But right now she really didn’t care.
“Dasani, please,” she said, pushing a five-dollar bill toward the creepy man whose eyes were lines of folded skin.
They’d found Derek. They’d help him. Maybe even Dr. Gambinetti was still alive.
He put the change on the counter next to the bottle.
Only if you count all the change. Then they’ll be alive.
She grabbed the coins and stuffed them in her pocket. The cashier stared at her.
“Aren’t you going to count your change?”
In her mind’s eye, amidst the frenetic, chipmunk chattering of the OCD, with all its horrid, comic-book images and insane, magical cures, she caught a glimpse of the stone plaque in “Restrooms” Gambinetti’s unkempt, cozy little office:
WHAT MIGHT BE ALWAYS OWES ITS DEEPEST DEBT TO WHAT IS.
“No,” Chelsea said, between gulps of water. “I trust you.”
EPILOGUE
Anne leaned back against the cold metal frame of the cot behind her. The last remnants of the story faded, and she laid her head back against the ratty sheets to gaze at the ceiling.
“Crap,” she whispered. Still here.
But it shouldn’t have surprised her. She knew right off the bat that the story wouldn’t be about her. No way. That Chelsea chick was mental, scared of everything. That was so not Anne—Shirley maybe, but not Anne.
She wondered how much time had passed since the bones had hit the winning combo. One of the problems with telling the story was that it consumed the mind so completely. She’d lost all track of time, and was totally oblivious to her surroundings. An hour may have passed. Two or three could have ticked away, and she wouldn’t know it. Hell, a Komodo dragon, like the one in the story, could have come in, taken a bite out of her, and wandered off, and she wouldn’t have even noticed, not until the story was done. That’s why it was safer to play in a group.
Screw the group. There was no group. There was just Daphne, Mary, and Shirley. And then there was Anne.
Did she have time for another game? Another story? It would be dangerous. For all she knew, the Headmistress had finished tormenting the three girls and was wandering the halls searching for her.
She had promised the Headmistress she’d return to her room. She’d lied.
“Sue me,” she whispered, then broke up laughing.
Two stories had been told this night already. Did she dare try for a third?
“Hells yeah,” Anne said quietly.
She rolled her head and looked into the black nothing of the hole next to her. This entire place is a big nothing, she thought. One massive hole in the world, filled with nada.
Anne leaned forward and gathered up the bones. Just for the sake of ritual, she returned them to the Clutch and pulled the strings to seal the vermillion bag. She counted to ten, thinking about the weird girl from the story. Counting keeps the oogie boogies away, she thought, amused. Then, she opened the Clutch and dumped the bones out into her hand.
“And what have you got there?” the Headmistress asked.
Anne’s muscles tightened at the sound of the voice. She didn’t turn to the woman. Instead she tightly closed her hand around the bones.
Then, ever so calmly, she dropped to the side and fell through the hole in the floor. She’d picked the infirmary for this very reason: its escape hatch. Though she could pass through wall and floor and ceiling, the bones could not. They were solid and if Anne simply vanished through the planks, they would be left behind, along with any hope she’d ever have of escaping this place.
So, she fell, clutching the bones. When she reached the dark pit of the basement, she glided to the cold stone floor. A monstrous boiler rose up in the shadows beside her. Crates and boxes, darker than the atmosphere, stretched out in this space like a small shadowy skyline. Rats squeaked and scampered as her form became solid among them.
Then she was running. She dashed through the corridors of boxes, carefully returning the bones to the vermillion Clutch as she tore around a corner. She found the door and threw it open. Behind her, she heard the great slapping steps of the Headmistress.
“Stop immediately,” the woman called with her mind.
The sonic command hit the back of Anne’s head like a board. She stumbled and then found her footing. At the stairs, she let herself fade to air, all except her hand, which still gripped the Clutch. She flew upward, back to the first floor. She soared through the infirmary and into the hallway beyond. Quickly she emerged into the great room with its tattered furniture and carpets of dust. Up the main stairs she flew, to the second floor. She considered returning to the classroom where last night’s story had been told, but thought better of it. She needed to find someplace new to hide the bones, someplace the Headmistress (and those three other bitches) wouldn’t look. The bones were hers now. Hers! She wasn’t sharing them ever again.
Desperate, Anne tried to remember the layout of the orphanage. She knew it all so well, but her panic was making it hard to think. All of the classrooms were behind her. They took up most of the second and third floors. The dormitories were ahead. They would have to do.
A harsh wind blew at her back, announcing the approach of the Headmistress. Anne peered over her shoulder and saw her roiling black cloud form rise into the hallway above the stairs.
Anne fled down the gloomy corridor. She turned left and then quickly dashed to the right.
Daphne, Mary, and Shirley staggered toward her from the end of the hall. They looked dazed and lost until they saw her. Then all three girls snapped out of their delirium, eyes burning across the fifteen yards that separated Anne from them.
She didn’t have time to deal with these three, but they were blocking her escape. The Headmistress would be on her in seconds.
Anne ran to the nearest door and threw it open. Once inside, she slammed it and began looking around for someplace to hide the Clutch. The room was lined with beds, like the infirmary, only without the metal frames. Here, the beds had wooden frames and tiny headboards. Many of the mattresses were slashed open. Others littered the floor. Unfortunately, the room had no nightstands. No chests of drawers. Where should she put the Clutch? She didn’t have much time. In fact, she had no time at all.
A dark mist was seeping through the door. Anne leaped back, flying through the room to the far wall. She put the hand holding the Clutch behind her back, searching for any last-minute hiding place for the bones. But even as she noted the hole in the window, the Headmistress appeared, looking impossibly large and furious. A moment later, the three girls were also in the room, and the sight of them scared Anne more.
They all looked totally freaky and pissed off. Daphne’s face was twisted tight. Her auburn hair fell into her glaring eyes. Her mouth was cast downward in a stern frown. Next to her, Mary stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Her half-lidded stare was intense and hateful. But the worst one was Shirley. The Red Room had obviously cracked her majorly. She twisted a lock of hair until it tore out on her finger. She dropped this to the floor and started in on another strand. All the while she fixed Anne with dead eyes that seemed beyond pain or anger or remorse. She looked like a psychopath observing a helpless victim.
“Wretched whore!” the Headmistress roared. “Your punishment will be merciless. Come with me.”
“Oh no,” Shirley said with a throaty growl. She took a shambling step forward and tore free another clump of hair. “She’s ours.”
TO BE CONTINUED
About the Authors
STEFAN PETRUCHA was minding his own business writing many books, including TEEN, INC., THE SHADOW OF FRANKENSTEIN, and the award-winning Nancy Drew graphic novels, when a mysterious force entered his car in New York City and started talking about horror stories. Wicked Dead is the result. He has since moved to Amherst, Massachusetts.
THOMAS PENDLETON is a mysterious force with many names. All we know for sure is that under another name he is a critically acclaimed and award-winning horror author.
He lives in Austin, Texas. We were afraid to ask him anything else.
You can visit them online at www.wickeddead.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Credits
Cover art © 2008 by Chad Michael Ward
Cover design by Christopher Stengel
Copyright
WICKED DEAD: PREY. Copyright © 2008 by Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition DECEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061975295
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