29. Heartbeat
29
HEARTBEAT
~JESSICA~
"I s it really necessary for you to walk me to class?" I ask Knox as we round another corner in Knot Academy's labyrinthine humanities building. The hallways are surprisingly empty for mid-morning, our footsteps echoing against the polished floor in hollow percussion.
Knox shrugs, mismatched eyes scanning our surroundings with casual vigilance that most wouldn't notice but that I've come to recognize as his version of high alert. "It's my duty to protect my VespRose," he replies, the ridiculous nickname rolling off his tongue with practiced ease, "especially when she's diabolically planning vengeance."
I sigh, giving him a look that would wither most people but only seems to amuse him further. Two days have passed since my meltdown in the bathroom, since seeing Elliott for the first time in seven years. Two days of careful recovery, of strategies and planning, of the four Alphas hovering around me with varying degrees of subtlety.
Knox has been the most useful among them, attacking the research I requested with characteristic intensity, already providing preliminary intelligence on Senator Caldwell that makes my blood run cold with both rage and anticipation. But his usefulness doesn't make his hovering any less annoying.
We're halfway to my Advanced Calculus class when something catches my attention. I pause mid-step, tilting my head slightly as I process what's wrong with the scene before us.
Knox frowns, immediately picking up on my changed demeanor. "What's wrong?"
"Your nose is bleeding," I reply, eyes narrowing as I notice the thin trickle of crimson making its way from his right nostril.
He frowns, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. His expression shifts from confusion to focused alertness when his fingers come away smeared with blood. We share a look of mutual understanding, then simultaneously turn our attention to what lies beyond the corner ahead of us.
The hallway stretches long and straight, lined with classroom doors and bulletin boards displaying student announcements. But it's not the architecture that catches our attention—it's the bodies.
Students and faculty alike are slumped against walls, collapsed in heaps on the floor, sprawled across each other in positions that speak of sudden unconsciousness rather than deliberate rest. No movement, no groans of pain, just the eerie stillness of dozens of people simultaneously rendered inert.
"Oh shit," I curse, my mind racing through possibilities, each more alarming than the last. Gas attack. Airborne toxin. Targeted biological agent.
My eyes snap back to Knox, whose nosebleed has worsened noticeably in the few seconds we've been standing here. Whatever affected the others is already working on him, his unique physiology perhaps providing slightly more resistance but not immunity.
I grab his hand without hesitation. "Run."
We sprint in the opposite direction, retracing our steps with desperate speed. My lungs burn with effort, with fear, with the uncomfortable awareness that each breath might be drawing more of whatever toxin has felled the others into my system.
We burst through the building's rear exit, cold autumn air hitting our faces with bracing intensity after the climate-controlled interior. The sky above has darkened dramatically during our time inside, heavy clouds gathering with unnatural speed, promising imminent deluge.
My free hand fumbles for my phone as we continue running, putting as much distance between ourselves and the humanities building as possible. Muscle memory allows me to find Emilia's contact without looking, my focus split between watching our path and monitoring Knox, whose pace has already begun to slow noticeably.
One ring. Two. Three. Each second stretches with excruciating length until finally?—
"Jessica? Where are you? I saved you a seat but?—"
"Are you okay?" I interrupt, voice sharp with urgency.
There's a pause, confusion evident in her tone when she responds. "Yeah, I'm in class, but I've got the biggest headache. Like, migraine from hell. Why?"
Relief and fresh alarm war within me. She's conscious, at least, but the headache suggests she hasn't escaped entirely unaffected.
"Get out," I command, not bothering with explanations. "Leave through the exit door right now. Get as much fresh air as you can. The school's been gassed or something."
"What are you talking about? Gassed? Is this another one of your?—"
My response dies in my throat as a sudden weight falls against me from behind. I spin instinctively, years of combat training kicking in before conscious thought can form, only to find myself supporting Knox's increasingly limp form.
"Shit," I hiss, staggering under his weight. We've made it to the edge of Dead Forest—the same cursed stretch of trees where I nearly fell from my hiding place just days ago. The déjà vu sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the rapidly dropping temperature.
I lower Knox to the ground as gently as possible, cursing continuously under my breath as his eyes roll back, consciousness clearly slipping away despite his evident struggle to remain awake.
"Jessica? Jessica! What's happening? Are you okay?" Emilia's panicked voice emerges from the phone I've dropped in my effort to support Knox.
I snatch it up, cutting through her questions with brutal efficiency. "I'll call you back."
"But—"
I end the call, tossing the phone aside to focus completely on Knox, whose condition is deteriorating with alarming speed. I shake him roughly, desperation overriding gentleness.
"Knox! Stay with me. Wake up!"
No response. His skin has taken on a grayish pallor, lips tinged with blue at the edges. I roll him onto his back, pulling one eyelid open to check for pupillary response. The mismatched iris—green, this one—doesn't contract when exposed to light, remaining fixed and dilated.
Panic claws up my throat, a physical sensation of constriction that threatens to choke me. I press shaking fingers against the pulse point in his neck, searching for the reassuring rhythm that would indicate continued life.
Nothing.
I try again, shifting position, pressing harder, certain I must be doing it wrong. The phone beside me vibrates with an incoming call. I grab it without checking the screen, already knowing who it must be.
"Knox, if you took Jessica's phone to call me, that's not?—"
"Something's wrong with Knox!" I cut across Marcus's irritated greeting, words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "I don't know if it's poison in the building but his nose was bleeding and we're in the forest and I don't have any weapons on me and?—"
"Jessica." The sharpness of Marcus's tone silences my rambling. "Slow down. Is Knox breathing?"
The question ignites fresh fear. I haven't even checked for that most basic sign of life. "Of course he's..." I begin confidently, only to trail off as horrible doubt seizes me.
I bend closer, ear hovering near Knox's mouth and nose, straining to detect the faintest movement of air. Nothing. My hand returns to his neck, pressing harder now, searching desperately for the pulse I must have missed before.
"I can't feel his pulse," I whisper, the words emerging strangled and small.
With trembling hands, I rip open Knox's shirt, buttons flying in all directions as I expose his chest. I press my ear directly over his heart, closing my eyes to focus every shred of attention on detecting the faintest sound of life.
Silence. Absolute, terrifying silence where the steady rhythm of a heartbeat should be.
"He's not breathing," I report, voice cracking as the reality crashes over me. "Marcus, he's not breathing. I can't hear his heart."
A deafening boom of thunder directly overhead makes me flinch violently. I glance up just as the sky opens, rain pouring down with sudden, biblical intensity. Within seconds, I'm drenched, water plastering my hair to my scalp, running into my eyes, soaking through my clothes.
But the physical discomfort registers only peripherally, all attention fixed on the motionless form before me.
"Knox," I plead, shaking him again with increasing desperation. "Wake up. You have to wake up."
The phone slips in my wet grasp, but I manage to press it harder against my ear, Marcus's voice emerging in fragments through the storm's interference.
"...need to start CPR immediately... position your hands in the center of his chest..."
"Marcus, he's not breathing!" I repeat, as if saying it again might somehow change the reality. "Why isn't he breathing? He was just with me. He was walking me to class. What's wrong with him?" My voice rises with each question, hysteria edging into my tone. "He needs to breathe. H-H-He'd say it's good for his brain function. I-I-I don't know CPR. I didn't pay attention in class because I thought it was stupid!"
"Calm down and breathe." Marcus's voice cuts through my panic, authoritative without being harsh. "I'll instruct you. Bastian and Rook are already on their way, and I'm coming too."
The distant roar of an engine confirms his statement, though the sound seems impossibly far away given the urgency of Knox's situation.
"How am I going to help him?" I ask, voice small with fear and uncertainty.
"Place the heel of your hand in the center of his chest," Marcus instructs, voice steady and clear despite the worsening connection. "Put your other hand on top of it, interlace your fingers. Keep your arms straight and use your body weight to?—"
A blinding flash of lightning followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder obliterates whatever guidance comes next. I shriek involuntarily as electricity strikes a communications tower visible through the trees, the structure erupting in a shower of sparks before collapsing in a twisted heap of metal.
When I look back at my phone, the screen is dark. The call has dropped completely.
"No, no, no," I chant, frantically tapping at the device. "Not now. Please not now."
No service. No bars. No connection to the outside world or the help that Knox so desperately needs.
Rain continues to pour down around us, turning the forest floor into treacherous mud that seeps into my clothing where I kneel beside Knox's still form. His face is unnaturally peaceful, water collecting in the hollows of his closed eyes like tears he can no longer shed.
"Okay," I mutter to myself, trying to recall Marcus's instructions and the half-remembered first aid training I'd dismissed as irrelevant to someone with my particular lifestyle. "Center of the chest. Hands interlaced. Arms straight."
I position myself as directed, placing my palms against Knox's sternum, arms locked at the elbows as I hover over him. The position feels awkward, unnatural, but I push through the discomfort, focusing only on the desperate need to restart his heart.
"Please," I whisper as I begin compressions, pushing down with all the strength I can muster. "Please, please, please."
Each downward thrust feels both too forceful and not forceful enough. Am I helping him or hurting him further? Is this even the right technique? The questions swirl through my mind like the storm around us, offering no answers, only amplifying my terror.
"You can't die yet," I plead between compressions, tears mixing with rainwater on my face. "I have so much to learn from you. From all of you." My voice breaks, a sob escaping despite my efforts to remain focused. "Please, please, please. Remember your sister. You have to introduce me to your sister."
I continue the rhythmic pressure, arms burning with effort, counting under my breath as I recall something about maintaining a specific tempo. Sweat mingles with rain and tears, my entire body trembling with exertion and fear.
The sudden crack of gunfire nearby sends a different kind of adrenaline surging through my system. Survival instinct nearly pulls me away from Knox, urges me to seek cover, to assess the threat, to prepare countermeasures.
But I can't leave him. Won't leave him.
If death is coming for us both, then at least I can ensure he doesn't face it alone.
I throw myself across Knox's body, using my own as a shield against whatever threat approaches. If I'm going to die, I'll do my best to protect his body, to ensure he's in one piece for the others to find, to mourn, to bury with dignity rather than leaving him to the indignity of further violation.
"KNOX!"
The scream cuts through the storm's cacophony, a voice I don't recognize but that carries the unmistakable note of familial desperation. My head snaps up, eyes searching through sheets of rain until they lock with a pair of mismatched irises—one blue, one green, perfect mirrors of Knox's own distinctive gaze.
A young woman stands at the forest's edge, drenched and wild-eyed, bright pink hair plastered to her skull by the relentless downpour. She clutches a tactical rifle in white-knuckled hands, her entire body radiating the particular tension of someone teetering on the edge of catastrophic emotional collapse.
"S-S-SERA?!" The name escapes me before conscious thought can form, recognition immediate despite never having met Knox's sister in person. The photographs he's shown, the stories he's shared, the distinctive genetic marker of those mismatched eyes—all coalesce into instant identification.
Her eyes widen further at my recognition, momentary confusion flashing across her features before the sight of her brother's motionless form redirects her attention with laser focus.
"He's not breathing!" I shout over the storm's fury, gesturing frantically toward Knox. "I don't know how to make his heart start!"
She's moving before I finish speaking, covering the distance between us with sprinter's speed. The rifle falls forgotten to the muddy ground as she drops to her knees beside her brother's body, pushing me aside with enough force to send me sprawling.
"Move," she commands, voice carrying the same authoritative tone Knox uses when he transitions from playful genius to deadly operative.
I scramble out of her way, watching as she checks her brother's airway with practiced efficiency, fingers pressing against his carotid artery before moving to his chest.
"Fuck," she curses, immediately interlacing her fingers and positioning herself for proper CPR. Her compressions are deeper than mine were, more rhythmic, clearly performed with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
A sickening crack emanates from Knox's chest as one of his ribs gives way beneath the necessary pressure. Goosebumps erupt across my skin at the sound, my stomach lurching even as I recognize the necessity of such force.
More gunfire erupts, closer now, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of multiple approaching footsteps crashing through underbrush. Sera curses again, never pausing in her life-saving efforts.
"This is the wrong day to die on death row, brother!" she hisses, continuing compressions before tilting Knox's head back to deliver rescue breaths, her lips sealing over his to force air into lungs that refuse to work on their own.
Movement at the forest's edge catches my attention—a figure emerging from the trees, weapon raised, clearly not one of our allies. Without conscious thought, I dive for Sera's abandoned rifle, fingers wrapping around the familiar shape with practiced ease despite the rain-slicked metal.
In one fluid motion, I bring the weapon to my shoulder, sight down the barrel, and squeeze the trigger. The recoil travels through my body, grounding me in the present reality of immediate threat rather than potential future loss.
The approaching figure crumples, my bullet finding its mark with the deadly accuracy honed through years of necessity. The shot seems to trigger a response—more gunfire erupts from multiple directions, rounds tearing through foliage around us.
I move instinctively, positioning myself away from Knox and Sera to draw fire in a different direction. My mind shifts into the cold, calculating space that has saved my life countless times in Dead Knot's most dangerous sectors. Emotions recede, replaced by tactical assessment and the ruthless efficiency that allows survival when all odds favor death.
I fire again. And again. Each shot finding its target with brutal precision, my body moving between cover positions automatically, minimizing exposure while maximizing effectiveness. Left, right, center—anywhere movement appears, my bullets follow, bodies dropping in expanding circles around our position.
White-hot pain suddenly tears through my side, the impact spinning me partially around as a bullet finds its mark. I hiss through clenched teeth, the injury registering as data rather than agony—a problem to be addressed later if there is a later. The wound is nothing compared to the prospect of Knox dying, of Sera being harmed, of failing in this most basic duty of protection.
Men after men, shot after shot—I lose count of how many I've eliminated, focusing only on identifying the next threat, the next target, the next necessary action to ensure our continued survival. The rifle grows lighter in my hands as ammunition depletes, each pull of the trigger more precious than the last as our defenses dwindle.
When the final round leaves the chamber, when the empty click signals vulnerability, I drop immediately to avoid the bullet that whizzes through the space where my head had been moments before.
"Fuck!" Sera's voice carries over the storm's continuing fury. She pauses briefly in her compressions, hands moving to her waistband to extract twin pistols that gleam dully in the rain. With a practiced motion, she tosses them in my direction.
I launch upward, jumping to intercept the weapons mid-air, fingers wrapping around familiar grips as I twist to land in a crouch. The movement reopens my wound, fresh pain blossoming across my side, but I channel it into focus rather than distraction.
These weapons require closer range—a disadvantage under normal circumstances but one I can work with. I move in a low sprint, zigzagging between trees to approach the nearest attacker, whose frantic attempts to clear a jammed weapon provide a critical opening.
As I draw closer, recognition dawns with visceral intensity. The cursing is familiar, the profile unmistakable despite the rain and chaos—it's the Alpha from the academy gates, one of Elliott's sycophants who'd been taunting Emilia before my arrival.
Understanding crashes through me with the force of revelation. This isn't random. This is targeted payback, orchestrated by Elliott in response to whatever Bastian and Knox did to him after our confrontation. The realization ignites something primal within me, rage burning through my system with such intensity that the world briefly tints red at the edges of my vision.
I will take this motherfucker down.
Not just for my sake. Not just for Knox, fighting for life behind me. Not just for Sera, whose desperate efforts might still save her brother.
But for all of us. For the pack I've been resisting acknowledging, for the bonds I've been pretending don't exist, for the family I never expected to find in the wreckage of my shattered life.
I raise the pistols, purpose crystallizing into perfect, deadly clarity.