The Withered Series (Book 1): Wither (2 page)

I
hold my breath as she drops to the ground and stumbles back a few
paces.  I imagine her rubbing her throat as she takes several
rasping breaths.  “Haven’t we got enough yet?”

I
long to reach out and draw my sweater back but I dare not move.  Even
in the dim glow of the flashlight they might see my hand.

“No.”
 The clipped response from the doorway sends my heart plummeting
into my stomach.  “There ain’t never gonna be
enough.”

Enough
of what? What is it they want?

“Get
it done,” Rhett commands and turns.  “And don’t
ya forget that tubing when you’re done.”

The
door swings closed, leaving me trapped with the remaining man and the
shaken woman.  

“I
can’t do it, Pete. I don’t have it in me tonight.”
There’s a few seconds of silence then a grunt of displeasure.
 “If you don’t do it, it’ll be both our hides
on the line.  You heard what Rhett said.  I’m not
sleeping outside camp again. No way.  The streets are no place
to be after dark,” the woman says, inching backward.  

The
waiver in her voice doesn’t surprise me.  I’ve seen
what’s on those streets.  Murders, rapists, and things far
worse...the Withered Ones are out there.

“I
know how you like it,” she lowers her voice as she coaxes him.
 Sounds to me like she’s done this before.  “That
feeling of power you get. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

I
hear the sound of scratching from above and wonder if this man has a
beard as well.  “Yup.”

“So
you’ll do it for me?” The man approaches the bed.  His
silence unnerves me.  Why doesn’t he answer? “Take
her out, Pete.”

For
as long as I live, I will remember those words and the sounds that
follow.  Pete moves faster than I could have imagined.  He
plants his feet and lunges forward.  I hear a deep thud,
followed by tearing.   

I
cover my mouth and clamp my eyes closed as the man growls overhead,
pounding his fists.  Bile rises in my throat as a sharp metallic
scent fills the air.  Tears roll involuntarily down my cheeks.
 
I’m
sorry!

There
is nothing I can do to stop my mother’s brutal slaughter.  We
may not have seen eye to eye, but no one deserves this.

Pete
shakes out his hands at his sides, sending blood splattering against
his pant leg and floor.  Moist warmth flicks against my arm and
I bite down hard enough on my lip to draw blood of my own.

My
silent scream is guttural, soul shaking at the sound of splintering
bone.  It echoes off the walls, ringing in my ears. I feel faint
as I imagine Pete snapping my mother as easily as a child cracking a
dried twig.  

I
wait for the blood to begin pouring down from the bed above but it
never comes.  The man and woman fall still on either side of me.
I hear the sound of pattering, like water against a bathroom sink.

What
is happening?  What are they doing to her?

Though
a tremor seizes me, I clamp down and force myself not to move,
terrified of making a sound.  Of being discovered.  Of
listening to my mother’s heinous death.  

Do
something!  

Summoning
a courage that I don’t feel, I kick out at my mother’s IV
pole. It crashes to the ground, making the skittish woman jump back.
Her flashlight clatters to the ground.  “What was that?”

“Ain’t
nothin’ but you, woman.”

One
glance at the far wall reveals my illuminated shadow.  
Shit!

I
grab the man by the ankle and yank with all my might.  He cries
out as his footing shifts and topples to the ground.  A
waterfall of blood rains against the white tile floor and splatters
my face.  I gag at the feel of its warmth trailing down the
ridge of my nose. I crawl out from under the opposite side of bed,
spitting my mother’s blood to the side as I head for the woman.

The
walls look like a scene from a horror movie.  Blood splatters
trail down the once cheerful yellow walls.  The floor is slick
as I rise.  The back of my sweater dampens with blood as I press
back against the bed.

My
hand shakes as I lift my pistol.  The woman glances toward the
door, her frizzy auburn hair a sweaty web around her forehead.  I
tighten my grip on the trigger and aim, noticing a split second
before I pull the trigger that there is an angry rash on her left
cheek that trails into the neckline of her coat.

The
shot is deafening.  My hand recoils and I almost lose my grip on
the gun.  The woman’s eyes widen with disbelief as she
slides down the wall, clutching the crimson stain blooming along her
abdomen.

A
swell of pride floods through me but is lost as I am slammed from
behind. I watch the tile rise up to meet me in slow motion as a
crushing weight settles over me.  I turn my head, narrowly
avoiding crushing my skull against the floor.  My gun clatters
out of my hand as my breath is stolen away. Dark spots encroach the
perimeter of my vision as pain nestles into my ribs.

The
man’s breath is hot and rancid, puffing against my ear.  His
long, beefy fingers curl around my arm, pinning me to the floor.
 “Get Rhett,” he yells toward the woman.  “This
one’s coming with us.”

I
listen to her moan behind me but don’t hear any footsteps of
retreat.  My cheek mashes into the cold porcelain, grinding bone
and flesh.  I kick and flail, useless against his weight.

“Get
off me!” I screech, trying to claw free, but the blood coating
his arms makes it impossible to get a firm grip.

Panic
floods through me as I’m reminded that I’m not some super
badass chick with ninja skills.  I’m just a girl from the
wrong side of the tracks who wishes she could be.

“I’m
gonna cut you nice and slow,” he breathes into my face.  The
scent of cheap alcohol on his breath is nauseating. From the corner
of my eye I notice black spots dotting his lips.  “Gonna
make you beg as I gut you.”

I
fall still, terrified of the glee I hear in his voice.  

The
sound of gunfire from down the hall startles both of us.  I take
my one shot and slam my head back, grateful to hear a sickening
crunch.  His grip eases slightly.

“Bitch!”

An
elbow to his side and a swift kick once I wriggle forward leaves the
man enraged.  He cups his nose as blood pours from it, trailing
into his matted beard.  My nails crack and splinter as I claw
along the slick floor, fighting to dig into the grout lines for
leverage.

The
door stands open wide before me.  The wounded girl must have
escaped.  A blood trail leads into the hall, illuminated by the
fallen flashlight.  I look around in search of my gun, but it is
lost to shadow.  Clambering to my feet, I use the sheets on my
mother’s bed to rise.  

My
stomach falls away when I find my feet and discover the horror this
man bestowed on her.  Blood no longer pumps through the wide
gash in her neck.  It pools in the dip of her collarbone.
 Streams of crimson trail down what little is left of her arm to
soak into the sheets.  Her chest is concaved, shredded as if by
a rabid animal instead of a human.  Much of her flesh lies in
ribbons.  The muscles in her neck have been flayed open by a
knife.  Her eyes are open, unseeing but looking right at me.

“Oh,
God!” I press my hand to her neck.  The warmth of her
blood between my fingers and the reality of her brutal end makes the
room spin.  

One
thought slowly surfaces as Pete lumbers to his feet behind me.  
He
has a knife.

Looking
back over my shoulder in the fading light, I see him wavering on his
feet, searching the floor.  A glint of silver near his feet
makes my heart stop.
Please
don’t see it.

He
raises his gaze toward me as he grabs his nose and realigns it. A
look of unadulterated fury stares back at me and I realize he won’t
need the knife to hurt me.

I
leap to the side a second before he strikes, pushing off from the
wall and spinning just out of reach.  My cheek smacks into the
supply cabinet when I misjudge my escape.  I steady myself and
fling open the doors, desperately tossing the contents at the man as
he turns on me.

 Pete
bats them away and closes the gap between us.  I bring a bed pan
down over his head when he takes a swipe at me, but it doesn’t
faze him.  “Got you, girlie!”

His
hand wraps around my arms as I try to run and yanks me toward him.  I
shriek and rake my hands down his arms, feeling his flesh curl under
my nails.  His arm snakes around my neck, choking off my air.  

Gunfire
pings against tile and metal in the hall but my attacker is lost to
the disturbance.  I hear screams in the distance as I fight
against his grip, kicking and landing punches that seem useless.  
I’m
going to die!  Oh God, please don’t let this happen!

My
screams become strangled gasps as he shoves me to the ground.  His
legs wind around my waist, stilling my fight.  He slams my
temple against the floor and stars light up the room. Blood trails
down from my eyebrow, stinging my eyes.  I feel the impact again
and again but am helpless to stop him.

“Pretty
girl gonna die,” he crows in my ear as he reaches over my head.
My eyes bulge as the cold steel of his blade presses to my cheek.
 His free hand squeezes my throat.

The
light in the room fades and lethargy seeps through my body as oxygen
is withheld.  My hands fall to my sides.  I can feel myself
slipping away.

“Please.”
I stretch out my hand for help as a pair of boots pauses in the
doorway and turns toward me.

A
gunshot at close range makes my ears ring.  The grip on my neck
releases.  Warm matter sprays my face.  A foul sludge slips
between my lips as I fight for breath.  The approach of
footsteps sounds like the march of a giant in my wounded ear drums.

Large
hands roll me onto my side, pushed away from my motionless attacker.
 I claw at the floor as my lungs expand, gasping in air.  A
distorted voice calls to me but I can’t make out the muffled
words.  The only thing I can think of as I stare bleary eyed up
at my savior is that their face looks wrong, elongated and grotesque.
Then the darkness takes me.

A
fever consumed me sometime during the night.  Frequent delirium
makes me hear voices that do not exist.  They come and go.
 Sometimes they are nothing more than a whisper. A part of me
almost wishes they are real. Then I wouldn’t feel so blasted
insane!

Nausea
impairs my every thought as I roll my head to the side to vomit.  I
hear it splatter against the floor, but I don't open my eyes.  The
retching will only grow worse if I do.

There
is nothing left in me now.  What little food I scavenged from
the hospital vending machine is long gone.  My stomach twists in
knots, spoiled with acid.  Every inch of my body aches, though
it is not the pain that makes me ill, but the scent of rot that
hovers around me.

I
feel as if a steel wool pad scratches against my throat when I
swallow between heaves.  Warm blood seeps from newly opened
wounds along my eyebrow and hairline.  With each retch, pain
lances through my eye.

“Easy,”
a voice soothes.  Large hands wrap around my arm, supporting me
until my stomach empties.

I’m
delirious again.
 
Now
there’s a body to go with the voice.
I
spit and wipe at my mouth, disgusted by the foul aftertaste, then
fall back against the sweaty cushion beneath my head.  

Pressing
my stomach, I will the cramping to ease.  Slowly it does, though
I have no real sense of passage of time.  Only misery and
darkness.  No light brightens the back of my eyelids.  No
sound reaches me as I slip in and out of a restless sleep.

Sometime
later, a damp cloth presses against my temple and I lean into the
coolness.  My fever has begun to ease.  The aches are not
nearly so pronounced.  The relief I feel subsides when the cloth
is removed.  I hear splashing water and covet the refreshing
chill until the cloth returns a moment later, only to find a sense of
clarity beginning to return.  I become aware of my surroundings.
 The scent of musk and disuse.  Sounds of gunfire in the
distance.  Muffled shouting.  The tremor that rises from
the floor with each explosion in the distance.  

When
I hear the steady inhale and exhale of breath nearby, I tense.
Fingers press against the inner flesh of my wrist and I bolt upright,
suddenly convinced of the fact that I am truly not alone.

“Stop.”
 The grip on my wrist tightens as I buck against the stranger.
 “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Get
off me!  Someone help me!”

A
bright light flares beside me, shining up to the ceiling.  I
blink several times to adjust to the light as the man grabs my chin
and forces me to come eye to eye with him.  

“I’m
not going to hurt you,” he repeats with emphasis, his gaze
never wavering from mine.

My
hair falls in sweaty clumps over my face but fails to hide the man
before me.  His face is angular and his jaw strong.  His
dark eyes are narrowed with concern.  A heavy growth of stubble
lines his face, revealing a hint of sandy blond amongst the darker
brown of his facial hair.  He doesn’t look much older than
me.  Maybe twenty-two or twenty-three at the most.

His
grip eases on my arm but he does not pull away.  I can tell he
is waiting, but for what I’m not sure.  Maybe for me to
freak out and start wailing like a banshee in fright, or to attack
and attempt to flee.  As the room begins to spin around me, I
realize I’m in no condition to do either.

“How
are you feeling now?”

I
ignore his question.  “Where am I?”

“You’re
safe.”

“Is
anywhere safe now?” I croak, rubbing at my throat. The flesh is
tender, bruised.  I wince, remembering the hands that sought to
end my life only a short time ago.