Page 23 of Riot Act

The rear driver’s side door flies open. Before I get a chance to swing around it and start yelling into the car, a huge heap of clothing tumbles out onto the ground. It lands at my feet, blocking my path. I go to step over it, but the door wrenches shut again and the Evo peels back, kicking up smoke from the baked blacktop. It slides through an impressive three-point turn, and then burns out of the parking lot.

“Motherfucking—” I grit my teeth, nostrils flared, fury rolling through. When I find out who the fuck that was, I’ll fucking flay them alive. There can’t be that many midnight-blue Evos in Mountain Lakes. Those upgrades must have cost a small fortune. Super specialized. I’m betting there are only a few local body shops that would carry out custom work like that. Iwillfind out who that was, and when I do—

A wet cough halts me mid-mental rant. I look down at my feet, and there…oh for fuck’s sake. Are you fuckingkiddingme? The bundle of clothing that was shoved out of the car isn’t clothing. A dirty blanket covers the mass, but the shape of it is unmistakable—it’s a fucking body.

A pained moan seeps out from underneath the rough, woven fabric, followed by a pitiable whimper, and something unpleasant coils around my insides. I’ve seen some fucked up things in my time, but the dread shaking me by the shoulders tells me I don’t want to see what’s underneath that blanket.

Who rolls up to a hospital and just dumps a body on the sidewalk? In New Hampshire. What thefuck?

I need to get up the steps to the emergency room doors, need to get someone’s attention, but…a near-black puddle of blood seeps out from underneath the blanket, creeping across the concrete, pooling around the soles of my shoes.

Fuck.

Don’t do it.

Donotlift up that blanket.

Ahh, shit. When have I ever listened to the voice of warning in my head? I drop down into a crouch and yank the blanket back. Even with the sinking sense of trepidation clawing at me, I’m not ready for what lies beneath.

A girl.

A girl I know well.

I see her every day at school. The strangeness of her being here causes reality to skip, though. This doesn’t make sense. How—how the fuck can Presley Chase behere?

Her skin is pale—a sickly, ashen pallor. Her eyes are wide open, glassy and unfocused, the color of burning amber and molten gold. Her auburn waves are tangled and wet, matted with blood. The tiny shorts and the thin cropped t-shirt she’s wearing look like the kind of thing a girl would wear to bed. The deep, jagged-edged wounds at either of her wrists look like something a girl would wear to end her life.

“What the fuck have you done, Chase?”

In response, a sigh slips out between her blood-flecked lips. Sounds like a death rattle if ever I’ve heard one. Stunned, mind racing, I sit back on my heels, waiting for her chest to rise again, waiting, waiting, waiting, only her ribcage doesn’t move. Not even a millimeter.

Jesus fucking Christ, Pax, what theFUCKare you doing?

I snap back to reality with a jarring thump, shaking myself into action.

“HEEEEELLLP!”The shout explodes from my mouth. I turn the girl so that she’s lying on her back—she looks like a porcelain doll. A manga character. The bloody victim of a serial killer in a gore flick. And she issodead.

I check her pulse—not there—and get to work. Hands stacked, fingers interlocked, heel of my palm above her solar plexus, I start compressions.

I. Do. Not. Stop.

“HELP! SOMEBODY!” The cry rents the night air in two.

I can’t leave her. If I stop pumping her blood for her, even for a second, she could wind up with brain damage, and I’m not having that shit on my conscience. No fucking way.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

Blood gloves my hands. There’s so much of it, all over her body, that my hands slip and slide with each compression.

“REMY, YOU FUCKER!PETE!”

They’re inside, and the door’s less than fifty feet away. They can hear me. They’re too busy ignoring me to come out and see what the hell I’m shouting about, though.