Page 30 of Executing Malice

I do.

I mash my lips together, but he’s not talking to me.

He’s screaming at the woman now hysterical in her grief. Lost in her own nightmare and beyond comprehension when the first crack of fist on bone echoes across the void. It rains dust like gray snow from the ceiling. I choke on it even as I squish both fists into my mouth.

It’s not me and I still whimper. I curl into a ball on the floor and wait for my turn. He will tire of her and storm out in search of fresh blood. A new body to break.

“You bitch! You stupid fucking bitch. I told you to keep it quiet when I’m sleeping. I told you...”

Another scream rips through the endless corridor. Closer now. Too close.

He’s coming.

Whining like a beaten dog, I scramble. I kick and claw, but the vines tighten. They pin me down. Hold me in place.

“No...” I beg. “Let go. Let go!”

The light overhead buzzes. It dances with the excited chitter of flies trapped in a jar. It claps on and off in rapid succession, expanding the shadows, crafting claws that stretch...

“Aila.”

A handcloses around my wrist and I’m dragged to my feet. It’s so rough and violent, I stumble. The vines tear through flesh as I’m ripped free.

“No!” I scream, fighting for freedom from the monster.

“Stop. It’s me,” the familiar voice whispers in my ear, breath hot against my neck. A boy’s voice. Urgent and safe. “I have you.”

I twist to face him, to see his face, but it shifts. A blurry snapshot dissolving before my eyes even as I struggle to hold on to it. He is no more than shadows and a body too skinny to be natural. Still, his hold on me is firm, protective as I am dragged away from the door at the end of the corridor.

Our feet leave streaks of grime through the maze of hallways and doors. We never slow, not even when the pounding of feet grows faster and louder right on our heels.

I’m shoved into a room ripe with piss and mold. Filmy light filters through unwashed windows to spill over stained, yellow paper curled in the corners. A mattress with no sheets. Broken toys. A single light fixture with no bulb.

I’m thrown to my knees, caught only by the crispy fibers of the carpet.

“Under the bed,” he commands, voice a raspy rattle of terror.

“What about you?” I’m reaching for him, not wanting to go alone.

A bang echoes behind him, and we both jump.

He whirls and shoves me. Hard. “Now!” he snarls.

Openly sobbing, I crawl. Every breath jagged, tattered remains of my resolve as I do as hesays.

The underside of the bed is low. I have to get on my belly and still, the rusted springs catch my hair, claw down my back. The carpet scratches my palms, my naked knees.

The boy crouches after me and I think for a second he’s going to join me, but he just stays there, hands planted on the floor, face out of sight.

“Don’t come out, understand? No matter what.”

I nod because I can’t make my mouth work.

Then, he’s gone.

I watch his filthy feet scramble to the door just as the weight slams into it again. He braces himself against the other side. Arms wide.

I scream and slap my hands over my ears. It doesn’t muffle the crack and bang that reverberates through the walls.