Chapter Eight
THE GROUND RUMBLES BENEATH ME, my brain foggy and ears clogged with the whir of an engine. The night is as black as ink. I can’t see anything besides my immediate surroundings: my tied hands, the holey knees of my jeans, and the blacked-out windows of a—
Shit!
The car jolts me up and down and around and back up again, and oh my god, my ass. The sharp middle seat rips into my tailbone as we speed over bump after bump, the seat belt digging into my belly, right above my uterus. I’m going to be ripped in half if they don’t slow down.
My wrists are bound. With the back of my hand, I wipe the string of drool that drips down the corner of my lip, then bite the rope in a futile attempt to loosen the knot.
I’m struck with a sensation like rubbing a dry paper towel on an unpolished wood surface.
A chill runs the length of my spine. What were those knot tricks West learned from Boy Scouts?
Fuck, it was years ago, and my head’s too fuzzy to focus.
I finally have the strength to lift my bobbing head. Out of the darkness, I make out two heads—the backs of them, at least. One male, one female. Their attention is focused on the long road ahead.
A scratchy piece of rope fiber catches in my throat. I sputter out a cough, covering my chin in more wet spittle. I give up on untying my hands. What am I going to do—attack whoever’s driving this car and kill us all?
The male turns around at the racket I’m causing.
“Shit,” Jasper says. “She’s up.”
“Then do something about it, Jasper,” the female says.
“Do something about it, Jasper,” he mimics.
She pulls a hand off the wheel and flicks his forehead.
I sit up straighter.
The moonlight glints off her hair—black roots, white-blond ends. Dipped Ice Cream Cone Woman.
The car speeds up.
I squirm in my seat. I know I shouldn’t—I’m doing nothing except exhausting myself, and I need the energy for whatever they’re about to do to me. Jasper turns around to fully face me, staring blankly as he watches me flounder around.
“Please don’t,” I say. “Please.”
The woman says, “Please don’t what?”
“Knock me out? Kill me? Use me as zombie bait?”
“Zombait!” she says, hitting her hands on the wheel. “Now, that’s a good one. Think we oughta add that to the Dictionary of Z.” She slaps Jasper’s thigh. “Write it down, will you, Jas?”
“Ignore her,” Jasper whispers before flipping back around. She snaps her head toward him, jolting the car to the right. My neck aches from the whiplash.
“Now hurry up and do something about her,” Dipped Cone spits, the humor drained from her voice. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m aware of our estimated time of arrival, thank you very much.”
My heart stammers. Where are we going, and how long have I been out? The clock on the dashboard reads 2:23 p.m. Unless we’ve entered an alternate dimension—which, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if we had—the clock’s not accurate.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” She slams on the brakes.
My body jerks forward, and my head smacks into the center console. I feebly lift my head up, watch in pain as the woman pulls a dagger out of her side door.
A flurry of stars floods my vision.
I’m going to die. She’s going to kill me.
“No, please, no,” I murmur. Bile rises in my throat as I writhe back and forth.
The rope chews my skin, forming bloody welts.
“I—I’ll do whatever you want. I can’t see anything—I don’t know where we are—but I’ll close my eyes.
Look, see? They’re closed. Super closed.
As closed as can be.” I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that colors swirl together behind my lids.
Splotches of lime and orange and violet.
I won’t let the last thing I see before I perish in a Jeep be colors. I picture Bunny. Grandma. West. Mom, Dad, Peter—
Not him.
“Sorry, girlfriend,” Dipped Cone interrupts my thoughts. “Can’t trust anybody around here, and certainly not you.”
I peel open my eyes, flashes of color still sparking at the edge of my vision.
Jasper lets out a frustrated sigh. “Greeley—”
“Jasper.”
“She’s scared.”
“Oooh, she’s scared? Please, tell me more.” Greeley juts out her lower lip. Her voice is whiny, baby-like. “She’s a scared, whittle girl captured by two big, scary people.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice shaking. “I am. I am scared.”
Greeley laughs.
“ ’Least you’re honest.” She leans toward me and twists her lips into a big, open-mouthed, vicious smile. Then she lifts her dagger. “Say please.”
“Please,” I breathe, the word barely a whisper. “Please don’t.”
She does.
Greeley slams the back of her knife into my head, right in the space between my eyebrows.
The spots in my vision fade, and the last thing I see before I pass out is red.
Just red.