46. Forty-Six
My fingers are trembling but I manage to wrap my hand around the handle of the knife, gripping it as tightly as I can, before turning around to see the grappling happening behind me.
Tucker is beneath John, his arms flailing in every way his still weakened body can manage. John’s hands are wrapped around his neck.
A feral, guttural scream tears from my throat and I’m stripped of any remaining humanity. I bolt towards John. I’m going to kill him slowly enough that he can finally understand true pain.
I’m still screaming when I jerk to a stop. My left arm is caught in the grasp of someone behind me. The gloved hand is gripping hard enough to bruise.
Gloves. Not one of my boys.
I move on instinct, whipping around and sinking my knife into his side. It bottoms out with a wet thud.
He grunts and there’s a sickening squelch as I pull the blade out of his flesh. Its notched teeth catch and pull at his muscles, and a river of blood seeps out. His hand releases mine, and I slash again. My knife tears into his throat and digs in behind his collarbone.
I’m sprayed, coated immediately in a spurt of hot, sticky blood. My mind clears and the shaking stops.
I’m killing this man.
I don’t feel bad about it.
I yank the blade forcefully, this time ready for the resistance, and a gurgling gasp is the only sound he makes as he falls to the ground. He claws at his throat, urgently trying to piece the ruined flesh back together.
Been there.
I don’t waste a second glance on the nameless heap behind me as my attention zeroes in on John. Tucker is still fighting below him.
I could end it right now. I could kill him in an instant, and he wouldn’t even see it coming. He’s too wrapped up, too focused on Tucker. Wrathful joy fills my chest and my vision narrows. I’m going to kill him. This is the end of it.
Gunshots sound out through the bunker, and my attention snaps.
How many shots was that? Two? Three?
How long has it been since I’ve heard them stalking through the halls? How long have I been hiding in here, useless and jumping directly into John’s trap? Terror rips into me, my muscles locking into place. Every possibility plays in vivid detail.
I’m going to lose all of my men tonight, and I’m not going to be able to do anything to stop it.
When I turn back, Tucker’s not fighting him anymore. John straddles his body, his chest heaving. In a horrifically slow movement, he turns his head to me. A smile stretches his lips and bares all of his teeth. It’s inhuman. Unhinged.
I nearly vomit at the sight of it, but John is already moving.
I fucking hesitated. I hesitated. Tucker’s dead. It’s my fault.
John slams into me, knocking me back onto the floor and pinning my arms to my sides, his knees bearing down into my biceps.
“They’re all fucking dead. All of them, you stupid bitch.”
His words rain down on me, broken up with brutal and direct blows to my face. My vision swims with stars, darkness threatens to pull me under.
“No!” My scream feels like glass in my throat.
They’re not dead. They can’t be.
I turn my head, trying to shield myself from his strikes, but I see him there. Tucker laying motionless.
He can’t be dead.
John’s yelling something as he continues to punch me, but I can’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. Spit flecks my face while I stare, my vision starting to darken. Green eyes and freckles flash in my memory. Tattoos and teasing. A lazily flowing river with a kind giant. A growling, broken man.
Not like this.
They might still be out there, and I still have my knife.
His weight is bearing down sharply on my arms, and I can barely move. I twist my wrist, and the joint protests painfully as I angle the tip of my blade into the soft flesh behind his ankle.
John bellows, but the sound is garbled and dull in my ears. When he flinches away it’s just enough for me to rip my arm free and drive my knife into his gut.
No time for politeness.Dane’s words echo in my mind. If you have the chance, go for the kill.
A mistake I won’t be making again.
I shove him off of me, pulling from the dregs of my energy, the last of my strength. Fighting growing dizziness, I swing my body around so I’m on top of him, and I drive the knife down. Over and over and over again it disappears into him.
Every strike is an act of revenge.
For every Tank. Every test. Every death. Every second of torture I endured at his command. Every moment those cold eyes scoured my unguarded body, hungry for the next round of pain. Every fiber of my being is focused on this singular task.
I won’t stop. I won’t give in. I’ll never be his victim again.
My grip falters on the slick handle and my hand slides along the blade. The deep gouge on my palm makes me drop the knife and it splashes in a crimson puddle.
A pulpy, bloody mess lays beneath me and I don’t recognize it. I don’t recognize the face from so many of my nightmares.
He’s dead.
I swallow, my throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper.
Was I screaming?
My focus returns to the body beneath me, and I realize in my rage, in my frenzy and bloodlust, I destroyed his face entirely.
No. Not his face.
His eyes.
How brutal it must have looked, me screaming, frantically bringing a knife down onto his face and body, continuing long after he had died. Long after those empty, emotionless eyes had become nothing but gaping holes, torn and jagged around the edges. Never to hungrily rake over my defenseless body again.
My breath saws out of me in rough, painful bursts. The sound of it in my own ears nearly covers the sound of someone approaching.
Running.
Several people are running, and they’ll be here in seconds.
I whip my head around to see Tucker, motionless on the ground behind me. I back towards him, frantic, desperate to protect him from whatever comes next.
They can’t have him.