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Pupillary Light Response

It erupted. Happened so fast, Owen barely knew what was going on.

Lore was the one who saw Nick first. She let slip a shriek of rage, a Valkyrie’s cry, and grabbed him bodily and hauled him into the pantry—dragging him through to the far side, slamming him against the wall. Hamish pushed in, a fist up, ready to fall, but Nick was fast, got under Lore, pistoned a fist into her ribs. Hamish clubbed him. An elbow—from who, he didn’t know—popped upward, into Owen’s temple, and it rang him like a bell. He saw supernovas swallowed by black holes, and he staggered into the wire shelves. One bit into the meat of his skull, and he felt warm blood going down his neck.

Flashlight beams went akimbo, and for a moment, all was in darkness.

Owen struggled to bring his back up to level—

And when the beam clicked back on, he saw that Nick was behind Lore.

She, facing out.

He, a knife to her throat.

Kitchen cutlery. Serrated steak knife. Ready to drag across the flesh of her windpipe, opening it up.

“Back the fuck off,” Nick hissed.

“Kill him,” Lore seethed. “ Kill him .”

Hamish raised a fist. Every inch of Owen’s brain lit up like fireworks— he’s going to do it, he’s going to go for Nick, and Nick is going to kill Lore.

What have we become?

What has this place done to us?

Owen reached out, caught Hamish’s fist—

Hamish spun on him, roaring, shoving him backward.

Nick, cackling mad. The knife in his hand gleaming as the flashlight beam caught it and then spun away, throwing them into darkness again.

One pull, Lore is dead.

Hamish, too, probably.

Then me.

Dead in this place—

Just like Matty—

Except.

No.

The words gushed forth, same as the violence in this room, fast and without warning—

“Matty isn’t dead!”

And like that, the fight stopped for a moment. Just small sounds now—Lore breathing heavily. Hamish, a low growl in the back of his throat. And from Nick, a small, low whine. The whine of an animal in a trap.

As Owen reached for the flashlight that had fallen—

Ta-ting-ting .

The sound of something hitting the ground.

Something like a knife.

Hand around flashlight. Beam up.

Nick stood there, his back pressed against the far wall of the pantry. The look on his face was struck in a chokehold of panic. Lore pulled away, rubbing at her throat— was she cut, had he cut her throat? No, Owen didn’t see any blood. The beam fell to Nick’s face, washing him out, a moon of white, and his eyes flicked toward Owen—staring right into the bright beam, the pupils dilating down to pinpricks. “You can’t know that,” he said, breathless.

“I think I do,” Owen said, slowly pulling himself to standing.

For a moment, nothing. Then Nick opened his mouth to speak—

But Hamish’s fist pushed any words back down. Nick’s head rocked against the wall, and then it was click-click, lights out for Nick Lobell.