How bad things can get a.., p.29
How Bad Things Can Get: A Novel, page 29
part #18 of Novels Series
“Here,” he said, easing the sobbing Hayleigh out of Ruth’s arms. “Over here.”
Zach used his shoe to push on the edge of a piece of metal roofing. It was loose; under pressure, it peeled up. Ruth drew a breath.
New roofing had been laid on top of old. A temporary fix to waterproof the structure without committing to a full renovation.
Between those metal sheets was a cavity. Narrow, just barely enough space for a person to lie flat, but wide enough to hold all three of them.
They eased Hayleigh into the gap first. She was slipping in and out of consciousness, her hands rising and then dropping back. Ruth did what she could to arrange her, turning her body so Hayleigh’s face wouldn’t touch the metal.
“Quickly,” Zach whispered, and Ruth shuffled into the gap, pressing herself against Hayleigh’s side. Zach slipped in behind her.
The metal sheet dropped down, blocking out the light.
To Ruth, it felt very much like a coffin lid closing over them.
It was impossible not to follow Heather’s gaze. Logan found himself looking upward, toward the bodies that filled the room’s center.
“They lost their strength,” Heather said, melancholy seeping into her voice. “They came to the tower and tried to contact the mainland, to betray us. They didn’t know the system. They activated the weather siren instead.”
Logan remembered arriving at the tower just after the alarm had been cut off. How the staff had told him the power had been connected during a test, while simultaneously telling Petra a guest was responsible.
He wondered if the three bodies hanging over him were still alive when he turned to leave the clearing.
“There was a fourth, Lisa.” Heather groaned, her face contorting, then relaxed it again as she shuffled. Bloody footprints outlined where she’d stood. “She was a new follower. Her faith was weak. But she found her courage at the last second and came to warn us.”
“Lisa…” Petra’s tension was keyed to breaking. Her hands quivered at her side. “The same one you stuffed into a suitcase?”
“Not my choice.” Heather shook her head. “But she was frightened, and it risked focusing the enemy’s attention on us. It’s okay, though. We’re all offering up our lives this weekend. Some just needed to do it a little sooner.”
The ropes creaked as the bodies slowly turned.
“I’m afraid that’s going to include me,” Heather said. A drop of perspiration fell from her jaw. She fidgeted with the small glass object, turning it over and over in her palm. “Does anyone have the time? I’ve lost my watch.”
Neither Petra nor Logan moved. After a second, Eton lowered his phone, which he’d been using as a light, and tapped the screen. “Nearly ten thirty.”
“I was hoping to hold out until dawn, but I think I need to accept that’s not going to happen.” Heather chuckled. She lifted the object. Even that little effort made her breathing labored.
“What are you doing?” Petra asked. She reached one hand toward Eton. “What is that?”
“Just my final duty.” Heather gazed at the small glass bottle. She undid the cap. Raised it to her mouth. Swallowed, then tilted forward, coughing. Her feet scuffed over the floor, leaving more red prints.
Logan felt his hands turn numb with silent panic. He reached out, past the hanging bodies, to catch Petra’s sleeve without drawing Heather’s attention.
“I think Lisa was skipping her restorations.” She swiped her thumb across her lips, clearing spilled liquid. “We were taking them to help with…well, everything. Energy, focus…fear. It’s only human to feel afraid, this close to the end. Nothing wrong or bad about it. As long as we don’t lose power to the doubts.”
Restorations? Petition had held a pathological fear of medication. A hubristic choice, since they had died from what was essentially home-brewed nerve toxins.
Logan thought of the uncanny smiles, the eagerness, the upbeat enthusiasm. He would not have been surprised if the crew had been taking some strong drugs, rebranded to more palatable restorations.
“I skipped my last dose too,” Heather said. “Too busy to go and get it. And I’ve sure noticed the difference.” She inhaled, then groaned. “Makes everything harder. Makes it hurt so much more. Well. I have done my part, and I’ve done it well. I’m allowed to rest now.”
Logan tugged Petra’s sleeve again. The anger was bleeding out of her, being replaced with the same stark panic Logan felt.
“Eton?” she whispered.
“Thanks for being here.” The glass bottle fell from Heather’s hand. It shattered as it hit the floor, tiny shards of glass spreading out in a halo, some still holding drops of a golden liquid. Heather’s breathing was becoming faster, erratic. She shuffled, and as her feet passed over the glass shards, she didn’t so much as flinch.
“Thank you,” she said again, though the words were growing lost, her breaths coming one a second, bellow-loud. “I didn’t…didn’t want to…die alone.”
44
Carson pulled his torn shirt off and pressed the cotton against the open gash to stanch the bleeding.
He didn’t dare slow his pace. The others were behind him. Four of them, hunting in a pack. They’d painted a streak of blood across their faces, running from ear to ear, and their eyes glowed in the center of that hellish red tint.
He’d managed to lead them away from Hayleigh, at least. Smashing a sharp rock into the tallest one’s back had gotten their attention. And held it.
They weren’t giving him even an inch. He clutched his shirt against his bleeding shoulder as he hurtled through the jungle, following one of the neglected trails.
He had to get back to Hayleigh. Somehow. She wasn’t weak, but she froze. He couldn’t leave her out there. But first, he had to lose the pack hunting him.
If there was just one, he was sure he could take them. Maybe two, depending how big they were. But four? Carrying ugly metal tools and a machete that had already clipped his shoulder?
He had to shake them. Somehow.
They gasped out queasy laughter as their bare feet slammed into the earth.
Bare feet.
Carson inhaled, then swerved off the path. He leaped across a fallen tree, barely catching his balance as he landed, and followed the slope uphill.
The jungle was a mass of exposed roots and prickly vines and rocks. He should have thought of it sooner. Carson had his sneakers, but the terrain would chew up his hunters’ feet.
The ground was growing rockier as the slope led toward the peak. Carson fought for air. His torn shirt wasn’t stopping the blood. His pursuers were still just a second or two behind him, so close that he had no room for mistakes.
He hoped Hayleigh could hold out for a few more minutes.
And he hoped Zach…
Rain trickled into Carson’s eyes.
He had no idea what he wanted for Zach.
Carson ducked under a mesh of vines, gasping, his shirt smearing blood across his torso. The hunters laughed, frighteningly close.
Zach had looked out for him when they were kids. He’d been a good friend. But how far was friendship supposed to stretch?
And how much of this was Zach responsible for?
“Damn it,” Carson whispered.
The hunters hadn’t stopped. They hadn’t even slowed down. The ground had to be slicing up their feet, but it was like they didn’t even notice.
Every second carried him farther from Hayleigh.
And he didn’t think he could keep running much longer.
A cliff face rose to Carson’s left. The sharp side of the mountain: the one part of the island where bare rock poked through the plants. Moss-choked boulders clustered around its base. Ferns trailed up the wall, shivering as the storm flowed over them.
Carson made his choice. He veered toward the cliff, dropping the torn shirt, and threw himself over the boulders.
The cut in his shoulder bled freely, but it didn’t go deep. If he could push the pain aside, the muscles would still work fine.
And he’d been doing rock climbing for nearly two years.
The four hunters could run, but that didn’t mean they’d be strong enough to scale the cliff.
And if they did?
He doubted he’d feel any guilt about kicking them loose and watching them plummet to the boulders below.
Carson clutched at the wall and dragged himself upward.
The rocks were slippery. Not just from the rain but from algae. He was used to climbing man-made walls with chalk to help his grip.
But the surface was also full of crevices. Plenty of places to hook his fingers and jam his sneaker tips.
Four feet above ground, then six. He moved fast, arm over arm, kicking for extra momentum.
Not fast enough.
Something stabbed the back of his thigh. The pain was so sharp and sudden that Carson’s muscles convulsed, nearly dropping him back down.
Raspy shouts of glee came from the hunters. They scrambled over the boulders on all fours. The streak of red painted across their faces was weeping in the rain, dribbling over their noses and into their open mouths.
A fishing spear was stuck in the back of Carson’s leg. It had a rope tied around its end, and the closest woman grinned as she tugged it.
Carson yelled. The fishing spear was barbed. It wouldn’t come out—not without tearing his leg open.
Panic burned as his fingers scrambled at the slimy ridges. The hunters rocked from side to side, swinging their weapons, like vultures waiting for him to fall.
Carson buried his fingers as deep as he could into a crevice. He had a strong grip. Strong enough for this, he hoped.
He hauled himself higher and yanked both of his legs up, knees to his chest. The rope put horrific pressure on the spear, and his vision flashed white.
The hunters clambered nearer, refusing to let him slip away.
Just close enough…
All at once, Carson let his body drop, plunging down until he hung from his fingertips. In the same motion he stabbed both legs downward.
His heel connected with the woman holding the rope. Her face made a fantastically satisfying crunching noise as her nose collapsed. Blood spurted as she crumpled backward, arms outstretched. The rope swung free.
Carson hauled himself up again as the others screamed with shock and laughter. He kicked his leg and managed to hook the loose rope, lifting it out of their reach. Then he scrambled another few feet up the rock wall, where none of their weapons could touch him, and stuffed the rope’s slack into the waistband of his shorts.
His limbs shook and his skull throbbed. He leaned into the rock wall, stone and cold moss against his bare stomach, as he looked down.
The woman who’d held the fishing spear was already back on her feet.
They had to be on drugs. Her nose was distorted, crushed so badly that she could only breathe through her mouth. Five of her front teeth had been knocked out and blood oozed over her parted lips. She bobbed, swaying eagerly, as she stared up at him.
Carson sucked in a thin breath. The cliffside extended up for another thirty feet at least. He’d have to climb it, and he’d have to do that with a leg that felt like it was on fire.
He reached up, choosing a new handhold, and began to move.
Arm over arm. The spear shuddered with each movement, but there was no way he could get it out on his own. He moved carefully, testing his holds before committing to them, trying to keep pressure off his bad leg. Dirt filled the gaps under his fingernails and rotted plant matter plastered his chest.
Then he heard the sound of rattling stones beneath him.
Carson risked another look down.
The hunters were climbing.
They moved in ugly, jerking motions, scrambling and crawling, unafraid of the drop. And they were faster than he’d expected.
Carson swore. He picked up his pace, bringing the injured leg in for small amounts of support. He was horrifyingly aware of how easily one small mistake could send him tumbling down to the ragged rocks beneath.
Only fifteen feet left. He didn’t know what he’d do once he got to the top. He didn’t think he’d be able to run any longer. But he’d have to, somehow.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
One of the hunters snatched at his foot. Carson clutched the rocks and pulled his legs out of reach.
There was a dark gap in the cliff to his right. A crevice, he thought, just wide enough for a person to comfortably crawl into. It hadn’t been visible from the ground, but it looked like it would be a good spot to stop, to take the pressure off his aching arm muscles. Maybe he could get inside and defend it, maybe try to knock the hunters off the cliff as they came near him.
But that would be as good as giving up. If he went into the crevice, he’d be cornered. The hunters might decide to wait him out.
And he didn’t have that kind of time. Hayleigh was still out there, somewhere.
Another hand snatched at his foot. And this time, fingers hooked into the sneaker’s heel. He kicked and managed to dislodge their grip, but his shoe came off with it. There was no time to think about that. He fixed his eyes upward, on the remaining stretch of rock wall and the flat ground at its top.
And up there…
Staring eyes.
Rows of them.
Staff, drenched in rain and blood, stood waiting for him at the cliff’s top. Some crouched; others stood, their toes curling over the edge, metal held taut in their quivering grips.
“No,” Carson gasped.
Something sharp stabbed at his exposed foot. He shouted, kicking, but met air.
The crevice was his only option.
He scrambled sideways to get to it. Rocks tumbled from under his grip. He fought to hold his perch with his injured leg and felt muscles tear.
But he reached the opening.
Carson crawled inside, blinking water out of his eyes.
It was a cave. Not large—only about six feet deep—but big enough for a person to sit.
There was something near its back.
A queasy lump filled Carson’s throat. Blood flowed from his chest and his leg, and he could feel his strength draining out with it.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the cave’s small shrine.
A cross, made of aged wood and rope, leaned against the cave’s back wall.
And in front of the cross was a human skull.
Carson shook his head. The throbbing in his head was growing worse.
The cross looked ancient, except…It was a little too perfect.
It reminded Carson of the stage props his school had created for their theater productions. Pockmarks added in strategic places. Stain applied to give it a weathered look.
A name had been carved into the wood in angry, slashing lines. The Cannibal Witch.
The skull seemed to grin up at him. Stain deepened the eye hollows and pooled around the teeth, but he was fairly sure it was made of plaster.
He’d found the grave.
Eton’s treasure hunt. A hundred thousand dollars. The skull was supposed to be the proof Eton had asked for; you brought it to him to claim your prize.
Zach guessed it would have been impossible to find without clues. The cave opening, three-quarters of the way up the cliff wall, was nearly invisible from the ground.
It was dangerous to get to, though. Maybe one of the clues would involve discovering a harness to rappel down the cliff face.
That would be a very Eton-style twist. A heroic deed to win the treasure hunt.
“Guess today’s my lucky day,” Carson muttered.
He’d always wanted to play an Eton game. Those videos had been one of the few things that gave him joy back when everything else in his life was going wrong. And here he was…he’d played, and he’d won.
“Ha,” a voice whispered.
Carson turned.
The hunters clustered in the cave opening. Lightning broke overhead, and it transformed them into an inhuman silhouette, a creature born from overlapping limbs and too many heads.
Carson reached for the wooden cross. It felt just as light as the stage props had. His heart had picked up an unsteady rhythm and he knew he didn’t have much juice left in him.
But there was enough. Just enough.
The silhouette monster scuttled toward him.
Carson stabbed out with the grave marker, jabbing it into the hunters. Screaming laughter burst from them. Something sharp hit his arm, cutting deep into the muscles, and Carson grunted. He pushed harder and heard a shout as one hunter slipped out of the cave, arms pinwheeling as she plummeted down.
The three remaining hunters watched the body drop with glinting eyes, then turned back to Carson as a smacking, crunching sound echoed from below.
Carson shoved the grave marker forward again. A machete swung through the darkness. The wood shattered into fragments.
The cave was full of their panting, gasping breaths. Fingertips plucked at stone. Metal scraped the cave’s walls.
The machete rose up again.
Carson couldn’t stop it. He lifted his hands.
The blade cut through his palms first, severing the fingers. Then the metal edge continued and sank deep into his throat.
Again, and again, and again, and again.
45
Zach’s shoulder pressed against Ruth.
The sheet of metal lay heavy over them, blocking out light. The rain, magnified and echoing, drummed off it.
In the far distance, someone screamed, then begged, then became abruptly quiet.
“I’m sorry about what I said.” Ruth’s voice was a ghost, a breath, barely more than a thought.
She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him turn an inch to stare at her in the dark.
“About hoping you die. I’m not going to be able to forgive you, but…” She paused. Swallowed. Focused on holding still, on not letting the metal shift. “I wish I hadn’t said I wanted you to die.”
Through the rain, she could hear his breathing, her heartbeat.
