of my mouth, even though it feels like nails clawing the inside of my throat.
The door to the infirmary suddenly opens, and I hear the click of a switch the second before fluorescent lighting hums to life.
* * *
Dear Davy,
I haven’t heard from you and I know I shouldn’t expect to, but I can’t not write to you. The house is so quiet without you. Mom and Dad try to act like everything is okay, but they hardly talk to each other—or me. Our family just isn’t a family without you. It’s like you were our captain, steering us through life, and we didn’t even know it.
I watch the news every day. I’ve joined a group. We protest the Agency . . . make posters and circulate petitions. Next week a huge group of us are rallying at the state capital. I tell myself I’m doing something, but it doesn’t seem enough. I don’t know how long I can stay here. Not with everything that’s going on. Not with you out there.