43. Brody
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The night breathes violence and hunger, swallowing every shape. The compound crouches like an old God, faceless and immense, exhaling cold that needles bone. Shadows pool and stretch, black, twitching with the pulse of unseen watchers. The air is soured by old blood and machinery grief.
Somewhere inside, violence coils and waits; the walls themselves seem to shudder with memory, and the promise of pain. Each footstep brings me closer to her.
Lola. It’s always her. Even now. Especially now. Every step I take is to get closer, every slide of my body along the fence, every stab of cold up my spine. She circles my mind.
Two guards power-walk the far perimeter, thick vests under navy jackets, boots caked in salt and slush.
One swings a flashlight like he wants to hit someone with it.
The other just stares at his phone, not even pretending to care.
Idiots. They’re not watching the breach points.
They’re not watching me. They’re not watching what’s coming for them.
I count their seconds. Seven between each pass, off by a beat here, a beat there. Cigarette pinched between trembling lips. Radio hissing on one hip, volume twisted too high. I could be standing in front of them and they wouldn’t know until I ripped their throats out.
I pick the gap by the loading dock. The chain-link is already sagging, too loose, easy to slip under. I go flat on my chest, slice the snow with one boot, shove my shoulder through. Ice laces my jacket, but that’s background noise.
Everything is background except the pulse. Lola. Lola. Lola.
I move tight to the wall, pausing by the access stairs. Metal steps, each one corroded and stained, leading to a service platform. A guard rounds the corner. He’s alone, bored.
He’s dead.
I catch him mid-step. No sound. I launch, fist over his mouth, blade deep into his neck, up and under the jaw.
Warm spray hits my wrist, coats my glove, leaks fast and heavy through fibers.
He jerks, tries to scream, but I squeeze until his eyes bulge.
He’s too surprised to fight back. The gurgling is thick, almost wet.
His boots slide, scrape once on the step.
He twitches in my grip. Then nothing at all.
I haul him under the stairs. Dead weight, all loose muscle and leaking heat. I strip the vest, unclip the pistol. Tossing the wallet, I keep the keys. Radio next, earpiece still damp from his sweat.
I jam it in my own ear. Static bursts. Shouts, laughter, lazy dispatch. They don’t know. They’re all fucking stupid.
Blood stains the snow black-red. It spreads, pooling under the body in a sluggish mess. I wipe my glove off on his vest and let his head loll. His eyes roll up, gums still bubbling. Not my problem.
I stay low and move toward the maintenance door at the north face, marked with a rusty sign. I fit the key in, wait for the lock’s click. Inside, the floor is wet with melted snow and mud. Walls peeling, spattered with something that might be old paint or something that bled once.
Blind spots are everywhere. I mapped the cameras already; they sweep, but not well. Cheap system. I stick to the seams. Shadow under a pipe, line of lockers, the blind angle at the junction. Never show more than a second of movement.
Down the corridor, a second man stands stiff by a junction, hands jammed under armpits for warmth.
He doesn’t hear me. I’m behind him before he breathes.
One arm locks his head back. My hand covers his mouth, my other hand hooks his chin and jerks.
Angle and force, pure mechanics. The snap echoes off the concrete.
He goes limp. I drag and drop him on a folding chair by the wall, tilt his head up.
I watch the patrol paths in my head, then move. Perfect. No wasted energy.
The junction splits. East and South. Voices in the East corridor.
Closer than I’d like. I unsheath the backup blade, thumb the grip, press flat against the wall.
Two more guards appear. I hear them laugh about something, boots scraping, then they split up.
One comes up the hall, swinging keys. He looks left. Never right.
I slice him open at the base of the skull. The blade sinks in, soft and fast, then finds bone. I shove him against the wall as he trembles, arms flailing, head twitching to get away. It’s pathetic.
He pisses himself before he even drops. I let the body sag; blood spatters up the cinderblock.
The other hears it and they call out. He doesn’t want to check, so I make noise, letting him feel brave. He rounds the corner and his eyes widen. I rush him. He gets a punch off, brushes my jaw, but I shatter his nose with a forearm and slam him onto the pipe by the ceiling.
Once, twice, until the skull splits. Gray matter leaks, mixes with the blood, chunks dripping onto my sleeve. He’s spasming, but not alive anymore. I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, spit out the blood he left in my mouth.
I take his shotgun. Heavy, loaded, twelve gauge, eight shells. I rack it, check the chamber. He’s got a keycard around his neck. Good. I pocket that and search him for ammo. Two boxes in his vest. I double-check the corridor for eyes.
None. Just mess.
Dead silence greets me before the next ripple.
I move to the next blind spot, footsteps soft on the cold floor.
The earpiece hisses—“Patrol, report in—” tense voice, static, someone finally waking up.
They’re getting nervous. Two at once now, converging from opposite halls.
I can feel the panic in how they move. Fast, erratic. Voices higher, pitching up with fear.
I set up behind a heavy file cabinet, shotgun raised, body tight.
The first guard bolts around the corner, gun raised but wild.
He yells. I shoot him in the kneecap. It explodes; bone, meat, pink mist. He howls, drops and I stomp on his face, heel grinding cartilage and skin until the windpipe mushes under my boot.
He convulses, then nothing. My favorite part.
I ram the shotgun stock into his teeth. Teeth shatter, blood jets. He goes down gasping, hands up to protect his face. I don’t let up. I beat him with the stock again, again, until the skull caves. Eyeball ruptures, jaw splits. He shudders and pisses himself.
I take a pulse. Nothing. These fuckers die like rats.
Checking their weapons, I discover there is nothing worth taking, except another box of shells and a set of handcuffs. I keep moving. Every step leaves a wet print.
Alarms up are now—red lights strobe, radios barking orders. “Security breach—level two—intruder in south corridor—” They’re coming, but not fast enough.
One tries to take a shot from behind glass. I don’t hesitate—I blast the window, glass and blood spraying outwards. He chokes on it, clutching his throat, and goes limp in seconds.
At the final checkpoint, a man double my size aims his shotgun leveled at my chest. His hands are shaking; he thinks he’s going to live. I don’t give him time to pray.
I rush him, blade out. He gets a round off, but it hits the wall. I slit his throat, deep, ear to ear. Blood jets, then he’s trying to push it back in, hands shaking. Fucking idiot. He collapses, blocking the doorway. I kick him aside, his dead body leaves a blood trail across the tile.
I pause, panting. The corridor stinks of slaughter, blood everywhere. Smeared in handprints, pooling under bodies, streaking the walls. The lights flicker; everything is red, black, blue. My breath fuses with the cold as it escapes.
Her name still pulses behind my eyes. Lola. Lola.
I move forward. Reinforced steel door waits at the end, the guard window cracked.
No one on the other side, though. Only shadows.
I press my blood-soaked palm flat against the door.
She’s in there. I know it. I want to claw the steel apart with my teeth.
My brain is nothing but static, nothing but hunger.
Find her first. Kill Marcus after.
I load the shotgun, gripping the blade in my other hand. No more obstacles. No more time wasted.
She’s in there. She belongs to me. I will rip the world open to get her back.
I brace myself, shoulder to the door. Sweat runs down my neck, chills in the cold. The scene burns behind my eyes. I’m a missile. I’m a weapon. She is the only thing worth surviving for.
One more door. All I have left of love is annihilation. I let my body turn feral. I go in.