by Katie French
We walk to the opposite side of the room, where another hole has been bored through the drywall, wide enough for two men. With Bran’s torch, we can see a few feet inside.
We crawl through but find no comfort here, either. Whoever lived here spent his time collecting the oddest items possible. On one wall, dozens of lifeless clown masks peer down on us. Some have giant awful grins, some have horrible vacant eyes, but all of them seem to watch us as we pass. Bran swings the torch, revealing shelves containing items bobbing in amber liquid. I see a human fetus and shiver.
“What is this place?” It’s taking everything I have in me not to bolt. “Did Subject Seven do this?”
Doc picks up a mangled teddy bear missing a head and drops it. “Don’t think so. This stuff’s been here a while. Somebody got weird. Really weird. Being alone can do that to you.”
“Some sicko liked this slag?” Bran asks, leaning close to see glass eyeballs floating in a mason jar.
I wave him forward. “Keep moving.”
We crawl through another hole and enter a room the same size and shape as the last two, but this one is nearly empty in comparison. Set up more like a living quarters, the corner near the boarded-up windows is a nest of blankets, decaying couch cushions, and plastic tarps. Bran pokes around with his toe and shakes his head.
“If there’s anywhere I’d think they’d sleep, it’s right here,” Doc whispers, peering into the dark. He walks over and lifts a dust-covered plate, a meal of unknown origin still clinging to it. A chair is toppled over like whoever last sat in it jumped up in a hurry, but that was long ago. The dust tells us that much.
We find a few outfits hanging on wall hooks and magazines that fall apart when Doc lifts them. Bran uses some of the dusty clothes to keep his sputtering torch aflame. “We need to move. I can feel ’em. Close.” His nostrils flare.
As we walk toward the next hole in the plaster, Doc pulls up close beside me. “I don’t like this, Ri. They’re drawing us deeper and deeper. Now, if we need to flee, it’ll take us too long. There’ll be no escape.”
“There are only two of them and three of us.”
“Yeah,” he says, “you keep saying that.”
We climb through the hole in the wall, Bran and his torch in the lead, me, and then Doc. We drop down only to find dozens of white paint buckets clustered by our feet. Bran swings his torch low, and we see the brown sludge. Their bathroom. But it’s so old it’s lost its stink.
“Thank God for that,” Doc whispers, pushing a bucket aside with his boot.
We move quickly. It might not stink, but nobody wants to hang out in a room full of shit.
“Goddamn, how big is this mall?” Doc says as we cross the room to the hole on the other side.
I shake my head. I should’ve counted the storefronts before we came in. So many things we should’ve done. Clay would’ve done better.
We slip through the next hole and come out in a space much bigger than the last. This shop appears to be two or three times the size of the rest. And it still has shelves, clothes racks, and peeling posters on the walls with women posing for the camera. My eyes dart around cataloging everything, but Bran’s torch doesn’t shine very far. But when we walk a ways in, there’s one thing I notice right away.
I spin around, my heartbeat picking up. “Bran, no other exits.”
He walks to the far wall, putting his hand on the plaster where the hole should be. “The last shop,” he murmurs, turning around, his knife out.
I lift my Taser, aiming for the darkness. “They’re here somewhere.”
Doc draws the gun. We circle up, back to back. Bran keeps his torch high.
Where are they?
We listen, hearing only our own breath. Beyond the torchlight, the darkness seems alive.
Doc flicks a glance my way. He looks terrified. “Are you sure they’re—”
An awful crashing sound. Bran whips his torch toward it. Across the room, a huge pile of debris topples over, blocking our only exit.
“We’re trapped!” Doc shrieks.
A blur of motion in the corner. Bran sweeps the torch toward it, but it’s too fast.
“There!” I point toward a rustling sound headed our way.
The three of us wheel around.
When the torchlight finds her, we all gasp. Crouched in an attack posture is a naked woman. Her long, matted hair covers most of her and mud hides the rest. She’s camouflaged herself, covering her pale skin with dirt so she’s harder to see in the dark. She looks vicious, animal, and deadly.
“S-subject Seven,” I stutter, not sure if she can understand me. “Surrender now and you won’t be hurt.”
“Tase her, lass!” Bran yells. His knife is out and his torch high. But the flame is guttering low. Without something new to burn, we’ll have no light. “Hurry!”
I aim the Taser and take a step closer. The woman—animal?—doesn’t retreat. From her crouched position, her eyes watch my every move.
Movement distracts me. Doc screams.
Bran whips around. As his torch falls, I see something I cannot understand. Two more creatures burst out of the shadows and fall onto us.
There are three of them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Betsy
Everything the nannies taught us is lies.
I stand in a crowd of dirty, sweaty men, and not a single one looks at me. The way the nannies tell it, I should’ve been dragged by the hair into a cave the minute they saw me. Some look my way when the big guy, Mike, isn’t around, but no one comes over. No one leers or licks his lips. They’re all dumb bastards, anyway.
I smile at one as he passes, though he looks like he’s been run over by a Jeep. This makes me giggle, and I hide my smile in my fist. Jeep, jeep, beep, beep. I rub my lips as I rhyme in my head. Nessa always said rubbing my lips was a dirty habit, but Nessa is probably dead. She deserves to be dead. A lot of people deserve what’s coming to them. Starting with Ethan.
It’s Ethan’s fault Clay won’t look at me. Ethan’s not even correcting Clay when he calls him Cole. He loves being Clay’s little brother, even if it’s a damned lie. A very, very bad lie.
And liars deserve punishment.
The men stream by, working on some plan that no one shares with me. Why won’t they notice me? I hike up my dress, showing the white meat of my thigh. One glances, lifting his eyes to my face, but then looks down to the dirt and hurries away.
“Shoot!” I say under my breath. “Dumb idiot bastards.”
“Why’s your leg hanging out?”
I whirl around. Hank, the kid Ethan and Clay hate, stands behind me, staring. He doesn’t want me, not in the way men are supposed to want women, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes. He’s amused. I lower my dress and face him. “Why are you talking to me? Shouldn’t you be humping Mike’s leg or something?”
He stares at me like he wasn’t expecting my sass mouth, as the nannies used to say. He’s about a foot shorter than I am, but I have a feeling he’s older than he looks. The meanness in his face for one—the pinched, sourpuss look that comes when people have let you down over and over. His hair is dark and coarse, and his face is tanned. His eyebrows and eyelashes are thick and dark. His lips are bright red. He’d be a pretty girl if he didn’t make that ugly face all the time.
I itch under my wig. He watches me with a strange look on his face. “What’s wrong with your hair?”
“Nothing.” I tug on the ends of my curls to keep the wig in place.
“Why’re you so fat?” He lifts his upper lip, smirking.
“Why’re you so stupid?” I retort.
A slow smile spreads on his face. “What’s your name?”
“Betsy.” I offer my hand to shake, but he just stares, so I let it drop.
“What are you doing with those assholes?” he asks, nodding to Ethan and Clay across the crowd of men.
“Clay’s my boyfriend.” The lie sounds stupid, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
His black caterpillar eyebrows come together as he thinks this over. “Your boyfriend is going to steal my place with Mike. Then the men who hate me will find a reason to kill me.”
“Ethan took my place with Clay. Sometimes, I wish I could kill him,” I spit angrily.
Hank’s smile widens, showing crooked teeth. “Sounds like we have a similar problem.”
I lean in closer. “It’s a shame Mike likes Clay so much. I mean, you’re the one who talks for him. Clay couldn’t do the job you do.” My voice is honey laced. I bat my eyelashes.
Hank is nodding hungrily. “What if we could solve both of our problems at the same time?”
I link my arm through his. He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. When I start walking, he keeps up, glancing back to see if anyone has noticed. They haven’t.
They don’t pay any attention to us.
“Come with me.” I smile for the first time in a long time. “We have a lot of planning to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Riley
Three creatures. How can there be three?
Corra lied.
I have no time to think because once the torch falls, it all goes black.
Jesus, where are—?
I’m blasted back, kicked in the chest and sent sprawling. I fly, slamming into something. A body. It writhes beneath me.
“Get off, you gibby bastards!” Bran yells.
I roll away, searching in the dark with my hands. “Bran, it’s me! Where’s Doc?”
“Help!” Doc cries. The call comes from farther away than I would’ve thought, but I’m blind in the dark. I run toward the sound, my arms out. The Taser’s in my hand, but how can I use it when I can’t see?
“Doc!” I hear struggling, but I can’t find him. We need light. I whirl around, seeing nothing but darkness.
There. Beams of daylight slice their way through cracks in the boarded-up windows. I run, arms out. My leg plows into something that clatters to the ground, but I push through. Finding the boards, I grab on, put one foot on the wall, and pull. The nails complain as they tear out of old wood. A board pulls away from the window, spilling light into the room.
“Riley, look out!”
A creature plows into my side, spilling me onto the floor. Dirty hands claw at my face. White teeth gnash in a blacked-out face. Its wild eyes look more animal than human. It wants to kill me.
I smash the board from the window into the creature’s back just as teeth sink into my neck.
Screaming, I pull the board back and bash again. Its body falls on top of mine, hair, mud, and arms filling my vision. The stink is awful, unwashed human and shit. I shove back with my free hand and roll away. When I stagger up, panting, it does the same, squaring off with me. A naked woman covered in mud, her face contorted with the look of a predator sizing up a meal.
Doc runs in, his gun out. “I have to shoot! They’re too powerful.”
“No! We don’t know which is Eight. Where’s my Taser?” I’ve lost it. I scan the trash-filled floor.
The creature charges, running at us with powerful strides, her hair flying back, her teeth bared. We run left. Doc aims. I reach to stop him, but something grabs me, wrenching me into a powerful embrace.
God, they’re strong.
I struggle against mud-caked arms, but it’s no use. The creature squeezes my chest until I can’t draw breath. Ribs creak. I suck air. Kick. Lurch. My consciousness ebbs.
“Riley,” Doc says, aiming the gun in my direction. “I need to shoot it!”
“No,” I mouth, still struggling against arms that feel like iron. Can’t breathe.
Bran’s scream cuts across the room. I turn and see something drag him into the darkness.
“Riley!” Doc yells, his gun aimed at the creature behind me. It drags me away. Into the darkness.
I can’t breathe. It’s going to kill me. And how can I help Bran? I suck in a labored breath and scream, “Shoot!”
A gunshot echoes through the abandoned store. The creature behind me stiffens and its arms drop away. I fall to my knees, gasping. When I look down, the creature’s lifeless eyes stare back at me. Doc shot it through the head.
Doc runs up, the gun still in his hand. “You okay?”
“Bran,” I say, standing shakily to my feet.
We race to the back of the store where we last heard his cry. But he’s gone. So are the other two creatures. The store seems empty.
“How can they be gone?” I yell, panicked.
Doc runs to a clothes rack and pulls it aside.
“What is it?” I come up beside him and peer down.
Someone has dug through the floor, leaving a gaping hole and an expanse of darkness beyond. We can’t see what’s down there, but it’s clear the hole is big enough to drag a grown man into.
“Bran!” I yell in.
Nothing.
I lean my head in a little farther. Doc’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “Don’t. They could attack again.” He points at the bite wound on my neck.
I touch it, feeling warm blood on my fingertips. “It’s nothing.” I lean down again. “Bran!”
“Riley,” Doc says, pulling me up. His voice is thick with fear. “We need to get out of here. This was a trap.”
“We have the gun. Give it to me.” Frantic, I reach out, but instead of giving it to me, Doc holds it above his head and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.
“What?”
He lowers the gun to his leg. “It only had one bullet.”
“That can’t be true. I loaded it myself.” Pushing to my knees, I reach for the gun. I pull out the clip. Empty.
“Who loaded our supplies, Riley?” He rubs at a bruised cheek and studies me.
“One of Corra’s men. Dennis,” I say, growing cold. “Bastard.”
Doc shakes his head. “He must’ve emptied the gun, but forgot the round in the chamber. And we were too freaked out to notice how light the gun was. I noticed, though, when I tried to shoot that thing more than once.”
The creature. It’s lying in a pool of blood by the open window. We killed it. Now we have nothing.
“Is it Subject Seven or Subject Eight?” I ask.
“How should I know?”
We hurry over and kneel beside the body. It bleeds red like us, but it seems like that’s where the similarities end. Even dead, its features look vicious. There’s blood on its canine teeth. My blood. “Eight is supposed to be smaller. Does it look smaller?”
“Smaller than what?” Doc asks.
I roll her head toward me. The wild, matted hair is clumped around her face, but when I brush it away, the dead creature really does look human. Without the fierce posturing and gnashing teeth, she looks like a young woman who took one too many mud baths. Her features are smooth and delicate behind all the grime. I shiver and step away.
“What now?” Doc asks.
“We need to find Bran.”
Doc shakes his head. “We need to call for backup.”
I frown at him. “There’s no cavalry! They aren’t going to help us.”
“Then call it off. We search for Clay and Ethan on our own.”
“No!” I say, tightening my fists. “I got Bran into this, and I’m not going to leave him to die.”
Doc grabs my arm, shaking me. “We aren’t going to run in there unarmed! We go back to the car and get the right equipment. Or we tell those bastards to send backup. Then we go find Bran. Either that”—he looks deep into my eyes—“or you’re on your own.”
I glance back at the hole, shaking. “Those things could be tearing Bran apart right now.”
“What could we do to stop them?”
“Fine.” I stalk over and start prying away the remaining window boards. “We head back to the car for supplies, but we’re going in as soon as we have what we need.”
Doc grabs the other side of the board I’m pulling and yanks. It falls away, offering more light. We do the same for the rest until there’s enough space for us to
climb through. Doc uses a board to break away the shards of broken glass. When he starts to climb over the sill, I stop him.
“We need the body,” I say, gesturing.
He frowns, disgusted. “Why?”
“I have a plan.”
***
It’s a long, hard walk back to the solar car dragging a lifeless body that smells like shit. I want to feel bad for the creature we’ve killed. After all, I can’t be any madder at it than a coyote or a cougar. They kill to survive. But the bite on my neck is throbbing and Bran’s in a sewer and God-knows-what is being done to him. So when I drop the body roughly beside the solar car’s trunk, I can’t feel sorry.
Doc finds the solar car’s first-aid kit and begins doctoring my wound, but, first, I make him help me roll the body over so the head wound isn’t visible from above. We’ve also taken pains to wipe all the blood away. Once finished, I let Doc clean the bite on my neck and bandage it. He’s got a couple of scrapes, too, but I let him focus on me first. My mind’s running a mile a minute, and I need to think. Did Corra betray me? It’s possible. Did Dennis? Likely. He hated me from the first.
“I need rope, something to tie its hands,” I say as Doc applies the bandage to my neck.
He cocks his head to one side. “What’re you thinking?”
“I’ll tell you later. Just help me, okay?”
I walk to the body and carefully spread it out on the ground. The muscles beneath her skin are firm and well built. She was strong, so strong, and it shows in her powerful thighs and biceps. Now I feel sorry, looking at her closed eyes, her parted lips.
“She looks human,” Doc says as if reading my mind.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s remember she tried to kill us. That her friends may have already killed Bran. Where’s that rope?”
Doc hands it to me, his brow furrowing. “I still don’t see what good tying up a dead body will do us.”
“We gotta make her look alive. They might be watching on their satellite thingy. Tie her hands and feet and put her in the back of the car.” I point to the solar car’s tiny backseat.
“It’s not going to smell very nice on our return trip,” he says, beginning to wind the rope around her wrists.
