Chapter 19 #2
I shake my head and then open the Jeep's hatch, taking out the chainsaw. "No. We'll find her. Even if I have to cut through every one of these fucking garages."
"I told you to get rid of that," Dax says.
"Good thing I didn't."
"Hello?" Elias calls.
"The answer was no," Dax tells him. "No, based on the smell alone."
"Fuck you, Dax."
"Yeah, fuck you, too. And if you didn't do this, fuck you for running. Fuck you for leaving us."
"I didn't fucking leave you! I—"
"We don't have time for this! Elias, I have a chainsaw. And if you don't shut your fucking mouth, I'll run it through you right now. Dax, are you coming with me or not?"
"Yeah," he says. "Let's go."
Leaving the cars behind, we zoom in on the dot on Dax's phone. "We're close, but we're not on top of it. I don't know how accurate it would be, though."
"Well…let's get as close to on top of it as we can, and we'll start from there."
We move to the end of the row and start cutting toward the far side of the lot.
"Fuck, there must be at least one hundred of these," Dax says.
"Yeah. Too bad we don't have another chainsaw. This one?"
"No. I think it's the next row." Dax studies the phone screen. "Hey, Nolan?"
"Yeah?"
"What if…it's just her shoes?"
I swallow a lump in my throat. I don't want to think about that. Before I reply, Dax extends his arm in front of me, stopping me. "Wait," he whispers. "Listen."
Straining my ears, I hear it—another set of footsteps on the gravel.
Slowly, we back away until we're flush against the wall, hoping the shadows will be enough to obscure us from sight, but they seem to be moving away from us.
And if they aren't…well…
Good thing I'm already looking for a fight.
Fuck this. I can't wait any longer.
I turn the corner and come face-to-face with Miles. No mask, no gun. He freezes, fear apparent in his eyes before they harden.
"Hey, Miles."
He reaches into his pocket and flips open a knife. I laugh just a little and start the chainsaw.
And then he takes off fucking running.
Good. I've got this. I even give him a little head start, just for fun. "Find our girl," I say, passing the chainsaw to Dax. "I trust you."
"Nolan, wait—"
And then, I take off into the forest.
With little effort, I close in on him not far past the tree line. And he's winded; I can hear him gasping for air. I allow him to keep going—let him wear himself out a little more.
But this ends one way—the way it should have ended months ago. With his face caved in and my fists covered in blood.
"You're tired," I say from just a few paces behind him. "You should know that I'm not. I could do this all day. I'm enjoying this…just like I enjoyed kicking you off that ledge. It was me, you know."
Breath heaving, he attempts a response. "Yeah, well, you're too late. She's de—"
He doesn't finish the sentence before tripping and rolling down the side of a snow-covered hill toward the stream below.
I quickly catch up to him again, jumping over fallen trees and roots while scaling the side of the mountain with ease.
It feels good. All that training—it was for this. I'm a fucking apex predator, and Miles is about to figure out that he's not.
He still clutches the knife in his fist like it's his fucking lifeline—like that fucking toothpick is going to save him—while scrambling to his feet in the muck.
Aware of my proximity, he turns, swinging the blade just before my fist connects with his jaw, and he falls onto his back.
He got me—just a little bit. My chest burns, and my sweatshirt is torn, but what's one more scar?
He tries to get up again, but I kick him, and he falls hard, coughing before rolling onto his back, holding the knife out in front of him.
I grab his arm, twisting until I hear it break, and he screams, the blade falling from his hand. I grab it and toss it into the stream.
"You really shouldn't have fucked with my family."
"Wait!" he shouts, the excruciating pain evident in his tone. "Wait. I'll tell you where she is! I'll take you to her."
"Too late."
With a knee in his chest, I start swinging, putting my fist through his face while he screams for help, completely immobilized.
He pushes and claws at me—at my back, pulling at my clothing, his fingers brushing up against the flesh I keep hidden.
Suddenly, I'm back in my childhood bedroom, and it's him clawing at my clothes while I sleep, his hands uninvited.
All I see is red. Hot blood splatters against my face, a strong contrast to the cold December night air, and I welcome it; I want more of it.
His hands fell limp at his sides a while ago—his body stopped fighting back, but I don't, even though I don't feel bone anymore when I pummel the place where his skull used to be. Even though he's unrecognizable, his face just a bloody, caved-in mess, staining the snow and the muck red.
It's under my nails, on my face, and in my hair. But I need to be sure he'll never get up again.
I've never seen anything more dead, and I've never felt so alive.
Minutes after he stops moving, I finally stand, kicking him once in the stomach. Then, I sit beside the body, catching my breath while admiring what I've done.
And I know, in this moment, that I'll never be able to do it again. Because if I do, I'll never be able to stop.
I'll never be able to talk to them about this. I won't be able to tell them how much I enjoyed it, because it'll scare the shit out of them.
It scares the shit out of me, too.
I drag his corpse toward the stream, leaving him face down in the shallow water, and then start running back toward the storage units.
When I get to the top of the hill, I see smoke.
Thick, dark clouds of smoke billowing from the facility. That can't be good.