Chapter 42
Morrow had no patience for subjects who wouldn’t play along. He simply increased the pain.
—Case notes from inside Alan Morrow’s file, written by Donald Dellman
I wrap Dad’s jacket around me, but nothing I do stops my teeth from chattering.
I know this is part of the psychological manipulation.
Or maybe it’s because the Game Master doesn’t feel the limitations of a human body anymore now that he’s dead.
Either way, I need to be stronger than the cold. But it’s so fucking hard.
My feet keep me from walking around to keep my blood pumping, and my eyes keep drooping closed.
I’m scared my body is shutting down. Every time my head starts to drop, or Nico moves against the chains, I pull my head up.
My eyes stay fixed on his chest, like if I look away for even a second, he could stop breathing.
I need to be awake so I can get him down fast enough to revive him.
I don’t care if the Game Master strings me up there with him.
Watching Nico hanging there makes this fierce determination claw up my throat. I told myself that when we found Donny, I was going to be strong for Nico, but Nico has been protecting me since we got here. I need to protect him the same way.
I don’t know how much time has passed before he mumbles, without opening his eyes:
“I feel like I’m trapped in a horror movie about a reappearing blanket I could never get rid of.”
As threadbare as his voice sounds, at least he’s talking again.
“Ah, yes,” I say. “The blanket is the most horrifying part of this situation.”
He pushes on his feet, clearly trying to take the weight off his wrists, but his knees buckle, and he cries out. I’ve never heard him make such a pained sound. I want so badly to take his pain away. I’d take his place on the pole in a second if I could.
“Do you think we’re going to die here?” I ask.
“I’m not that easy to kill, Eden,” he rasps.
“I’m being serious.”
“Me too,” he says. “And I’m saying no.”
The certainty in his voice steadies me. I don’t know why. Just because Nico says something doesn’t mean it’s true, but my nervous system seems to disagree.
“Do you think the others are going to come?” It’s not a good sign they’re not here already. Without Donny or Nico, how good are they at tracking?
Zoey might be able to pull security footage from the alley, but if there is none? They don’t know the Game Master is possessing a cop.
Is he possessing a cop, or was he impersonating one? Whatever the guy’s occupation, he’s definitely not any of the potential hosts Nico or I checked out.
“They’ll come,” Nico says.
“Do you have a plan?”
“I’m working on one,” he says, readjusting his arms. “You threw a wrench into my first.”
He’s already closing his eyes again, but not to drift into sleep. He settles into careful stillness, and each exhale comes out with increasing steadiness until he opens his eyes ten seconds later.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize until now, but his closing his eyes and counting in his head must be his version of clutching Dad’s dog tags. A way to ground himself and manage pain.
An electronic voice jolts me to attention:
“Trial three will commence in ten minutes. Prepare yourselves.”
I’m on my feet before the voice finishes speaking, ignoring the way my entire body screams as I grab the chain.
Nico drops to his knees, then collapses onto the floor. The relief that crosses his face when he’s no longer fighting gravity is so obvious it makes my chest tight. My arms slide around his waist. He’s so much heavier than before.
“You don’t have to help me,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice, and his body is limp against mine. “I… can’t sit up.”
“I got you,” I say. “You can.”
I get him leaning against the pole, crouching next to him with my hands on his shoulders. His face is wan, and his body is suffering so much that I don’t know what needs help first, or if there’s any part of him I can touch without making it worse.
I take one of his hands in mine, lifting it from his lap as bile presses against the back of my throat.
The extra rest we’d scored after the glass trial and the challenge of removing the glass from me had helped restore his fingers to some degree, but Nico’s second stint on the pole has destroyed his progress, even with his feet on the ground this time.
His tattooed skin is gone in places, rubbed off by the cuffs.
His fingers are as fat as breakfast sausages, and his skin is shiny from swelling.
The stick figure on his pinky is stretched wide.
Shame courses through me. I don’t know how to help him, but I do know his hands must be cold, so I wrap my sweatshirt around them. He’s in too much pain to protest.
I tell myself he’ll be fine with rest and circulation restored, but it’s hard to believe when his bundled hands lie in his lap.
He lets me bring the bottle to his mouth, tilting it so he doesn’t choke. He downs half before telling me it’s my turn. The water tastes like plastic, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had, and it’s hard not to drain the entire thing in one go.
I examine his feet, carefully peeling away the blood-soaked cotton. His cuts have reopened, and fresh blood mixes with the pus building around the edges of it.
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself,” he says, “but judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing it’s great news.”
“You’re so perceptive,” I say.
I go for sarcasm, but it comes out too serious and monotone, although I guess that’s Nico’s usual delivery so he probably got it.
The bleeding in my feet has mostly stopped.
Walking around barefoot in this place is asking for trouble, so I manage to gently maneuver my swollen feet into my boots.
Any movement sends little bolts of pain up my calves, but at least now there’s a barrier between my raw skin and all the debris on this floor.
I use one of the pieces of glass from yesterday to cut off the hem of my sweatshirt.
More bandaging won’t help Nico’s infection, but I need to do something.
My stomach churns as I wrap the fabric around his foot, both from the sight of his wounds and from the hollow ache in my own gut.
When was the last time either of us ate?
Yesterday morning? My mouth tastes like copper and stale air, and there’s this weird floating sensation behind my eyes that makes the room swim when I move too fast.
Getting Nico’s boots back on over the bandages is harder. I’m painfully aware of how much I’m hurting him, but I get it done.
I unwrap the other half of the chocolate bar and break off two squares for Nico.
“So,” I say, sliding a square into my mouth. “You’ve looked better.”
I honestly don’t think Nico is capable of looking bad. Our time here over the past couple of days has left him with stubble that makes him look rugged and less put-together. I don’t know how it’s possible that he’s been tortured for multiple days and still looks good.
His eyes gleam, and there’s a knowing look in them like he knows exactly what I was just thinking. “Have I?”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “I’m telling you, politely, that you look like shit.”
“You’re so good at being polite,” he says.
“I try.”
He leans his head back against the column, eyes closing. “You have never looked better.”
“I didn’t know not brushing my teeth for two days was such a turn on for you,” I say.
His smile opens the slit in his lip. “You learn something new every day.”
Everything inside me twists and tightens. “You’re delirious.”
“Probably,” he says. “But my eyesight’s working fine.”
The flutter in my chest is so strong it feels like a pair of wings might burst through my ribs, Alien style.
“If I’d known this was how to get your attention, I would’ve showered much less,” I say.
“Trust me, Eden,” he says. “Getting my attention has never been your problem.”
A clang echoes through the building. Our heads both turn toward the sound and find that a door has cracked open. It’s the biggest door in the room, and the one located directly under the electronic timer, centered on the far wall.
An object slides through. The overhead light catches the gleam of sharpened steel.
I look to Nico, but his eyes are locked on the door. He’s doing that counting thing again, but this time he goes longer than ten.
The speaker crackles to life.
“Twenty-three,” Nico mumbles, almost imperceptible.
“Your third trial will now begin,” the Game Master announces. “You will take turns using the weapon provided on your opponent. The first subject to successfully remove a body part from the other will be declared the winner. You have ten minutes. You may begin.”
The timer on the wall lights up.
The building falls silent except for the distant metal creaking and my own ragged breathing. I can’t move. The axe has me paralyzed.
“Eden,” Nico says. “We need to move.”
“What?” The word comes out strangled.
“To the axe,” he says blandly, as if disconnected from the meaning.
I grip the neckline of my sweatshirt as a rush of clammy heat rises up my neck.
“Is this part of your plan?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “We just have to do the trial.”
“Do you even have a plan?”
“The team will come,” he says, but he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. “We have to survive until they find us.”
I lean toward him, dropping my voice into a whisper.
“What if we don’t do the trial and wait for him to come down here?
You said these cameras are old school. He probably can’t watch the feed when he’s away from his control room.
As soon as he leaves, we’ll have twenty-three seconds to move to the door and ambush him. ”
Nico shakes his head. “We have no way of knowing when he’ll leave the control room. Plus, I can barely stand.”
I want to argue, but it’s hard to argue that. “Do you have any ideas?”
“I have one,” he says, his eyes steeled. “You kill me.”