Bad Boy One with the bat came forward, a crazed, deranged smile forming on his lips. The predatory way he moved, the look in his eyes, vacant from any signs of humanity, told me that whatever he had in mind, it wasn't to club and hustle me unconscious to the nearest PSS base.
Fear fueled my adrenaline and I struggled in earnest. The man holding me responded by compressing his tree-trunk arms tighter, close to breaking my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Bad Boy One's smile grew at my struggles, enjoying my fear. He swung the bat with both hands to the left, taunting, then to the right, the second time with only half a lousy inch away from my nose. If he swung the bat a third time, it was probably going to break my jaw at best, crush my skull at worst. That is, if it didn't outright kill me. Bad Boy One took one more step and I stopped struggling. My heart was drumming a fast rhythm, almost one single inseparable tone. I saw the wild gleam of anticipation in his eyes before he raised the bat again with a low whistle of air. I shifted, replacing my weight to the balls of my feet, and pushed with both my feet and connected with Bad Boy One's chest with all the strength I could muster while being held, which, providing the fact that I was braced against Bad Boy Two, was a lot.
He—they were supposed to have gone down. Hard. Instead, the impact only sent Bad Boy One staggering a few feet, hitting the night stand on his way and falling down to one knee with a thud, while Bad Boy Two also stumbled, but still didn't let go. I stabbed the talons of my right hand on his thigh and he staggered back with a grunt and, when his arms loosened a fraction, I threw my head back, hitting him on the jaw hard enough that I saw stars. I struggled and buckled and managed to gain an inch or two, then buckled and wriggled harder, loosening his hold. The instant I wriggled free, I threw myself sideways and crawled some distance, pushing myself with hands and feet, but Bad Boy Two was faster than I had anticipated, grabbing my scarred ankle and pulling me back hard. I kicked with my free left foot and struck his thigh, but besides a grunt, I did nothing to him. I stomped twice more in quick succession, and there was a sickening popping sound. Bad Boy Two fell to his knees, hollering inhumanly, the sound kick-starting my fear to a higher level. His grip only tightened more painfully. I'd have his hand perfectly printed around my ankle like a henna tattoo.
By that time, Bad Boy One closed the distance between us, his face now distorted with anger. I jerked my hand, ready to cut off Bad Boy Two's hand with my talons, but that would expose my side to Bad Boy One, so first I tried slashing the latter. However, the angle wasn't right and I only managed to hurt myself by slashing at the iron bed frame. Whatever that black on their aura was, it gave them speed, endurance and strength. Bad Boy One sidestepped my next attempt to slash his foot off, stomped hard on my hand and kicked me hard with his hiking boot, hitting me square between my lower left rib and hip bone. I saw stars sizzle and explode in front of me. I curled myself into a defensive ball before Bad Boy Two let go of my ankle and stood, the popping sound apparently hadn't been a broken bone because he joined his companion and they both began kicking and stomping me to death. I had enough sense to cover my head, though after a while I realized I was probably just prolonging the inevitable.
An eternity later, I heard the sound of a loud boom and a roar. At first, I thought I had been the one screaming, but after some confusing and painful precious seconds passed by, I realized there was no one kicking me. I coughed and stars exploded in front of me and I think I blacked out for a second or ten. There was blood in my mouth and I wondered, vaguely alarmed, about its origin. I heard grunts far away and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. A voice in my head told me to go go go go, and I had enough survival instinct in me to crawl out of the room and get to my feet slowly, so, so slowly, supporting myself on the door frame. I felt disoriented, and when I looked back found Logan, his familiar aura—what? Wrestling one of the bad boys while the other lay writhing on a heap, a growing pool of blood between his head and shoulder. A gun lay between the guy and the door, no doubt the weapon responsible for the pooling blood. I turned my attention back to the fight in time to see Bad Boy One scoop up the bat from the floor and swing it in a swift arc at Logan's head and miss when Logan dodged just in time. The bat whistled by his head in a downward motion, only to glance off his shoulder with a sickening thwack. And even though the blow must have hurt like a bitch, Logan didn't miss a step. He closed in and punched Bad Boy One with an upper cut to the jaw, then tackled him to the ground. They rolled around in the confined space, each trying to get the upper hand and strangle the other. Briefly, I debated picking the gun up. Should I help? While I hesitated, Bad Boy Two, still writhing on the floor, gave an inhuman howl, and as I watched his aura flashed once, then turned completely black. Or maybe I should not.
I decided I didn't want to know the outcome of the fight, so I staggered to Thunder and noted two motorcycles and a black Range Rover that hadn't been there before.
I also noticed the reception guy crouched by the dim office door, talking urgently on a cell phone. He saw me and stood up, his six-months gestating belly protruding forward, his torso and legs bare to the chill wind. He crouched again hurriedly when something back in room thirteen broke with a loud crashing noise. Probably the TV.
“They're shooting and breaking everything! Just send someone, damn ya!” he shouted into his cell phone. “One of them is running away!” he screamed again in outrage, watching me go.
Not wanting to find out who he was talking to, I went around to the truck's bed as fast as I could move, thankful the lights outside room thirteen had burned out, and uncovered the extra key I had glued under the leather carpet in case of emergencies like this. My body hurt all over, and I hunched forward to ease some of the pressuring pain.
I had difficulties pressing the clutch and gas pedals, but I clenched my teeth and backed out of the parking lot with tires screeching.
Chapter Six
I drove, drunkenly taking exit ramps and coming back to the highway, meandering around in a zigzag motion and keeping a cautious eye for any black Range Rovers or motorcycles. Why had Logan helped me? Was that a fight for the bounty the PSS had placed on me?
Up ahead, I spotted the Texaco lights and decided to risk stopping there for a couple of minutes. I parked on a dim corner and crawled with some difficulties to the back seat where I kept my duffle, shrugged on a jacket, and pushed my feet into my second pair of hiking boots.
I headed for the bathroom first and winced at the strong lighting, then at my reflection. The face that stared back at me was pale, paler than usual, and the black eyes were glazed both from the close call and pain. One of the kicks had definitely hit me on the face before I'd had enough sense to cover my head, because my right cheek had swollen and was turning purple. I healed fast, faster than an ordinary human, but the processes of healing was the same for me as anyone else's.
My red hair—now with six inches of black roots—was in disarray, and I tried to pat it down.
I washed my face with cold water, which was when I felt how badly my cheek throbbed.
I looked like shit. I tucked my shirt inside my pants and buttoned my denim jacket all the way to cover the blood, surveyed myself in the mirror. I was hunched a little to the left, and when I straightened, my side felt like it was on fire, but it was nothing compared to the pain I felt when I probed my ribs.
I suppressed a groan of agony and hissed through gritted teeth. I wanted desperately to curl in a dim corner and bawl until I was dragged into oblivion, to wait the pain out. But I couldn't afford that luxury.
Once the pain subsided, I made my way to the grocery next door as fast as my throbbing body allowed. I was aware of places in my body I had never felt before.
I grabbed some painkillers first, opened the bottle and dry-swallowed six pills. Then I grabbed some snacks and soft drinks and went to pay for my purchases. The guy manning the register gave me some dubious looks but said nothing. I paid and left in a hurry, afraid that whoever won the fight back in the motel would be right behind
me.
I drove the rest of the night and half the next day, then parked behind a deserted factory, pushed back my seat, and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
When I awoke, it was fully dark outside. My head pounded in sync with my pulse and my body still ached horribly, so I downed six more painkillers before I chewed on a power bar, and washed it down with one of the soft drinks before finally starting the truck and continuing on the road.
An hour into the drive, the truck began making the same strange grinding noises as before, though I think it was more pronounced this time around. I ignored it, even as an uneasy feeling sprang to life inside my stomach. The road was dark and cold, though there weren't many clouds hanging. I hadn't seen another vehicle for a long while.
Two hours into the drive, the truck coughed and sputtered, and smoke began curling out from under the hood.
“Hell, not now,” I muttered without any heat and got out to check the damage. I had to punch the hood a few times, jostling a few forgotten aches, before it finally gave. I was welcomed by a cloud of smoke that obscured my view of the engine for a second, keeping me from noticing the fire at first.
“Shit. Isn't this perfect?” I backed away and dashed for the fire extinguisher that, to my dismay and growing frustration, I found missing from the holder. I cursed some more, grabbed my duffle bag and my snacks and hurried away. I was only a few yards away when it blew. I didn't look back.
* * *
I tried to hitchhike, but the occasional cars and trucks that passed never stopped. All the gentlemen of the world seemed to be gone. I walked and walked, then I just pretended to move, shuffling forward as much as my battered body permitted.
Three hours after the truck blew, I heard one of those sixteen wheelers approaching and stopped and raised a thumb. I held my breath and sent up a pray of plea.
After a second, it began to slow down. I exhaled in relief. My hopes to get some rest actually caused my weariness to increase a few degrees more. As soon as the cab of the vehicle and I were parallel, the driver blew the horn, one long pulsating key, effectively deafening me. I could almost hear the driver laughing maniacally before the truck's horn sounded again and the sixteen-wheeler began gaining speed once more.
My ears buzzed, the sound still reverberating inside my head like a lost pinball, and I screamed in frustration at the moving vehicle. What happened to those people who couldn't help but stop for a lonely woman at night on a desert road?
Miserable and cold, aching all over, I walked—shuffled really—for maybe another hour, until I realized I was wheezing and hunched over. I searched the dark desert on both sides of the road for a place I could spend the night. There was nothing. Nothing but a lonely cactus. But really, what was I looking for? A tent with a warm bedroll? If I wanted to sleep unnoticed by passersby, I wouldn't have to walk far enough into the desert, but I'd have to be up before morning or I'd stand out in the sea of sand like a verdant tree.
I'd probably be in danger from a rattlesnake or whatever lived out there. In my state, I'd probably die without even knowing I had been bitten. I eyed the dark desert and contemplated my aching body. Weariness won out, and I had just begun to make my way to the desert when I heard the low rumble of a vehicle approaching. I almost sagged with relief before I remembered the world was full of assholes like the driver of the sixteen-wheeler. I stuck my thumb out anyway and watched the blinding lights reach me. When it did, I began mentally kicking myself for not taking my chances with nature five minutes earlier. Because there was nowhere to run, I waited until the passenger door opened… only to find myself staring at the barrel of Logan's gun.
Chapter Seven
The little jolt of fear that zinged through me was skillfully hidden under a blank façade.
“Get in,” he snapped tightly. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes held annoyance and irritation, but no anger or hints of crazed triumph. Two things I gathered in that instance. One, if he was going to shoot me he would have done it the moment the door opened. Two, the expression on his face told me he didn't want me dead.
I eyed him and was proud my gaze didn't waver. My hesitation only seemed to irritate him more, although I guessed his crankiness stemmed from following me around for the past few days. I weighed my options. I had this curious hunch and was tired and aching enough to not think better of it, so I turned my back on him and walked—shuffled—away, despite my body begging for the warm comfort the Range Rover could provide for a few hours.
I heard him curse and mutter something under his breath that seemed a lot like “stubborn twit” before the engine shut off and he opened his door and slammed it shut again.
“Don't force me to shoot,” he growled.
I ignored him until I heard the safety of the gun click off. Slowly, heart hammering with belated adrenaline, I turned.
He no longer looked annoyed. Instead he looked angry and… resigned? Resigned to shoot? Maybe I had misjudged him and he would have no trouble killing me. Maybe the bounty was more substantial if I was caught alive. Why was he using a gun? Why wasn't he trying to overpower me?
I studied his aura and wondered if perhaps I had misread it.
“In,” he barked. There was a dark bruise under his left eye that hadn't been there when I met him in the food court.
“I don't think you want me dead or else you'd have killed me already,” I pointed out—perhaps too boldly.
“You're right. I don't want you dead,” he conceded. “However, I won't hesitate to disable you. In fact, if you're not able to walk or run…” He shrugged a shoulder, then lowered the gun and aimed at my leg. “Now, get inside.”
I looked at him, at the car, and wondered if I could strike him while he drove. Then I could perhaps push him out and hijack it.
As if reading my mind, he cocked his head aside and said in a much softer tone, “you take the wheel.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What makes you think I'm not going to ditch us at the first sinkhole?”
His eyes flashed with a dangerous light, reminding me I was dealing with a predator as well as a mercenary. He motioned with his gun for me to move, said nothing.
I did.
I crossed passed him with an indifferent air, shoulders back—though the posturing cost me. With clenched teeth, I pushed my duffle on the back seat, then stiffly climbed inside. I was already regretting not climbing into the passenger seat the moment he had opened the door.
Adjusting the seat to accommodate my shorter legs increased the throbbing of my ribs. I bit my lip to keep myself from gasping out loud. I didn't want him to realize how badly I hurt. Weak prey don't live long. It's the law of the jungle.
I remember when I was still young and was just “plain human” and couldn't defend myself against the PSS's brutal experimentation methods. I remembered that first time when they carried me kicking and screaming down to the lab. I remember feeling my first betrayal, the shocking realization that they had been soft on me during the previous tests. I had considered Dr. Maxwell an ally, the only one in the entire facility I had made in the eight months since I'd arrived. I'd known his goodwill—chocolate, ice cream, gossip magazines—had been nothing but bribes to ensure good behavior, but I was a creature of the people, a person who lived for the crowd, who enjoyed socializing as much as I needed it for survival. Dr. Maxwell had known that, understanding that holding me in the PSS and forcefully conducting the experiments was killing me both mentally and physically, and it wasn't improving the quality of the research done.
So, as the head of the scientist's team assigned to me, Dr. Maxwell took it upon himself to bring me all the nice things that an ex-popular thirteen-year-old deemed necessary.
By then I'd been so exhausted of fighting and rebelling—though in no way broken yet—that I'd stopped fighting against the tests, in exchange for a nice suite with a king-sized bed, a laptop—without wireless connection—books to fill up my time, and a bathroom with a large tub. It had been my weakness,
letting them know how much I needed those material things, and Dr. Maxwell's company in the evening, a sympathetic ear to listen to my complaints.
I remember the shock that horrible day when I was locked inside a three-by-three metal cage like a feral animal; with Dr. Maxwell standing nearby in the lab ignoring my protests, taking notes as if locking me in the cage after all the nice things he had done for me was the most natural thing. Here's a rose, let me stab you with the thorn.
Later, after I had escaped, I had learned from Dr. Maxwell's stolen journal that the vaccine he'd given me the previous night had been an amplifying spell, given to uncooperative subjects.
I remembered the awful buzzing sound the lock mechanism had made when engaged, and feeling the vibrations through the bars when I grabbed them to scream louder at Dr. Maxwell. After the events of that day, I was no longer able to touch the bars without being severely burned. Three sides of the cage were made of thick, enforced metal bars, but the fourth—the back side —was just a metal sheet, which I also learned that day served as a door, a partition wall to the next cage.
When the wall of the cage behind me opened with a sliding whoosh, I didn't give it any thought. But when I heard the guttural growl, I shut up. Dr. Maxwell had turned to watch, and only then did I notice I had an audience.
I remember the sensation of rubbery muscles, how my stomach had fluttered and crashed, the tremor that ran down my spine all the way down to my toe nails. I remember the horror of the second growl, closer.
Frightened—scared shitless—so terrified to turn and find the monster inside with me, my legs had given way and I sank to the cold bottom of the cage. I remember registering in a humiliated part of my brain the acrid stench of urine. My heart had beaten too fast, too painfully, and I remember wondering if I was having a heart attack. I remember wondering that first time if they were serving me for dinner to a hideous monster because I hadn't met their expectations. The terror, the humiliation of begging deaf ears. I remember it all, every second, every heartbeat.
Heir of Ashes Page 4
