Prey (The Shade Chronicles Book 1)
Page 26
“Like hell you won’t!” he says with force. He lets go of me briefly to wrap his arms around Brent in a fierce hug, all too brief. “No matter what happens, just remember that I love you both. Don’t ever forget that.”
In an ideal world, we would have a heartfelt goodbye full of tears and hugs. I would claw at my face, pull my hair, throw myself at my dad’s feet, wailing at the unfairness of the world. Dad would bargain with me, tell me that everything is going to be all right.
Well, I suppose while we’re talking “ideal world,” the true ideal would be us lying on a beach under a sun that doesn’t require a million-SPF sunscreen, dipping our toes in the cool water, drinking some fancy drink with an umbrella in it.
But nothing about this moment is ideal. I don’t even have time to beg.
Arms wrap around my waist, and I kick out. I try to twist myself from their grasp, a scream wrenching itself from my throat. My dad turns away, tears in his eyes. He doesn’t even look back on his way to the RV.
The darkness of the cellar surrounds us, swallows us, and the doors are closed with a bang.
I may not be able to see them, but I can feel them, these strangers pressed against me in the pitch black. A wall of bodies on all sides, slick with sweat yet cool against my own fevered skin. I should feel protected… but I don’t. I feel sick with claustrophobia, a rising wave of panic building inside me. I want to swim my way back up to the surface, back to my father beyond this wall of flesh.
Instead, a sob escapes my lips. And once I start, I can’t seem to stop. I seem to have sprung a leak.
The others stand there, shoulder to shoulder, and listen to me blubber. There is no comfort to be found here. A hand fumbles on my arm, following it down to my hand, giving me a squeeze before retreating. I assume it’s Brent.
It had better be, or someone’s going to lose a hand.
The split second of blinding rage is sudden and startling. But also not unwelcome. What better life raft in an ocean of despair than anger?
A match is struck, and the tiny flame is blinding. I can’t stop myself from flinching away. The match is touched to a lamp, and the light mellows into a diffused glow. Even though it’s a softer light, it still makes my eyes itch. I want to rub at them, but my hands are covered in grit, and it will only make things worse.
Instead, I distract myself with examining the cellar. Cell is more apt. It’s nothing more than a small box, probably once used for storing potatoes and carrots, Granny’s homemade preserves. The walls are packed dirt and the ceiling it so low that Brent is slightly hunched over. Watching Brent, clenching and unclenching his fists, rekindles a memory of when we were younger, before we were forced into hiding. Mom and Dad took us to the zoo. The animals had… adequately sized cages, according to their regulations against animal cruelty. But it wasn’t the wild. The animals paced the length of their cages until they had worn tracks into the dirt. I cried that day too.
Brent has that same look about him. Coiled tight, but with nowhere to go.
James is watching him too, but not like the spectators at the zoo. He’s wary. He doesn’t know the first thing about us, and his caution is what makes him the smartest of the bunch. He may have lost everything, perhaps even his will to live, but he’s still watching his friends’ backs. And it’s his fault that Brent and I are here. I like him.
James gives Brent a little bump with his shoulder. “Hey. What’s your name?”
“B-Brent,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. He squares his shoulders, in defiance of his obvious fear.
“Nice to meet you, Brent. My name is James.” They share a weak handshake, and that small gesture sets off a cascade of jostling through the cellar. Elbows bump, toes are squashed, apologies mumbled. Finally, James grabs Brent’s arm to keep him still and the group settles. “What about your sister?” he asks.
Seriously? I’m standing right here, asshole! A flash of heat washes through me again. What the fuck is my issue?
I vaguely hear Brent’s response. “Lori. Her name is Lori.”
“That’s great, Brent. You know, we could sure use your help. Do you think you could help us lock up?”
And I thought we were trapped before! They start grabbing boards that were propped up against the wall and wedge them tight across the door. The air thickens around me. How are we supposed to get oxygen down here? Are we just slowly suffocating to death? My breath huffs out in short pants. Oh god, I’m just using up all the air now! My nails dig into my palms. Hot tears of desperation start trickling down my cheeks.
I feel hands gently pushing and pulling. Bodies are sliding past, and when I open my eyes again, I find that I’m farther from the door, standing closer to the back wall. That’s better, right…? I’m farther from the creatures, if they make it through the door? I place a palm against the dirt wall, trying to find a sense of calm from the cool clay-like surface.
All I feel is a dead end.
A man has taken my original place and is trying to help with the barricade. It doesn’t take long in the sense that this night will be the longest night of my existence. I close my eyes and measure the time by the beat of my heart. It feels like it’s thrumming in my chest, and I can feel my pulse under the bandage of my arm, my healing gash throbbing with my too-fast heartbeat. By the time I lose count, the woman next to me is leaning over to blow out the lamp.
I wait a breath… two breaths… expecting to choke on the suffocating darkness. And while the ever-present panic is still there beneath the surface of my skin, the darkness never truly descends. The cellar is awash in shades of grey. A slice of silvery moonlight is creeping through from between the wood planks and by its light I can see clearly.
I turn to the woman beside me, but I’m surprised to see a blank gloss to her gaze, her eyes unfocused and pupils dilated. I turn my head to the others sandwiched in beside me, but they all have the same blank expression. They look almost bored; they’ve gone through this whole routine time and time again. Brent, on the other hand, swivels his blind eyes across the space, searching for me without seeing a thing. I wave my hand at him, but don’t get even a flicker of a response.
I watch, warily, as the others settle into their groove. They prop themselves up against walls or each other. The two women—a petite blonde not much older than myself and a brunette probably in her early thirties—crouch down onto their knees to get what sleep they can.
Are you fucking kidding me? I choke back a manic giggle. These people, these assholes, just settle in for the night as if it’s normal. As if they haven’t abandoned my dad to who knows what fate. It’s like they aren’t even human!
“It’ll be all right. You’ll see.” Seth gives my shoulder an awkward pat, and I realize he mistook my stifled laugh for crying. He’s so blind in the dark that he can’t see the smirk pull at my lips.
And just as quickly the smirk falls. A sick roiling churns in my stomach; how is this reality? How can so much change so quickly? Not long ago, we were complaining about the mealy paste served in the cafeteria. I would gladly choke it down from here to eternity if we could all materialize back safe in our beds.
I wish we had never left.
28
Lori
I hear it before anyone else.
They had all drifted off one by one. I, on the other hand, just grew more alert, more agitated, as the night wore on. My vision sharpened, and I found that my skin was prickling at the points of contact between me and the others—which means absolutely everywhere, wedged in as we are. I tried pulling back away from the others, but whenever I gave them an inch of space, someone quickly filled it. I tried facing the wall, face and arms pressed against the dirt, so at least there was a layer of clothing between us. That lasted all of five minutes until turning my back on a bunch of potential enemies had me pulling at my hair.
I longed to run through the night, stretching my legs to their fullest. Tasting the air on my tongue.
And that was when I heard it.
A small part of me feels a thrill, but I refuse to acknowledge it. Not yet, anyway. I’ll just stick a pin in it and come back to it later.
As the rumble starts to build in volume and pitch, the others begin to roust. James’s eyes open, squinting to focus in the gloom. He turns his head from side to side, almost like he’s trying to clear his head. It stirs to life a memory of swimming at the pool, bending over to shake water from my ears. Or maybe like when Dad first wakes up in the morning, sitting at the breakfast table with his coffee.
James places his hand gently on the door, and as if it were some kind of signal, the sound abruptly stops. He looks more shocked now in the silence than he had before.
The others all have their eyes open wide. As if that’ll help you see in the dark, morons.
“Did you feel that?” Seth has his own hand resting against his chest.
James shrugs. “Maybe. What do you think it was?”
“Dunno. An engine maybe? Do you think the guy drove off?” Seth freezes beside me, a look of pain on his face. He hadn’t meant to say that.
And even though I know it’s not true — it can’t possibly be! — I can’t stop the spike of panic that hits me. “My dad left?!”
One of the girls crouched on the floor grabs for my hand, but I slap her away like an annoying gnat. Because that’s what she is. Annoying. And there’s a buzzing in my ears, tingling across my skin. Starbursts flash across my vision. “He can’t leave us here! He wouldn’t do that!”
I’m inundated with memories of my dad; playing, laughing, crying. They all hit me at once.
Seth is holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m wrong! It wasn’t an engine at all!”
Seriously, this is bullshit. “Then what was it, huh? You’re just saying that to shut me up!” Suddenly, I’m the bull in the china shop. Me, the 2000-pound Angus, and these puny humans are the teacups. I push towards the door, making a path that couldn’t possibly be here in this tiny cellar; it defies logic. They all tumble away from me, arms and legs akimbo. The sharp tang of blood reaches my senses as James cracks his head on a beam, but there’s no time for remorse. No space amongst my single-minded focus.
I wrap my fingers around the two-by-fours barricading the door... and I pull. I can feel them straining, splintering.
“Stop! You can’t do that!” Hands are clutching at me, pulling for all their worth. As though their lives depend on it. But there isn’t much a teacup can do against a charging bull.
They’re begging with me, pleading in a frenzied whisper. I drown out their buzzing with a feral growl. Their incessant attack dislodges something, rattles me in an unfamiliar way. I find myself lashing out, swinging my fists, and it’s impossible not to make contact with nearly everyone.
The smell of blood is now burning my nostrils and the back of my throat. Oh god, make it stop why won’t it stop Itneedsto s t o p
“Lori. Please.” Brent.
Someone latches onto my wrist, and I let them.
My arm is twisted behind my back, and I sob with relief.
Arms wrap around me. A hand across my mouth.
I sag into their arms and pretend it’s a hug.
The stillness that settles over the cellar is tight, like a guitar string waiting to be plucked. But rather than music, we are met with light. Someone at the back of the cellar has lit the lamp, and I close my eyes against the abrasive shock. I don’t need to open my eyes to see the damage I caused.
My body trembles, but arms are still holding me together. They tighten across my chest when the deep rumble returns.
It sounds like it’s coming from right outside the door.
My entire body seizes. I’m not in control anymore; my muscles lock down, my joints frozen. I couldn’t run even if I were standing in the middle of an empty field.
And just like with any lock, there is a key. A sharp knock against the door sets my heart beating at an explosive pace, and my limbs are practically vibrating. All I want to do is reach out and open the door… If I could just…
The knock comes again, then a looooong pull across the wood, grinding. The group around me moves collectively deeper into the cellar, and I, caught in the middle, move with them. I strain against them, but now that we’re all pressed tight to the back wall like the proverbial sardines, there’s zero wiggle room.
Everyone holds their breath, practically counting the seconds. If it weren’t for my own panting breath, I would almost be able to hear their hearts flying inside their ribcages.
As the seconds stretch, longer and longer still, the tension begins to release. Their bodies begin to sag with relief. Fools. They have no idea what’s about to—
BANG!
Again, the group moves as a whole unit, a single entity jolting with fear. The cellar is filled with the scent of sweat, adrenaline, and urine. The petite blonde lets out a soft gasp, but otherwise, their mouths are clamped shut.
When the BANG comes again, the whole door rattles. Again! The hinges loosen. And again! Dust rains down over our heads.
As the door begins to splinter, so too do my temporary allies. Whispered prayers are uttered, hands clasped. I hear James, still wrapped against me, talking to his beloved lost Sarah, whose place in this cellar Brent and I are now standing in. Deep in my gut, a stab of guilt niggles at me. If it were Sarah standing here now instead of me, would the monster still be knocking at the door? Did I bring this thing down on us all? What have I done?
Or maybe more importantly, what can I do now?
I can feel something in me calling to the monster outside, clanging as loud as a klaxon. Maybe I can stop myself, I can muffle it, shut it down. But is it too late?
I close my eyes, draw a curtain down in my mind. Flip the switch to the off position. Pull the plug. I feel my body sagging, but still held within the circle of James’s arms.
I hear wood splintering, and the panicked voices around me.
“Oh God, is that a knife?”
“...It’s a claw...”
But somehow, it’s all removed. In severing my connection to the beast, I’ve also disconnected from a vital part of myself.
The arms around me fall away, and I collapse. I drop straight down against the floor, propped up against the legs around me. Someone steps on my fingers, but I don’t cry out.
Neither do they.
They stand together, waiting for their inevitable death. I wish I could be so brave.
From my rag-doll status on the floor, I’m distantly aware of what’s going on around me. The claws tearing at the door, the muffled growling. Someone must finally turn off the lamp as the light through my eyelids dims further. Maybe they thought it would deter the creature if it couldn’t see or hear them. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I wonder if I should tell them how delicious they smell; the blood from their scrapes is acting like a marinade.
They probably just don’t want to see the monster before he tears into them, don’t want to watch their comrades die. I guess I can’t blame them.
I wish I couldn’t see so well in the dark…
When the horn cuts through the air, I barely register it. It’s somewhere outside of my world right now. The monsters notice it, though; the growls taper off, the claws retreat. A faint glimmer of light reaches me from between the others’ legs, but it doesn’t have the same warmth as the lamp. It’s a cool blue.
“What the hell is he doing?”
“He’s saving our lives.”
And that’s when it starts to sink down through my protective fog.
Daddy…?
Again, the horn blares a long blast, and I can imagine my dad, doing what needs to be done, leaning into the steering wheel. At last, the engine fires up. The cool blue of the headlights retreat and the sound of the engine begins to pul
l away.
“He’s leading them away,” a woman says. I wish she didn’t sound so damn surprised. “Will it work?”
Oh god…
Of course it won’t work.
A long metallic squeal pierces the night, and just like that, the engine sputters and dies. The RV is being shredded. My fingers twitch, urging me to wake up. But what the hell would I be able to do? I’m just one girl, and not even a big girl at that.
I could die with him.
Even with my eyes closed, I can see it happening. It comes to me in flashes, like Polaroids. But rather than seeing pictures of someone’s smiling kids, or a vacation they took to the Grand Canyon in 1988, it’s something that no one would wish to save in a photo album. And these snapshots come to me in 3D, with full surround sound. And then there’s the smell.
No one hears my gasp. That tiny, insignificant puff of air that escapes my lips may feel bigger than any breath I’ve taken before, but to this small group of people, it doesn’t even register. How can they be so naive? Every breath matters. Now more than ever.
Grunting, barking, growling. We hear every pant from the other side of that door.
When there’s a brief pause in the violence, I feel a new tension in the cellar. It’s hope. Silly, useless hope. They think it’s over. I can feel dawn approaching, but I know the sun is still too far away. Nothing can save my father.
Glass smashes, and I know it’s just the beginning of the end. A shotgun blast joins the crescendo of terror. My dad’s screaming. Brent is wailing. Monsters are... slurping.
And still the flashes slam into me from behind my closed lids. No matter how tightly shut I squeeze my eyes, I can’t make the images go away.
They will follow me until the day I die.
As the sun rises, the sounds outside taper off. The monsters head back into hiding, wherever that is. I shudder at the thought that it could be anywhere. They could be snoozing soundly with their full bellies in a cave right below our feet and we would never know it.