Page 34

Louhi

The sprinklers surged to life at some point during my wanderings of this maze. Three wrong turns and four murdered soldiers later, I’m still lost in this labyrinth of concrete. I’m soaked, aggravation chewing at my bones, threatening to consume me. I just want out . Is that too much to bloody ask for?

As I take another corner, my body slams into one of the guards. I half-expect to find warm honey eyes or irises the shade of steel staring back at me, but the dark brown shade I’m met with is foreign to me. We observe each other for a beat before I lift the Glock, pressing it against his chest and pulling the trigger—twice. Bending down, I loot his person for additional ammo, muttering a curse for not thinking to ask—or torture—him for directions to the fucking exit. Now he’s dead and I’m left with increasing frustration with this network of concrete corridors.

I’m not sure how long I prowl about for, but I end up killing two prisoners and one more guard before shoving on a door and stumbling outside into fresh motherfucking air. Finally.

I gulp down the salty, wet air like a dying woman, my heart mauling my ribcage with the ferocity of its cadence. I’ve lost the memory of the last time I breathed oxygen this fresh, so I stand there for a moment, taking in as much as humanly possible. The air feels heavy with the potential for rain— of course —and I fill my lungs to the brim several more times, taking in my surroundings.

There’s barely enough light to make out the razor wire along the top of a seemingly smooth concrete wall in the distance, but it’s there. Two large, heavily manned guard towers stand at the corners, with a mammoth gate in the middle. Soldiers line the wall and man the gates. In all, there’s maybe twenty or thirty of them. I didn’t realize how many men were stationed on this base in the middle of hell, but it’s more than I would’ve guessed.

A guard halfway between me and the gate turns in my direction, and I dart to my right, making myself flush with the wall, hoping that at least one of the few palm trees between us hides me.

Stifling a shiver of excitement, I take inventory of the rifle slung over my shoulder, the Glock in one hand and the knife in the other; I know I’ll never make it by attempting to shoot my way out of this. Nor will I be able to simply walk through the gate undetected.

Blimey, this is bad.

I have a sinking suspicion that they stationed additional guards here to pick off prisoners as they emerge from the main exit, and I was lucky enough not to have chosen that door. My assumption is confirmed when four prisoners burst through the door at that exact moment and are met with shouts and a spray of bullets flying toward them. All four of them slump to the ground, their blood pooling on the ground.

Where is Sean? Or Honey Eyes?

Scanning the yard, I don’t see them, yet it’s hard to know with certainty, considering the mask every guard wears. While I’m convinced that I’d recognize the build of Honey Eyes, I’m confident I’d feel Sean from a lifetime away. My magnetic draw to him borders on something tangible, the electrical charge bouncing between us enough to detonate a bomb.

Something bad must’ve happened to them; that’s the only explanation for why they haven’t found me. I’ve gotten the impression that Sean’s either in charge—or close to it—so it would make sense that if he’s been attacked or killed, the sirens would be going off and mayhem would’ve ensued. My heart squeezes at the thought, but I shut out those thoughts. I can think about the gaping hole his absence will leave me with later. Right now, I need to get the fuck out of here.

Peering around the corner of the prison my back has been slithering along, I see that the building ends at a cliff’s edge. More walls, razor wire, and guards are present, though, so I can’t just make a run for it and jump in the ocean—which wouldn’t be ideal, but it’d be better than dying from a bullet shower. I gnaw on my bottom lip as I think through my limited options. Suddenly, an idea hits me, a grin flitting over my face.

Keeping my movements small, I inch back toward the door I had exited, praying to those damn witches that the door will open without drawing attention to me and their bloody spells must hold because it does.

Figuring that the majority of the guards stationed here are in the prison yard I just came from, I make a beeline toward the back of the prison that backs up to the cliff. Keeping my ears on alert for other footsteps, I hold the Glock at my side, my finger ready to press the trigger. It’s a good thing Sean didn’t break that finger.

The hems of my uniform pants are soaked as my bare feet slosh through the few inches of water now pooled on the concrete floor. My eyes dart around frantically as I duck in and out of hallways, attempting to navigate the maze. Eventually, I spot what I’m looking for: rats.

Following the scurrying rodents, I slip down one corridor and another. The rats will know the most direct path to dry land and safety, so I’m with them.

Sprinklers overhead continue to spit water in a barrage, adding to the chaos of the steady, ear-splitting shriek of the siren thundering within these walls. Through the havoc, my ears pick up on a scuffle not far behind me and I don’t spare a glance as I pick up my pace, making two more turns, first right, then left.

The rats and I halt at a dead end, standing before a solid metal door, my heart rate skyrocketing as I contemplate my options. Thankfully, the rats save my arse once again.

I’m rooted to the spot, the water sloshing around my ankles, when I notice that the door is standing slightly ajar, barely wide enough for the rats to slip through. Shouts ring out behind me, followed by the telltale pops of gunfire, and I don’t think twice before rushing to slip inside.

I shut the door with a soft snick that I’m sure can’t be overhead over the bedlam taking place. Swallowing thickly, I stare at the three drainage pipes on the wall ahead of me. They’re old— really old —obviously harkening back to the original footprint of this place—whatever that was. The rats are jumping the few short inches into the drainage pipes along with the water and slipping away. Rats are little warriors, though, and I have no doubt that they’re surviving whatever drop awaits them on the other end.

Muffled shouts and voices rumble from the other side of the door, and I decide that I have to go. I either leave now, or I die here. There’s no third option and dying here is not a possibility for me.

Gulping down the hard mass lodged in my throat, I trudge through the shallow pool of water and choose the pipe on the far right on gut instinct. The pipe can’t be more than twenty— maybe twenty-two—inches wide, and I know the fit is going to be bloody tight.

Choosing to go headfirst, I rip off the medical tape wrapped around my fingers and place the rifle into the drainage tunnel, crawling in behind it, keeping the Glock in one hand, abandoning the knife altogether. The guns will survive the water, and I suspect they’ll prove more useful in the end—at least that’s the direction my gut leans.

Tight was an understatement. It’s unbelievably compact, and even though I don’t suffer from claustrophobia, I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t affecting me. Forcing measured breaths, I focus on the freedom waiting for me on the other side of this pipe.

The weight of the severely limited space, the scent of stale, soured water—which I find far worse than the smell of piss and shit in my cell—and the sensation of the rats pattering across my legs, back, arms, and the weapons in my possession all press down on me heavily. Breathing through my mouth, I attempt to calm my racing heart.

Salvation is close enough to touch. I will not die in a drainage ditch. I will kiss the lips of freedom again.

Under vastly different circumstances, I’d find the determination to persevere of the hearty little rodents skittering past me awe-inspiring, but right now, it’s difficult to reach that same conclusion. The silver lining is that if something were to happen to me in this pipe—like choking on the rotten smell until I die—at least the rats will be fed. Fuck, that’s a morbid thought.

Moving as quickly as I can, I shove past the thoughts of death, rats, and rancid smells, inching through the pipe. The warm light from the room in which I escaped has all but faded, but I’m not sure how much farther I have to go. Things are darker in here than a bolted, long-abandoned closet, only an inch or two to spare on either side of my shoulders as I shove the rifle along, gripping the Glock in my right hand. Eventually, faint light dances ahead, and I scramble desperately to reach it.

Tucking a hand on the inside of the strap of the rifle so the water doesn’t carry it over the edge of the pipe, I squeeze the handle of the handgun tightly, unsure of what might await me. Slowly and carefully, I poke my head out of the end of the tunnel and breathe in fresh air as I consider my next move. Craning my neck, I look down, my eyes expanding to twice their size, stomach twisting, as I take in the hundred-or-more-foot drop to the ocean below. But that’s not what would kill me; it’s the jagged rocks that would send me straight to Hell.

Glancing to my left, I immediately eliminate that as an option. The cliff face is too smooth, with nowhere to gain purchase. Water spews from the other two pipes, too, and navigating that constant flow of water would be an issue with fatal consequences. I didn’t make it this far just to die in a torrential waterfall.

Swinging my head to the right, I’m confident that’s my road—or climb—to freedom.

Still resting on my stomach, I inch out a little farther so that my head and neck stick out of the pipe. Like a snake emerging from her den, I stretch my arms out of the hole and pull the strap of the rifle over my head. With the rifle now resting diagonally across my back and the barrel facing my feet, I ensure that the safety is still on. I’d hate to kill myself accidentally after all the trouble I’ve gone through.

I slip the grip of the Glock into my mouth and momentarily thank Sean for the cock sucking he had me do, because the handle of the gun is nothing compared to him. I spin around, methodically pulling my torso out of the tunnel. With my core engaged, I reach above me and grip a rock, my bare feet now resting on the bottom of the pipe.Using my abs and shoulders, and the adrenaline coursing through me, I hoist myself up and out of the hole. Thank fuck I’ve been working out in my cell .

Standing in the pipe’s opening with water flying around my ankles and dropping to its new home in the ocean below, I make my next move. Still facing the rock face, I reach to my left and grip another rock, my left leg swinging out, my toes gripping the rock I’ve chosen.

The pinky and ring fingers on my left hand are still broken, but the gravity of the situation makes me numb to the pain, though I’m still careful not to press my weight on them. Cautiously, so bloody cautiously , I maneuver myself to the next rock, and the next, and the next .

I’m beginning to think I’ve lost the plot. While I’m not afraid of heights, this might be one of the most reckless and nerve-wracking things I’ve done, and I’ve done some wild shit in my twenty-nine years. One wrong move and I’m a dead woman. If the dark rain clouds overhead choose to unburden themselves, I’m dead. If a guard finds me here, I’m dead. If the Glock falls from my mouth—which is beginning to ache—and hits my foot, knocking me off balance, I’m dead.

When I see the edge of the cliff, I latch onto the sight of freedom with an iron grip, reaching for my next purchase and the rock beyond that.