by Rachel Caine
The spoon touched her cheek and slid upward in a cool, sticky, damp trail, and Bryn shut her eyes.
It didn’t help.
There were points where Bryn talked. Babbled, in fact, once her body had healed enough to allow words to come out. She confessed a few things—the fact that she had already figured out how many of the Revived were missing, the fact that she knew someone was experimenting on them. She gave the names of those whom she’d identified. She even mentioned Fast Freddy Watson and Jonathan Mercer, just for the hell of it, but she didn’t mention Annalie’s name.
Jane probably knew it anyway.
Bryn didn’t, out of sheer bloody fury, give up Manny’s and Pansy’s names, though that was the most persistent question that was being asked of her. She didn’t know anything but their names, and a couple of other locations where they’d been, but she wasn’t about to let Jane have even that much of a chance at either of them. I can take it, she told herself. It’s just pain. Wounds heal. I can take it. Jane couldn’t scare her with permanent scarring, or even death; she needed her talking, so Mr. Smith and his diamond-saw necklace weren’t in the picture, either.
In the end, she made up names for Manny and Pansy, cribbed from two of her least favored fellow soldiers back in basic training. Steve Hyatt and Terry Mueller. Steve and Terry were bullies. They deserved it, if Jane came looking. Steve…Steve had grabbed her ass, threatened her, stolen from her. Terry, his girlfriend, had helped lure her into a dark room where Steve was waiting to get the drop on her. It hadn’t happened, because Lieutenant…Lieutenant…Bardley—his name was Bardley—had walked in on them. Terry had sworn on the Bible that Bryn had come on to the two of them and it was all just some sick consensual game.…
They deserved Jane, deserved it, oh God can’t think oh God oh God…
Jane finally took a break; apparently, working with only a spoon was hard work. She left it lying bloody on the tray, with the dried bowl still sticky with Jell-O, and promised to come back with something sharper. Bryn lay trembling in the blood-soaked bed as gouged tissue healed, and thought, I can’t. I can’t hold out for another— How long would it be? Twelve hours? Eighteen? God. Jane wasn’t even really interested in the answers to the questions yet. She hadn’t, Bryn realized, really come down to business; she was still pleasuring herself.
The mattress under her body was cold with her blood, saturated and stinking of it. Her eyes were still shut, because she was afraid to open them, afraid she’d see darkness; Jane hadn’t been kind to her there.
But she couldn’t let the fear rule her, because once that started, it would never, ever stop. So Bryn forced herself to look.
Jane had turned on the lights at some point, and the harsh fluorescents were dizzying, throwing back red splashes on the walls, red beads and smears on her pale flesh. Overhead, the spiderweb still fluttered like a tattered flag.
I’m the spider. I’m the goddamn fucking spider. This is my web. See if it isn’t.
She pulled at her restraints. The left wrist, the one that Jane had leaned over for hours, was looser than it had been because its Velcro closure had been rolled back a little from the friction—not much, but a little. Bryn grimly worked her hand back and forth, back and forth, and then steeled herself once she had braced at an awkward angle.
Then she threw her weight against it, violently, and snapped bones. She didn’t try to smother the cry; as Jane had mentioned, no one cared. The bones compressed along the back of her hand now, shifting and grating as she pulled, and finally deformed enough that, in a white-hot burst of agony, she pulled free.
“Fuck,” she whispered, and took a few seconds to just breathe before she raised her hand to her mouth, gripped her fingers one by one in her teeth, and pulled to put the bones back in line. She couldn’t wait on the healing; it would take too long. She used her undamaged pinkie finger to reach out and hook under the edge of the rolling steel cart that held the Jell-O bowl…
And the spoon.
It was an Olympic-level effort to reach for it, grasp it, and slip it under her hip, concealed in case Jane returned unexpectedly. Once Bryn had a weapon—and she’d never underestimate a spoon again—she began clumsily working on her other wrist restraint. It came loose after a torturous amount of effort. Her undamaged right hand was more than willing to take charge of releasing the chest, waist, thigh, and ankle straps.
As she felt the icy-hot snap of the nanites knitting bones together, Bryn sat up. In the dull metal mirror she looked like something out of a horror movie—matted and soaked in gore, with drying blood running like terrifying clown makeup from her eyes. She bared her teeth. Scary. She didn’t feel scary, though; she felt fragile, wounded, desperate, and yet, at the same time, angry. A kind of fury she’d never felt before in her life.
In the drawer she found the bundled-up clothes she’d had on when she arrived, and she wiped most of the blood off her with the ruined hospital gown before pulling the pants and shirt on. Then she retrieved the spoon, used a wadded-up old, thin pillow under the discarded bloody gown to at least hint at a body lying in the bed, refastened the restraints, and turned off the overhead lights. Before she did, though, she looked up at the spider’s web, at the little hunter sitting in the center with infinite patience.
At the lumpy mass of the insect she’d caught, hanging trembling in the corner. It was bigger than the spider. Good for you, Bryn thought. Good for you. Wish me luck.
She wedged herself into the narrow bathroom cubicle next to the door, and waited.
Jane didn’t come back for so long that Bryn started to shiver; the chill was, she knew, a sign that the nanites were struggling to compensate for all the damage done. She needed a booster shot. The tiny machines were repairing tissue, organs, generating blood, but their power supplies were burning up fast. Doesn’t matter, she thought. You can wear Jane’s skin as a coat if you get cold. It was a macabre joke, but it made her feel better.
And she wasn’t so sure she did mean it as a joke, after all. Something savage had been let loose in her, and she wasn’t ready to cage it just yet.
It wasn’t Jane who came back. It was Mr. Smith, with his diamond saw looped casually in one hand. Whether Jane had tired of the game, or she’d just sent him to check, Bryn didn’t know; it didn’t matter. As the door swung shut behind him, Bryn lunged out of the dark, knocked him against the wall, and buried the spoon with brutal precision in his neck. It was blunt, but one thing Jane had taught her: apply enough force, and even a spoon could cut through flesh, and slice deep enough to cut through the thick rubbery surface of the carotid artery.
It was the second time today she’d been bathed in hot blood, but this time, at least it wasn’t her own.
As his blood jetted out in panicked, high-pressure spurts, Bryn grabbed the commando saw, shoved him down, and knelt on his chest as she searched his pockets. He had a gun, too. She took it, checked the clip—full—and waited until the bleeding had faded to weak, barely perceptible wellings from his neck.
Then she got up and washed off in the bathroom as best she could. His leather jacket was bloody, but that sponged off; she put it on over her stained shirt, used a torn piece of his shirt to tie her hair back in a ponytail, and slipped out into the hallway.
It was never quiet here, and she tried to filter out the talking, arguing, crying, or banging from other cells on the corridor. No sign of nurses or—if they existed—doctors. No sign of Jane, either. Bryn made sure her shoes were clean on the bottom and left no perceptible gory footprints, then put the gun in her pocket. She held it ready to fire through the leather, if necessary.
She walked as confidently as she could toward the exit.
The clock in the hallway read three a.m. Had it been that long? She’d been brought here around sunset. Her shot had been at noon, so fifteen hours had already passed. Nine to go before her tracking nanites came online. Screw that. She’d find a phone, or steal a car, walk into traffic—anything but stay here.
The doo
r at the end of the hall claimed to be an exit, but it was keypad locked and alarmed. Opening that would draw instant attention, unless…
She heard a thin squeak of wheels behind her, and looked back to see a wheelchair slowly rounding the corner. The man in it was ancient, withered, and had a blank, vague terror in his eyes that struck a chord with her. She knew how that felt now. At least hers could end, but his kind of torment wouldn’t.
He came creaking down the hall very slowly. No one was with him. No one was following him. He headed straight for Bryn like a tortoise-speed heat-seeking missile, a desperate kind of hunger in his face. When he reached her, he stretched his hand out to her and tried to speak.
She took his hand, very gently, and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. But you can help me.”
He made a sound she didn’t understand, and his clawlike fingers gripped hers with desperate strength. She managed to pull free, and pushed him to the door.
Then she opened it, ducked outside as the alarm began to sound its shrill noise, and left him with the wheelchair propped in the opening, as if he’d stuck trying to get out.
Then she ran.
Her hope was that they’d assume he’d somehow opened the door and not check further. Jane wouldn’t be fooled long, but it might be a few minutes’ grace before Mr. Smith’s body was discovered, and Bryn needed every second of distraction she could get.
Outside, she found a plain expanse of grass that really didn’t qualify as a lawn; it was choked with weeds, its green color deceptively healthy. The exterior of the building was plain painted cinder block, functionally ugly. This particular building was cut off from the other, larger, more gracious facility; that part had an ornate garden behind it, with an ornamental gazebo and fountains. The more functional inmates of this prison stayed there, Bryn assumed: the ones who had family to visit them, and who for public relations purposes couldn’t be penned up like convicts for the convenience of the staff. She had no idea if there was safety in that more graciously styled structure; could be that they had no idea what went on out here in the internment camp, but she couldn’t rely on that. On anyone.
The entire property—and it was large—was ringed by a high fence. There was a drive-through gate, but it, too, was locked up tight, and there were surveillance cameras watching. A few staff cars sat in the parking lot, but Bryn was fresh out of hot-wiring skills.
Phone. She needed a damn phone.
And the best place to find one would be inside the central building.
Bryn raced over the open area, trying to keep to the shadows as much as she could; the moonlight was traitorously bright out, but she made it to the garden and hid in the dark overhang of a still-blooming rosebush for a moment. Lights were on in the secured-facility building, and she saw into the windows at the front; there were at least three or four burly, sour-looking nurses who were off to check the rooms. Someone would find the “body” soon.
The patio doors off the garden were locked tight. No way inside. She followed the curve of the building around, testing windows, and finally found one that was open to admit a cool night breeze. She slid it up, careful of the noise, and cast a quick look inside to scout the footing. It was clear beneath, and she slithered over the sill and down to the carpet without much noise.
The old woman sleeping on the gurney—unrestrained, except for the metal railings—didn’t stir. She looked as frail as a dandelion, but someone cared about her—there was a thick, hand-knitted afghan tucked around her, and a pillow nicer than anything available in the facility. Bryn scanned her bedside table, but found no trace of a cell phone or landline. She eased the door open. This facility had wider hallways, nicer carpet, big windows, and—unfortunately—more nurses. These were going door-to-door, methodically checking beds; when one went into a room, another came out, as if they’d planned it that way to cover any eventuality.
Bryn closed the door with a faint click and looked around. The bathroom wasn’t big, and she had the distinct feeling they’d be looking inside it anyway as they searched. Likewise the narrow closet. She went back to the window and closed it, and heard footsteps approaching.
Time to decide.
She dropped to the carpet and rolled into the shadows cast by the dangling afghan on the far side of the gurney/bed. There was no way to get all the way underneath, so it was the best she could do. Her heart hammered as the attendant stepped inside, opened the bathroom, the closet, and came over to check the window.
He never glanced her way. The woman on the bed, as Bryn had guessed, would be of no real interest to him, and he’d be focused instead on the concealed places, not the open ones.
Bryn let out a slow breath as he finished his search, exited the room, and shut the door behind him. She stood up and followed him, peeping out the narrow crack of wood to check the hallway. She waited until the staff had completely finished their search of the hall. One went back to the round nurses’ station desks; the others moved on, presumably to the next set of rooms.
“Thanks,” Bryn whispered to the sleeping lady, and slipped out. She hugged the wall, watching the nurse at the station. This one was a woman, and she had her back turned as she spoke on the phone.
“No sign of anyone,” the nurse was saying. “We’re clear in here. Blanton’s checking the parking lot out front. The gates haven’t opened, and we haven’t had any motion detectors go off. Nothing on surveillance in the front. I think she must still be on your side.” That, at least, answered the question of whether the nurses in this building of the facility would be sympathetic. “I’m telling you, we already checked the rooms. Every room. Either she’s in your building or she’s out on the grounds. Yeah, we’re searching the garden. Keep your knickers on. She won’t get far.”
The nurse hung up the phone, and Bryn backed up and into another room. This one held a sleeping man with an oxygen mask and an IV drip. Colorful, angular drawings were taped all over the walls—grandkids’ or great-grandkids’ projects, Bryn assumed. It was still a sterile, grim room, but it was trying to be cheerful.
There was a cell phone plugged in on the nightstand.
Bryn’s heart leaped. She eased over to it and unplugged it, trying to move as quietly as possible. The thing was shut off, but once she’d touched the power button, it gave out a nice, loud, musical tone she couldn’t muffle.
The old man opened his eyes, removed his oxygen mask, and gazed at her blankly for a moment—and then he began yelling, shockingly loudly, “Help! Help! Murder! She’s taking my phone! Help, help!”
Bryn cursed under her breath and headed toward the window, but it was latched tight, and the catch was stubborn. She finally racked it up with a shriek of metal just as the door opened, spilling light into the room. Even then, she would have kept going, except that Jane said, very softly, “I’ll kill the old man if you try it, Bryn.”
Bryn turned her head. Jane was standing by the old man’s bedside; he’d stopped yelling, and was staring at her with mute terror, because she was holding a silenced semiautomatic pistol to his temple. Jane’s face was pale and hard as bone, and the dark shadows pooled in her eyes. She looked…inhuman.
“I mean it,” she said. “Try anything, and he dies. Then I put a bullet in your brain. You can wake up. He won’t. Either way, I shoot the holy fuck out of you before you can use that phone or make it off the grounds, so there’s nothing to gain here. But by all means, go ahead. I’m sure it’s a mercy killing, shooting this old fart.”
There wasn’t any doubt at all that she meant every word of what she said.
Bryn shut her eyes for a second, then opened her fingers and let the cell phone drop to the floor. Damn it, damn it, damn it…
“Good choice,” Jane said. “I’m really pretty upset about losing Mr. Smith, but then again, nice use of the spoon. You’re learning. Now, just hold still.…If I do this right, it shouldn’t really hurt much at all.”
Oh hell no. Bryn let her knees go loose, dropped, rolled, and put the phone
in her left pocket as she did. Her movement startled Jane into firing, but she missed, and Bryn shoved her right hand into her pocket, rose to her knees right in front of Jane, and fired, point-blank, through the leather of her jacket.
Three times.
Jane fired back, which was an impressive feat considering Bryn had scored three direct chest hits, but her bullet hit Bryn in the shoulder—not enough to slow her down. She felt it, but pushed the pain aside. Jane had taught her that, too—how to push the pain away.
Jane stumbled back against the wall, and the fury in her dark eyes was unmistakable. Her black shirt showed the bullet holes, and beneath, Bryn saw the flash of blood. Jane caught her balance and aimed, not for Bryn, but at the old man on the bed. She was going to kill him out of sheer spite.
Bryn took the gun out of her pocket, advanced, and fired twice into Jane’s face.
The woman’s trigger finger still convulsed, but the shot went wild, into the floor on the other side of the bed, and Jane went down hard.
Dead for sure.
Bryn wanted to keep on shooting her, just for the hell of it, but there wasn’t time. She flipped open the cell—one of those easy-to-use kinds for older people—and quickly dialed Patrick’s number.
She was talking as soon as she heard the connection click in, even before his voice made it over the distance. “It’s Bryn. Don’t ask any questions right now, just trace this phone and come heavy; I’m leaving it on and hiding it. I’ll be around here somewhere. I have to find Carl and Chandra.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, just opened a drawer and dropped the phone in. She couldn’t talk to Pat just now; he’d infect her with his worry, make her less focused on sheer survival. It had hurt to even hear his voice begin to say hello; the idea of having him say anything else, anything to comfort her, made her think she might break apart into tiny pieces.
The old man was still staring at her with blank terror. He was gasping for air. She reached over and fitted his oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and said, “Sorry for all that, sir. You’ll be okay.”
