Chapter 6 #3
Then he clears his throat and adjusts the glasses on his nose. “If you’re thinking of fighting back or escaping, then not only will your Omega be killed, but you’ll be hunted.”
I snort. “I’m the one who hunts other people, remember?”
“A bounty, dead or alive, would be put on your head.” Mr. Baskerville regains his courage, taking out his keys and opening the cell.
He swings open the barred door, gesturing for me to step out with a faux chivalry, as if he’s inviting me to dance.
“Have you heard of the Hunter pack? I bet that a mobster like you has worked with killers like them. They’re dangerous contract killers.
There is nothing outside this facility but forest and mountains.
How far would you get in freezing temperatures dressed like that with some of the deadliest packs in the country after you? ”
The Hunters?
My head spins.
I stalk out of the cell, which is locked behind me. I follow Mr. Baskerville and Dr. Gill down the bright corridor, deliberately not looking into the cells that contain the other Rogues.
I will free them.
My mind is still turning over the thought that the pack I researched as my last mission — the giant, masked Alpha and his sweet-scented Beta — will be hired to hunt me when I run.
Because I will run.
Except, I’ve studied the Hunters. I intended to kill them.
They were my prey.
If they try to turn me into their prey, then they’ll be in for a shock.
I struggle not to smile, while I sneakily memorize the route out of my cell and closer to the edge of the facility and the exit.
Why doesn’t Mr. Baskerville just walk me out of the front door himself?
Idiot.
Dr. Gill pauses to press in a number on a pad by the side of a room. The steel door swings open.
I follow her into a clinical room.
Then my guts churn with dread.
The room is stark, as if it’s part hospital surgery room and part laboratory. Bright spotlights cast harsh shadows. Tall cabinets line the walls, which have numbered drawers.
I wrinkle my nose at the antiseptic scent.
Ventilators whir above my head.
I can’t look away from the large examination table, which stands in the center of the room. It is steel with a padded surface. But it’s the straps and stirrups that make me shudder.
This will suck.
Mr. Baskerville pushes me in the back. “Up onto the bed.”
“Why? Is it time for my jabs?” I joke.
“Something like that. Be a good Alpha.” He pats my shoulder, firmly.
I swagger to the table because no one is dragging me to my fate or seeing my fear.
When I throw myself onto my back on the table, Dr. Gill hums to herself as she straps down my neck, waist, ankles, and wrists.
She does it in the same way that a barista cleans the nozzle of a coffee machine.
This is habit to her. Something that she does daily to Rogues.
When I growl deep in my throat, as a Beta, she should drop to her knees or bare her neck in submission.
Instead, she doesn’t even flinch.
She starts to sort through the instruments on a mobile cart that is placed next to the table. It is ranked with frighteningly large needles, which are filled with cloudy liquid, data pads, and monitoring devices.
“What are you testing for?” I can’t help pulling on the straps.
They are made of thick, unyielding leather.
Even in a fevered rut, the strongest Alpha wouldn’t be able to break free.
I take deep breaths to control my racing heart.
I’ve been trained to withstand torture. This is nothing. “To see if Rogues have rabies?”
I bare my teeth.
Mr. Baskerville sighs. “Please understand that this isn’t personal.”
“Oh, this is very personal.”
Anger flashes through the warden’s eyes. “You think that you’re special. But dozens of Rogues have lain where you are now. You’re young. But I have worked on the Rogue problem for fifty long years. I have dedicated my life to you.”
“I’d clap but I’m a bit tied up right now.”
Mr. Baskerville prowls closer.
I swallow, unable to pull back when he leans over me.
He pats my cheek. “I don’t need your applause or anyone’s, in fact. My pack has been devoted to the hunting and destruction of Rogues for centuries. I am proud that Baskervilles caught and burned more Rogues than anyone else in the purges of the seventeenth century.”
I stare at him in horror, as he smiles, as if at a fond memory.
My skin crawls that this Alpha has touched me.
Suddenly, it dawns that I am at the mercy of an Alpha from the pack who has haunted my nightmares my entire life.
He has stepped out of The Rogue Scare.
My instructors would often drill me on runs that ended with me holding my aching sides and hurling.
I would drive myself to keep going on those runs, despite the pain, by imagining that I could travel back in time to those Hunts, armed with an entire arsenal.
I would find those packs who hunted the Rogues and fucking destroy them.
Now, one of their descendants is in front of me.
He is proud of his ancestor’s genocide.
He is proud that he is following in their footsteps.
I turn my head and sink my teeth into the palm of his hand.
Mr. Baskerville howls satisfyingly. I hear the crack of his bones. His blood gushes into my mouth.
“Help!” Mr. Baskerville yells. “Do something, Op. She’s feral. Fucking get this bitch off me.”
I feel a sharp prick, as Dr. Gill injects the long needle into my neck.
I clamp down harder, savaging the warden’s hand. I rejoice in the taste of my enemy’s blood.
I don’t release Mr. Baskerville’s hand, until my muscles relax against my will and my mind becomes foggy.
My head lolls back.
What the hell did Dr. Gill inject me with?
Blood stains my teeth and dribbles down my chin.
Mr. Baskerville hugs his hand under his arm, whimpering.
Then he viciously grips my chin with his uninjured hand, forcing me to focus on him.
It’s hard.
My mind is swimming, and an uncomfortably warm sensation is creeping through my body.
Dr. Gill injected my scent gland.
I tremble.
Dr. Gill studies me with a ghoulish excitement. “How does that feel?”
My tongue is suddenly too heavy in my mouth, but I manage to slur, “It feels like…” Dr. Gill leans forward, hanging off each word. “…fuck you.”
Dr. Gill glares at me, drawing back to note something on her clipboard.
The warmth inside me is increasing in intensity.
I squirm.
Sweat drips down my forehead.
I am burning up.
“Look at me, Seventy.” Mr. Baskerville’s eyes gleam with religious fervor.
“You are a demonic aberration. A darkness that needs to be scourged from the earth. I petitioned as a young man to reinstate the burnings, but when that was denied, I founded this facility. My mission is sacred to lock up Rogues and keep society from all those with mutated pheromones. You should be honored to be part of my life’s work.
I am close to finding a method, alongside the esteemed doctor here, to create an undetectable poison, which I will be able to put into the water system.
It is a poison that will slowly kill all Rogues and ensure that no Rogues will ever be able to be born again. I will free the world from their evil.”
I stare at Mr. Baskerville in horror.
He’s talking about true genocide.
I shake my head wildly, but I am burning up from the inside.
The muscles in my neck cord. My hands ball into fists.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes.
I still stare at him defiantly.
I won’t die.
I must return to my Omega.
Bird, Bird, Bird…
As agony sears through me, I imagine birds soaring through the blue sky, rather than the bright lights above me.
“You understand now,” Mr. Baskerville whispers into my ear. “Finally, I will find a way to burn you all.”
Then I am burning.
And I scream.