A Mad Zombie Party - Showalter Gena - Страница 65

We’re disarmed, dragged to a van and stuffed in the back, and our friends have no idea, can’t see us through the sea of zombies.

A guard barks “Patch him up” before slamming the door. At least we aren’t handcuffed or tied down. More than that, we’re alone in back, a clear plate separating us from the driver and his passenger.

I rip the hem of Frosty’s T-shirt and use the material to bind his shoulder.

“You should have...continued to fight.” He’s panting more heavily now.

“And let them take you away from me? No.”

“Exactly why you...should have stayed...on roof.”

“My main objective has always been your safety. That hasn’t changed.” His skin is pale, and he’s lost a lot of blood. He needs dynamis.

Look inside...look inside...

I’ve looked countless times and failed to find it.

So what? Try again. Use faith.

Faith. Yes. When faith is low, build it up with words and thoughts. “I can do this.” I can.

I sit back on my haunches, scoot away from Frosty—just in case thanatos escapes—and close my eyes. The mind is a beautiful, complex thing. It observes, stores. It’s how my spirit communicates with my body. I go deep, deeper, enduring horrendous, blistering heat, at last spotting the smoke Reeve mentioned. I do my best to look past it, but it’s just too thick.

Still I go deeper. Pain consumes me, burning, burning, boiling. Sweat breaks out on my skin. My lungs constrict, making it difficult to breathe. A high-pitched scream assaults my ears, and I want it to stop, need it to stop.

“Stop, Milla. Stop now.”

My eyelids pop open, and I slump over, the hideous burn fading, the scream subsiding. “I’m sorry,” I cry. “I’m so sorry.”

He reaches out with his good hand to caress my cheek. “It’s not your fault, sweet pea.”

But it is. I had one job, just one. Save him. “We’ll be okay. Maybe...maybe we can ambush them when they let us out.” I search the back of the vehicle, but it’s been emptied of anything we can use as a weapon. Helplessness bombards me.

“Whatever proves necessary,” he says. “Survive.”

“Ditto.”

When the van suddenly jolts to a stop, I move in front of him, determined to protect him. He yanks me to his side. His body is weak, but his determination is strong.

The back door opens, revealing three agents with rifles already trained on us.

Guess we won’t be doing any kind of ambush, after all.

“Out,” the one in the middle commands.

Frosty gives me a comforting squeeze before he releases me. I slowly climb outside, where I’m swung against the side of the van, my hands tied behind my back. Frosty follows me under his own steam, only to be given the same treatment, despite being wounded.

I look around. We’re in some kind of underground parking garage, but there are no other cars, no one to ask for help. We’re herded to a bank of elevators and whisked to the eleventh floor, where I’m introduced to a nightmare worse than burning alive. The re-creation of Anima.

A handful of men and women in lab coats are bustling around counters scattered with vials, beakers and equipment I don’t recognize. I’ve heard of labs like this. Ali and Jaclyn were tortured in one. River was kept in one for weeks before being moved to the warehouse he “escaped.” He was injected with mysterious serums. His spirit was somehow yanked out of his body by force. His mind was shocked. His skin was torched.

Frosty and I are pulled apart. To be taken to separate rooms? But he erupts into action, throwing off his captors and tackling mine. I hit the ground, released as the guards do their best to defend themselves. Not that they do a very good job. Frosty is like a boy possessed. He head butts, throws shoulders and elbows and kicks. He bites off a piece of a guard’s ear, then spits the bloody cartilage on the floor.

A chorus of pain, a macabre soundtrack as one of the guards lunges at Frosty. I extend my legs, tripping him, and he lands hard, faceup. Frosty slams his booted foot into his neck, crushing his windpipe. The guy doesn’t get back up.

Even without the use of his hands, Frosty is a master fighter, and he’s determined to protect me whatever the cost. I can do no less.

“Put them in a room together.” A dark-haired woman with hair as black as night and skin as white as snow steps into my line of vision. She’s impeccably dressed in a black cashmere sweater and a pair of gray slacks that mold to her legs.

Rebecca Smith in the flesh. The devil pretending to be a business sophisticate. How adorable.

“If either one gives you any more trouble,” she continues, “shoot the boy. He’s damaged goods, anyway.”

Panic claws at me, ripping at my insides. “We’ll behave,” I insist, my gaze beseeching Frosty.

Only two of the guards are able to crawl to their feet. They roughly haul Frosty to his. I stand on my own, only to be grabbed. I offer no protest. We’re shoved into a ten-by-ten room with two-way mirrored walls and a padded floor. Anyone outside the room will be able to see us, making it harder to escape.

But that’s the point, isn’t it.

One of the guards pulls his gun and before I can kick it out of his hand, he smiles and shoots Frosty in his already injured shoulder.

Knocked backward, Frosty slams into the wall and drops, leaving a smear of blood in his wake. I scream and rush to his side.

“He gave me trouble,” the guard says before slamming the door.

I rip off my shirt. I don’t care that everyone can see my bra. Let them look. Fighting a fresh wave of panic, I bind Frosty’s newest wound as best I can. “You’ll be okay. You have to be okay.”

Would he?

I have to reach dynamis. I just have to. It’s the only way he’ll strengthen supernaturally fast. Maybe the only way he’ll survive. But I try again and again and again—and I fail. No. No! I do not accept failure. I will never accept failure.

“I want you to know,” he pants, “that I’m glad I met you, glad you were a part of my life. I had fallen down a very dark pit, but you pulled me out.”

Damn him! He’s talking like he’s going to die.

Time for me to try something else. “Miss Smith,” I shout. I stand and peer into the mirrored wall, my reflection wild. Hair still dyed brown is tangled with twigs and dirt. Frosty’s blood stains my hands, smears my chest. There’s a tear in my bra. Cuts in my arms, and rips in my pants. “Help him. Please.”

A voice spills over the speaker. “I’ll be happy to help him, Miss Marks. For a price. You remember how things work around here, do you not?”

“I do.” I remember far too well.

“What will you give me in return?”

Nothing...while seeming to give everything. I told myself I’d never again betray my crew, and I won’t. Not even for Frosty.

He’s even paler than before, with a bluish hue becoming more and more noticeable on his lips. His wounds are clean, at least, both bullets having gone out the other side, but infection is likely. The makeshift bandages won’t last forever. Already the one on the left is soaked through.

How much time does he have? How much more blood can he stand to lose?

His eyes are on me, but they’re closing. Still he’s shaking his head no. “Don’t do it.”

I ignore him. I have to ignore him. I have a part to play. “What do you want, Rebecca? Name your price.”

“I want Tiffany...and Ali Bell.”

Of course she does.

“No.” Frosty shakes his head more violently. “No.”

Again, I ignore him. “Thanks to you, Ali lost all her abilities. She’s useless to your cause.”

“I took her abilities, and I can give them back. Will you do what I tell you or not?”