The Last Girl

by Joe Hart

  It’s a bottle of sorts, smooth metal with its top threaded on she realizes after several fumbling minutes. She unscrews the cap and finds an open mouth beneath it. She sniffs the liquid inside. It’s sweet-smelling with a hint of musk, like the yellow fruit they serve every other week. Zoey puts it to her lips, the thought of poison crossing her mind, but of course, why go to all the trouble of putting her in here only to kill her? She sips. The flavor matches the scent but is also coupled with a strong salinity. Its viscosity is somewhere between water and gravy.

  She drinks the entire serving in several long gulps before setting the container aside. The hunger that’s been quietly growing inside her diminishes to a faint memory. Calorie-rich, she realizes. Something to keep her strength and health up even while they torture her. She should’ve refused it, flung it across the room. If she didn’t eat and they saw it, maybe they’d let her out sooner. Because they are watching her—she can feel it. And this angers her more than anything else.

  “Go to hell,” she growls through her strained vocal cords. “Go right to fucking hell!” She tosses the empty canister to punctuate her yell. It clangs in the darkness at the far end of the box before falling silent. “Go to hell,” she whispers. But this is hell, isn’t it? She’s living in it right now.

  Zoey purses her lips and tips her head to the side, cracking the taut vertebrae in her neck. She stands, stretching out her legs, and they feel like separate pieces of something dying that she’s vaguely aware of. She needs to move more, she can’t sit in one place. Sitting still will kill her, break her mind.

  She squats and rises several times, counting off reps until the muscles of her legs begin to burn past the ache from the floor. She extends her arms, grazing the slanted ceiling with her fingertips. After she’s moved enough to assure she’s still alive and not some bitter figment of a madman’s dream, she sits again.

  How long? How long has she been inside the box? The memory of Lily’s cries comes to her again and she forces it away. She can’t help Lily, not right now. But she will. She’s going to help them all when she gets out.

  How much is a life worth?

  It is worth more than this. So much more.

  A searing desire for vengeance sweeps through her, turning her blood molten hot within her veins and with it the will to exact revenge on those responsible, to destroy what should be obliterated. To reap justice.

  Zoey drifts with the righteous thoughts, leaving her body moored in the creeping agony of the floor and its hold. She dreams of clawing at the walls around the ARC. Instead of her fingers shredding on the rough concrete, she gouges away heaping handfuls of the wall. She digs through it with a singular purpose, unbothered by the stinging of the sniper’s bullets. They are nothing, nothing compared to the last seventeen-odd years she can truly remember. She claws the concrete away as if it is dirt. She’s broken through. Light streams from the hole she’s made, light and fragrant air that speaks promises of beauty beyond reason. She glances over her shoulder to smile back at the other women she knows are behind her, but the smile dies on her lips.

  There is only darkness. And it is closing in.

  Zoey comes awake as she slides to the side. She’s still partially propped up against the door, and her legs are asleep. She stretches them and shivers. It seems colder than before. When the maddening prickle of blood subsides, she stands, the ache from sitting a deeper pain than she’s ever felt before. She would gladly take another kick from Rita in the stomach before enduring this type of misery.

  Rita. She’d forgotten that the other woman had been in this exact same place only hours ago. She’d probably lain on the same concrete, felt the same pain and disorientation of the dark. The callousness she’d harbored for Rita throughout the years begins to soften and is replaced with something resembling sympathy. She’s not sure she could wish this on her worst enemy. But then the Director’s ruddy, smiling face appears before her eyes in the darkness, and she reconsiders. Zoey’s hands clench the cotton of her pants and she trembles, but not from the cold.

  She’s about to sit down again when a sound reaches from the rear of the box, a short grating like small rocks grinding beneath a boot. She stares into the uncompromising dark. Heart hammering. Waiting.

  Two red points appear across the room. They are stationary for a moment and then begin to move and sway toward her.

  Eyes.

  Zoey’s mouth falls open and she stumbles to the side, barely remembering the low ceiling. The eyes track her movement and adjust their course. It’s coming toward her. She hears the scratch and rustle of its body. It’s at least as big as she is, probably bigger. It makes a snuffling noise that is wholly inhuman, and she registers her bladder releasing. She crawls away, unable to tear her eyes from the shining points of light. They follow her, turning at first but then coming closer, a crazed panting overriding the sound of her own breathing. She’s got to get away from it, get out, get out somehow.

  That’s it.

  If it got in, she can get out. She scrambles toward the point where she first heard the sound of the thing’s arrival. Behind her, the eyes dip and move slowly forward. It grunts, a hollow, metallic sound. Zoey ratchets her body across the knobs, their touch like small hammer blows each time she moves. She traces the low ceiling, fingertips searching for a break or gap in the cement. There’s nothing.

  Something grazes her foot.

  Zoey shrieks, yanking her leg up and away from the thing’s touch. She spins and retreats, entire body shaking. She’s going to die, die from the fear. It will happen, and at least then she’ll be free. The eyes sway, and the creature makes a wet, gnashing noise. A hungry sound.

  Zoey backs up until her feet encounter the farthest wall. Through the blinding panic she focuses on the floor, trying to find a seam. The ceiling again. Nothing. The eyes are closer, brighter. She can smell it now. It carries the heady stink of the exercise room after the guards have been working out. She runs her feet along the wall, searching for a lever that she missed before, a button, anything that will get her away from the thing that’s inching forward, so close now she’s sure she can touch it. Her hand closes on something cold and hard beside her. The eyes loom as it slithers forward, fetid breath puffing against her face. She waits through a single heartbeat that lasts forever. Its hand touches her shoulder.

  Zoey swings the steel bottle around as hard as she can.

  She feels the canister connect with something solid, and the eyes tilt. She winds back her arm and swings again. Harder this time. Again the connection that reverberates through the bones of her hand. The thing releases a staticky mewling, like the sounds that come from the speakers in the corridors at times. Pebbled fingers graze her arm, and she cries out with revulsion. Zoey lunges forward, jabbing the solid bottle like a knife between the two glowing orbs. Something snaps in the darkness, and the worst noise yet comes from the thing. It’s a long, baritone groan hitched with huffs of pain. The eyes slink lower to the floor and, unbelievably, it begins to retreat.

  Zoey’s eyes water and she wipes them, shaking so badly she smears the whole side of her face with their wetness. The creature slides backward, eyes angling as if it’s lost its course. It’s hurt, badly. Zoey wheezes, and her vision doubles. She swallows and brings herself back from the brink of unconsciousness with the thought of being completely defenseless in the dark with the thing. It continues to creep away from her, and she can hear its limbs struggling to move its weight. All at once she is consumed by rage. Like the flip of a switch the anger courses through her, accompanied by a realization.

  They let it in here with her. They meant to torture her with it. This was designed. And worst of all, it might be happening to Lily right now.

  The last thought breaks her paralysis and she crawls forward, bottle clanking against the floor in one hand. The thing whips its head toward her before sliding away faster, its sounds higher now, pleading.

  Zoey catches up to it, terrified for a moment as her hand touches i
ts body, afraid of how it will feel. But her fingers snag lumpy cotton, not unlike some of the medical jackets she’s washed before. She swings her body around to get a better angle and whips the bottle toward the glow of the eyes. The solid thump that resounds above the thing’s cries is beyond satisfaction. She hits it again, and again. Each time pouring more anger, more hatred into the blows. She is screaming now, not saying any words, simply releasing a fury that can’t be expressed through violence. She wants to tear the thing apart with her bare hands, her teeth. She wants to taste blood.

  A cool touch caresses the back of her neck and she pauses, turning to bat at the space behind her. The bottle swings, unchecked. There’s nothing there. But she can feel it. Air. Cool air that smells slightly of chemicals. It rushes past her, blasting her sweat-matted hair away from her cheeks. A weakness invades her muscles, turning them to water even as she tries to hold her breath. She can’t fall asleep, not now, not with the creature still beside her.

  But as she collapses to the studded floor, she can’t see its position anymore. Its eyes have gone out.

  8

  Zoey wakes as if slapped.

  Her eyes open to blindness and she waits for the world to come flooding in, but there’s nothing. No sight, no sound, nothing but thrumming pain in her back and skull. It coalesces until it becomes her new senses. She can see its dancing color of red, hear its humming in her bones, taste its metallic tang, smell its stench, and feel it, feel it beyond anything that’s come before.

  She manages to roll over to her side with a scream. She can’t help it—there are holes in her back where she’s lain on the nubs, she’s sure of it. She gasps with the enormity of the pain and nearly vomits. She coughs, begins to crawl, and moves several feet before realizing there’s nothing blocking her way.

  The creature is gone.

  Zoey fans her arm out, confirming that she’s alone. She turns her head and looks around the box but sees no sign of the eyes anywhere. Feeling, beyond the pain, is slowly returning to her body. She wiggles her toes and crawls forward. After several long minutes of shuffling, her hands meet smooth concrete and she slides herself onto the small doorstep. The flat flooring is like balm to her flesh, and she revels in it before gradually hauling herself to her feet. Her stomach aches with hunger, and her mouth is paper-dry. She sways in place, urging the blood to do its work, to wash away the pain and begin to heal her. She stretches the corroded muscles in her back and legs before finally settling to the floor.

  How long? How long has she been here? Certainly more than a day. More than two? Maybe it’s been a week. Maybe they’ve forgotten her here. Perhaps something’s happened outside the box and the ARC is empty now, silent spaces devoid of any life except her here in this room. It is the most horrifying yet exalting thing she’s ever imagined. If she’s been forgotten, then that means the other women have gotten out. They are somewhere safe, or they are dead.

  And death is a sort of safety in itself.

  Zoey scans the darkness again for the thing’s eyes but there is nothing. She’s sure she won’t be able to quit looking for it until she’s released. She laughs quietly. The idea of leaving the box is almost absurd now. The darkness is forever. It’s inside her. No, not inside her. She is the darkness.

  A loud crack jerks her upright, burning muscles taut, eyes wide, fists clenched for the fight she knows must come. Zoey waits. No more sound. She kneels and crawls forward, passing her palm over the studs until it encounters the cold steel of a full canister. She drags herself back to the doorstep and uncaps the sustenance, already tasting the fruity concoction. She tips her head back and lets it flood her mouth.

  It is blood.

  Zoey gags, spitting the mouthful beside her. The taste of blood invades her sinuses, crawls upward to her brain. I drank someone’s blood, they’re feeding me blood, it’s in my mouth! She gags again but doesn’t throw up. There’s nothing left in her stomach. Her fingers are clenched around the bottle’s cool sides and she brings her arm up to throw it in a fit of repulsion, but stops.

  She breathes through her nose and works her tongue around her mouth. There’s something wrong. The blood tastes strange, chalky and somewhat gritty. She swallows and moves her tongue again. Yes, the iron flavor is fading, leaving only a mellow undertone of yeast like the undercooked biscuits they sometimes have at lunch.

  Zoey sits staring into the dark.

  It’s all been manufactured.

  The sound of the bugs, the “touch” of one on her foot, the thing with red eyes, the blood in the canister. They’re all tools to break her. She sits calmly, letting the pain in her back and legs ease with the coolness of the doorstep. After a time she brings the bottle to her mouth and drinks the camouflaged fluid. It goes down smooth. She screws the cap back on and sets it beside her, staring out across the room she cannot see. She smiles.

  “Got anything else?” she asks. There is no reply. “Didn’t think so.” She curls in on herself, folding up so that only her lower legs rest on the knobs outside of the flat area, and falls asleep.

  Zoey rises from a dreamless slumber to the rasp of metal on metal. She sits up, reaching out for the bottle, finding it after a second of fumbling. Where had the sound come from? Across the box? Were they sending something else in an attempt to terrorize her?

  Light cuts into the room from behind her and she gasps. The flare of it is astounding in its solidity. Even as she clenches her eyes shut she’s sure she could grasp the light itself and hold it in her hands.

  “Zoey. Are you okay?”

  Simon.

  She turns toward his voice and pries her eyelids up. He is a shadow encased by light. She can’t see his face but feels his hand on her arm, helping her stand. She embraces him, uncaring that it’s prohibited. The feel of his shirt, the strength of his arms as he hugs her is more than worth it. She begins to sob, and he whispers to her that it’s all right, that everything will be okay.

  There are other voices there, but she keeps her eyes closed, tears leaking from their corners to wet Simon’s shirt. He guides her away from the box and across floors that have no torturous, upraised nubs. As they pass through the first door she stiffens and braces her feet, stopping their motion.

  “Lily,” she says, her voice still raw-edged.

  “She’s out. She’s safe.”

  Zoey nearly crumples with relief, but Simon carries her along. The light beyond her eyelids is a red and painful haze as they move through the corridors. Then she smells the infirmary and is being helped onto a bed. Sinking into the thin mattress is another level of elation. The bed gives beneath her weight, embraces her. She sighs with the all-encompassing pleasure of it.

  “Can you turn out the lights?” she asks. Immediately the redness darkens and she cracks her eyes open a little.

  She is in the same exam room that she visited after being attacked by Rita. The same doctor is there and he’s taking her blood pressure. He nods at Simon, who stands at her bedside, and pulls a blanket from a nearby cabinet before spreading it over her.

  “She’s stable, considering how long she was in there. Doesn’t look too malnourished. She was fed, apparently. I’ll start an IV, and then she should rest.”

  Zoey reaches out and finds Simon’s hand, grips it. He squeezes her fingers back and gazes down at her. His eyes are awash with emotion. His jaw trembles.

  “I’m okay,” she says weakly. He nods and looks away as the doctor returns with the IV. The needle burns where he inserts it in her arm, but she doesn’t flinch in the slightest. It is nothing compared to the ache from the floor.

  “I’m administering some sedative along with the saline solution. It should help you sleep and will take the pain down quite a bit,” the doctor says as he injects something into the IV. It enters her vein, warming her arm as it goes. The notion that she can feel the drug traversing her bloodstream is ridiculous, but it’s there nonetheless.

  “Simon, I—” she starts.

  “Shh. You rest now. W
e can talk later. Plenty of time for talk.”

  Zoey opens her mouth to say something else, but she’s sinking further and further into the bed. It envelops her and closes slowly like a set of doors until there is only silence and velvet darkness she is no longer afraid of.

  “Zoey.”

  Her name is like a switch that opens her eyes. She feels rested, her body only vaguely aching. She stares up at a shadowed, unfamiliar ceiling for several heartbeats before memories of the last three days come rushing in. She’s out of the box. She’s in the infirmary. And that voice, she knows that voice . . .

  Zoey turns her head to the side and is met with Lee’s cautious smile.

  “Hi,” he whispers.

  “You,” she says, trying to scoot away from him. His smile drops in an instant.

  “What?”

  “You . . . you told them about the books. You got us sent to the box.”

  “Zoey, no. I would never—”

  “You wanted me in my place just like everyone else. Maybe you thought it would teach me a lesson.” She restrains the urge to strike him, but there is open horror etched into his face as if she’s already done so.

  “No, God no, Zoey. Look at me, you know me. Could I ever, ever do anything like that? I would never in a thousand years betray you. I’d die before hurting you.”

  She hesitates, but slowly sinks back into the bed and blinks. “You’re the only one who knew.”

  “Except for the person who left the books for you. Did you ever think it might’ve been Dellert himself? He would have access to them.”

  She shakes her head. “He was going to leave until he heard the wind whistling in the loose window.” Lee looks past her at the wall before scooting closer to the bed.

  “How do you feel?”

  She licks her lips. Her tongue has become sandpaper. “Thirsty.”

  “I can fix that,” Lee says. There is soft clinking and then he’s holding a glass brimming with water. A plastic straw pokes from the top. He helps her shift closer to the edge of the bed and holds the glass and straw steady. She drinks, sucking the water down greedily. It is so cold, images of frosted steel tumble through her mind. She downs half the glass before Lee draws it away.