Chapter 26
How much does getting shot with rock salt hurt a human?
Ok, I know a grand total of nothing about shotguns, but my father-in-law said he uses one to scare away bears that come onto his place, so I was wondering—does anyone know how much a shot of salt would hurt a human?
Griffin bolts for his duffel bag. Mathis lunges for him but stumbles. He probably expected Griffin to go for him, not the bag.
By the time Mathis has recovered, Griffin’s out of reach, bag wrenched open, box of salt in his hand. Griffin rips the top off and pours.
The confusion on Mathis’s face is so sudden and jarring, it’d be funny in less terrifying circumstances. A thick, frantic line of salt separates us from Mathis.
And the front door.
Running is out of the question.
Griffin edges away from the salt line as Mathis approaches. Mathis looks amused. He goes to step over it.
He jerks back with a wince.
Mathis’s lips peel back from his teeth. The amusement is gone. What’s left behind is pure rage.
“Living room. Call Nico,” Griffin whispers in my ear.
Mathis prowls his end of the hallway like a caged animal looking for weakness.
Griffin steps closer to the salt line. My hand flies to his wrist, but he shrugs me off, eyes on Mathis, who’s lingering by the front door.
“Usually, we have to work a little harder for our captures, but you served yourself up,” Griffin says.
Mathis glowers, turning back toward us. I understand then. Mathis is too focused on Griffin to notice me disappear into the living room.
I back up until I reach the cased opening leading to the living room, keeping Griffin in my line of sight as I press my phone to my ear. Each ring is torture.
“Eden?” Nico’s voice cuts through the line, and I’ve never been so relieved to hear another human being in my entire life.
“We found the Game Master,” I say quickly, my voice low. “He’s—”
“Both of you stay in the truck. Where are you?”
“We’re stuck in the apartment with him. There’s a salt line down, but he’s blocking our exit.”
I check on Griffin. He’s successfully enticed Mathis away from the front door, but he must be running out of taunts because he’s resorted to flipping Mathis off. Mathis scowls, several feet from the salt line.
“How soon can you get here?” I ask. “We’re at—”
In the blink of an eye, Mathis has surged to the very edge of the line, arm stretched over our only real defense. His hand clamps around Griffin’s outstretched wrist before Griffin can react.
Vaguely, I know Nico is trying to talk to me, but I can’t focus on anything but what’s unfolding in front of me.
Mathis yanks, pulling Griffin across the salt line. Griffin tries to plant his feet, but his prosthetic skids on the hardwood, unable to find purchase, and I watch in horror as Mathis throws Griffin across the hallway floor like he weighs nothing—through the salt line.
Mathis charges through the broken line after him. I stumble back into the kitchen, eyes glued to Griffin as he struggles in Mathis’s grip. They crash into the living room.
I distantly hear Nico yelling my name. Mathis’s eyes lock onto my phone as I bring it back to my ear. The words die on my tongue. “Uh...”
Griffin grabs a crowbar from the duffel bag and drives the tip into Mathis’s chin.
Mathis hisses, head snapping up and spine arching like the crowbar is branding his skin. But then his pain drains away, replaced by something so empty it makes my blood freeze.
He spins around with a roar, ripping the crowbar out of Griffin’s grip. Mathis grabs Griffin with both hands and launches him across the room.
Griffin slams into the wall. He crumples to the floor in a heap, his prosthetic twisted at a wrong angle under him, and his head lolls to the side. He doesn’t move.
No.
Mathis turns his full attention to me. I bolt around the couch, my sneakers skidding as I try to get furniture between us.
“Eden, where are you?” Nico’s voice is barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears.
I press my mouth to the speaker. “Edward Mathis 3847 Riversi—”
Mathis moves faster than any human should be able to move. One second, he’s on the other side of the couch, and the next, he’s grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me down onto the floor.
My head cracks against the wood. Everything goes white and fuzzy.
My palms slip against the floor as I try to push myself up, but Mathis is straddling my chest. I buck my hips. He doesn’t budge. I sink my teeth into the fleshy part of his hand. He doesn’t even flinch.
I’m not playing any of this asshole’s games. I swing my fist at his face as hard as I can, but Mathis catches my hand and twists it. A strangled cry tears out of me.
I can hear Nico yelling through the phone. It’s lying on the floor ten feet away, the screen still lit up. Might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me.
What do I do? What would Dad do?
I drive my knee up hard into Mathis’s groin with everything I’ve got.
His body jerks, but his face registers no pain.
It’s like kicking a brick wall that happens to be shaped like a person.
I swing my free hand at his face, connecting with his cheekbone.
Pain reverberates through my knuckles. His head snaps to the side from the force, but when he turns back to look at me, he’s grinning wider than before, tears streaming down his face.
I throw my body forward and sink my teeth into his cheek. He roars, probably more in surprise than in pain. I bite until blood stings my tongue.
An arm wraps around Mathis’s throat, yanking him upward. Griffin has blood streaming down his face, and his prosthetic is at an angle, but he’s standing on it.
“Come on, you bastard,” Griffin growls through gritted teeth, every muscle in his arms straining. “Go to sleep.”
Mathis’s hands drop to his sides, then his whole body goes limp in Griffin’s arms.
Griffin holds on for another few seconds before lowering the unconscious man to the floor. We both stand there, panting, staring down at Mathis, who suddenly looks very ordinary, like some random middle-aged guy taking a nap on his living room floor.
Griffin wipes blood from his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear across his cheek.
“Is he…?” I can’t finish the sentence.
Griffin kneels to press two fingers to Mathis’s neck, his other hand braced on the floor to keep himself steady. “Unconscious.”
There’s a ringing in my ears that won’t go away, and adrenaline is still coursing through me, making me jittery. “So, we got him?”
The color drains from Griffin’s face so fast I think he’s going to pass out.
“Griffin?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“I need you to get outside the building.” He stands up, and his voice is the kind of calm that means everything is absolutely not calm.
“Why?”
Oily smoke pours out of Mathis’s mouth, rising and pooling against the ceiling.
Oh, fuck.
Griffin rushes for the box of salt on the floor and tips the box frantically.
Not even a grain comes out. The salt line is scattered across the hallway, completely obliterated.
Griffin tries to salvage what he can, but there’s so much of his blood on the floor that anything he sweeps up sticks to his hands in red clumps.
The smoke above us grows thicker, condensing into something with actual shape. I can see the suggestion of shoulders forming, then arms.
There has to be salt in the kitchen. I scramble across the floor on my hands and knees, throwing open the cabinet under the sink. Dish soap. Sponges. A bottle of bleach. I shove everything aside, the bottles clattering against each other as I dig deeper.
Griffin’s behind me, tearing through drawers. I can hear him slamming them open and shut. Cabinet doors bang. Utensils clatter to the floor.
I get up on my knees to look across the counter, my eyes skimming over that disgusting gallon of milk—the dirty dishes—there. Behind the microwave is a cardboard cylinder of Morton’s. I nearly sob with relief when I feel the weight of salt inside.
“Got some.” I go to pass it to Griffin, but his hand is already closing around my arm, lifting me to my feet so hard I fall into his chest. His fingers dig into my shoulder as he spins me toward the door.
“I’m not kidding.” His face is inches from mine, and there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “You’re not trained for this. Get out of here and let me contain him.”
“But—”
“Please.” He gives me a small shove toward the hallway. “Go.”
I want to argue, but Griffin’s already turning back to face the smoke pooling above Mathis’s unconscious body.
He sets the container of salt down, grabs a jar from the duffel, uncaps it, and sets it on the floor.
He attaches a device I’ve never seen before to the bottom, but when he turns it on, a small whirring sound comes from it.
I assume it’s a portable version of the big ghost vac Donny used in the parking lot to contain William Caine.
Shit.
I grab my phone from where it skittered across the floor and rip the front door open, sprinting down the building’s hallway. I raise the phone to my ear, my breath coming in gasps that make it hard to form words. “Are you almost here?”
“Five minutes out,” Nico says. I can hear the roar of the engine and Benji screeching something that sounds like “Are you insane?” in the background.
The stairwell looms ahead of me. I’m pulling the heavy door open when a crash echoes through the building.
Griffin screams.
I stop, my hand frozen on the door handle, my entire body locking up like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water onto my head. I stare at Griffin’s blood on my sleeve. What am I doing, running away?
Never again. I promised myself I’d never be that scared little girl who saved herself and left everyone else behind again.
So never again.
I shove my phone in my pocket and run back down the hallway, my legs pumping harder than they’ve ever moved. The front door is still open, and I charge into the narrow, salt-strewn hallway and skid to a stop in the living room doorway.