Pretty Much Dead Already, page 13
I scramble back, pushing myself upright against the wall. My lungs burn and I can’t feel my left hand. The world is spinning, but through the blur I see Jace, still choking the Beta, eyes glazed with either terror or adrenaline.
“Jace,” I gasp. “Let go. He’s done.”
Jace ignores me for a heartbeat longer, squeezing until the Beta’s eyes bulge and his tongue protrudes. Finally, he releases the hold and shoves the Beta onto his side. The man chokes, retches, and then falls silent.
For a long moment, all I can do is breathe. The hallway is a disaster: two grown men groaning on the floor, blood smeared from one end to the other, the third sprawled in a pile with his knees bent the wrong way. It doesn’t seem real.
Jace looks up, face blank and sweaty. For a second, I think he might collapse too, but then his eyes lock onto mine and he shakes himself back into the present.
“Are you okay?” He asks, voice so soft I almost miss it.
I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. “I’m—fine,” I say, but I can hear the tremor in my own voice. My hands are shaking, my skin covered in splatters of blood and saliva and whatever else had built up under the Beta’s nails.
Jace pushes himself to his knees, crawls over to me, and hovers for a second as if not sure whether or not to touch me. I want to tell him it’s okay, but my words are stuck somewhere behind my tongue.
He reaches out, gentle, and touches my left wrist, where the zip tie has gouged a line of red around my wrist. “This’ll hurt,” he says, then snaps it off with a practiced twist.
I hiss, but it’s nothing compared to the last five minutes.
We sit like that, pressed together in the blood-warmth of survival, and the noise from the rest of the Fort begins to filter in—the far-off slam of a door, the distant report of a gunshot, then, after a moment, the unmistakable sound of screaming from the quad.
Jace and I look at each other, realization hitting at the exact same moment.
“It’s started,” he says, and I can see the panic trying to claw back into his face.
I stagger to my feet, using the wall for leverage. Jace follows, limping slightly, but there’s a determination in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.
“We need to move,” I say. “Now.”
He nods, scanning the corridor for any signs of reinforcements. The Beta is still unconscious, the other two are out cold or dead—I can’t bring myself to check which.
We make it half way to the stairwell before Jace grabs my hand and holds it tight. His fingers are slick with sweat and blood, but I don’t pull away.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything.
He nods, eyes shining.
And then we run, together, into the maelstrom of Fort Hope coming apart at the seams.
The night explodes as we hit the stairwell—gunfire first, then the high-pitched animal screaming that means someone’s taken a round but hasn’t realized yet they’re dying. We’re halfway down to the ground floor when Cass barrels into view, his face smeared with something dark, jacket torn open at the shoulder.
“Move!” He shouts, voice bright and wild. Behind him, two men in tactical black chase with their rifles raised, but Cass is faster, springing up the last three steps and nearly taking Jace and me out in the collision.
Cass grabs my arm, nearly dislocating it, and yanks us both up the stairs. Jace stumbles but keeps his feet, twisting to look for pursuers.
We round the corner at the landing and almost plow straight into Rhett. He’s bleeding from a shallow graze above his eyebrow, but his hands are steady and his eyes are all cold calculation.
“In here!” He barks, and flattens himself against the wall, sidearm already in firing position. Cass ducks in after him, then Jace and I, the two of us slamming back-first into the corridor as bullets shatter the glass above the stairwell door.
Rhett leans around the corner and lets off three shots in quick succession, each one punctuated by a distant grunt or crash. He gestures for us to keep low and hustles us down the hall, every muscle in his back tight with purpose.
At the next junction, masked figures pour in from the admin side—faces hidden behind scavenged hockey masks and cut-up ski gear. For a second, the world tilts: time slows to a series of sharp-edged frames.
Rhett glances at Cass, then at me.
“Get her out!” He orders. Cass nods once, no smirk this time, just the grim set of someone who knows what’s at stake.
Jace’s hand clamps onto my wrist, and for a moment all I feel is the hot, urgent pressure of his grip, the blunt edge of his nails digging into my skin. I should be terrified, but instead there’s a clarity—a sense of purpose, a direction for the panic to run.
Cass and Rhett turn as one, laying down a brutal hail of gunfire. The masked men dive for cover, but it gives Jace and me the opening we need. We sprint down a side hall, shoes slapping on the tile, every sense on red alert.
We take a left—too sharp, my shoulder clips the cinderblock, pain like lightning. Then a right, a door at the end of the hall with a yellow hazard sticker half-peeled away.
Jace fumbles at the lock, breath ragged, blood from somewhere on his scalp dripping into his eyes. He gets it open, pushes me through first, then follows, shutting it behind us with a click that feels both pathetic and monumental.
We’re in a service closet, maybe ten by six, the air thick with the reek of wet mop and rotting supplies. Jace takes a second to catch his breath, then peels back the plastic sheeting at the rear wall to reveal a second, narrower door.
“This way,” he whispers. His voice is different now—steel and certainty. The uncertainty is gone, replaced by something I can’t name.
He opens the door, and we’re in darkness—total, suffocating, not even the dim blue of the emergency lights.
He keeps his hand on my wrist. The contact is necessary, but there’s something possessive about it, as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. His other hand fumbles for the flashlight at his belt, and after a breathless second, he finds the switch.
A thin, jaundiced beam slices through the black, illuminating a corridor so narrow we have to walk single file. It’s a maintenance tunnel, lined with pipes and insulation so old it flakes off at every step.
The walls close in, pressing the chemical stench into my lungs. I’m barely five-four and even I have to duck under the lowest pipes. Jace is a full head taller; he bends double, hunched and animal, but never slows.
Behind us, the Fort is chaos—the muffled thunder of boots, the distant screaming, the occasional sharp pop of suppressed gunfire. Here, the noise is filtered, as if the tunnel itself is a throat trying to swallow the world.
We move fast, Jace guiding me with the certainty of someone who’s mapped every inch in his mind. Left at the first junction, down a steep metal staircase, right at the next crossroads.
At each turn, he checks for movement, flashlight strobing across the rusted metal and faded utility tags. When he’s sure we’re alone, he presses on.
We go maybe a hundred yards, but it feels like a mile. I can barely keep up; my legs are shaking, and every exhale sounds like a confession. Still, Jace’s grip never wavers.
Jace turns to face me, his face illuminated from below by the flashlight.
“You okay?” He asks, voice rough.
I nod, then realize he can’t see it.
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out more honest than I expect.
He holds the beam steady, letting me go first. As I slide past, our bodies are flush for a second—shoulder to chest, thigh to thigh. He’s warm, almost feverish, and for a heartbeat I’m painfully aware of how close we are, how vulnerable.
I squeeze past, heart pounding, and on the other side he retakes the lead, hand reaching back instinctively for mine.
We move on, the air getting colder and wetter the deeper we go. The pipework changes—more water lines, fewer cables. At some point, the footing shifts from tile to raw concrete, then to packed dirt.
Jace stops abruptly. I almost crash into him, but he catches me, hands at my waist. For a moment, neither of us moves. I can feel the adrenaline in him, the pulse hammering through his fingers.
“We’re almost there,” he says, and his breath warms the shell of my ear.
I nod, but my voice is gone.
He pushes open a metal grate and we emerge into a wider passage, this one lined with plastic sheeting and cardboard boxes marked with the school’s old logo. It smells of mildew and cardboard rot, but at least we can stand up straight.
Jace pulls me into a shadowed alcove and switches off the light. For a minute, we just stand there, listening. The fighting upstairs is still going, but it’s faded, more echo than threat. My ears ring with the silence.
Jace turns to me, his face invisible in the blackness, but I can feel the heat of him, the shudder in his lungs as he catches his breath.
“These tunnels run everywhere,” he says softly. “Only a few staff know all the connections. They use them for moving supplies—or for hiding when things go wrong.”
I manage a thin laugh. “Good thing you’re staff.”
He squeezes my hand, and for the first time since all this started, I realize he’s not letting go because he’s scared of losing me.
He’s holding on for my sake.
We press on, more slowly now. The adrenaline has receded, leaving in its place the dull ache of exhaustion. Every step is measured, careful, and Jace never lets the gap between us grow more than an arm’s length.
After what feels like forever, we reach a maintenance ladder leading up. Jace climbs first, then signals for me to follow. At the top is a hatch—he pushes it open an inch, checks the way, then helps me through.
We’re in a storage closet behind the medical wing. I can smell the sharp, sweet tang of antiseptic, and somewhere nearby, the faint ozone of the generator.
Jace eases the hatch closed and turns to me. In the sudden relative light, his face is pale but determined. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood, but his eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen.
“We made it,” he says, almost in disbelief.
I start to laugh, but the sound catches in my throat and turns into something closer to a sob.
He pulls me close, arms strong around my back, and for a minute we just breathe each other in—two survivors in a closet full of other people’s secrets.
I want to say something meaningful, something to thank him, to acknowledge that without him I’d be zip-tied and dead by now. But all I can do is cling tighter, letting the heat of his chest burn the fear out of me.
Jace eases the closet door open, peering into the long hallway beyond, and for a second we’re both paralyzed by the possibility that someone—or something—waits on the other side.
Nothing. Just the distant hum of the backup generator and the overhead fluorescents, flickering out of rhythm with the pulse in my neck.
We slip out, leaving the door just barely ajar. Our shoes squeak on the freshly mopped linoleum, and every step feels like a dare.
Dr. Mare is at the end of the hall, head down, restocking a supply cart. He’s in scrubs this time—gray, one size too small, the sleeves rolled to his elbows to expose his veined forearms. He looks up as we approach, and for a split second, the cold professional mask cracks. There’s relief in his eyes, and something more: a hunger or longing I haven’t seen before. It’s almost worse than anger.
“Vale?” He says, using the name like a shield.
I try for a smile. “It’s me.”
He gives Jace a look, and Jace shrugs it off, stepping aside but keeping me close—always within touching distance, as if the hallway might rip open and swallow me whole.
Dr. Mare looks me over. His eyes dart to the crusted blood on my forearm, the bruise swelling up at my collarbone, the three dirty lines where someone’s fingernails scored the inside of my wrist.
He crosses the distance in three long strides. “Inside. Both of you.” He guides us into the main triage bay, which is empty save for a rolling gurney and a tray of gleaming metal instruments. Once we’re in, he turns and slams the lock home on the reinforced door.
He faces us, breath hard. “What happened?”
Jace takes over, voice clipped. “Viktor’s men tried to snatch her. I got there first. They know she blew the whistle.”
Dr. Mare’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t ask for details; he’s already moving, snapping on gloves and pulling open a packet of gauze.
“Sit,” he commands, and I obey.
He cleans the wounds on my wrist and arm, his touch both clinical and impossibly gentle. Jace stands a pace away, looking like he wants to help but unsure if it would make things better or worse.
Dr. Mare keeps his focus on my skin. “Did they inject you with anything? Blood exposure? Bite?” There's a small waiver in his voice, it makes my heart skip a beat.
“No,” I say. “Just tried to break my arms.”
He wraps a pressure bandage, then gently tilts my chin up to inspect my throat. His fingers linger, a thumb against my pulse. “You’re safe here,” he says, voice low.
Jace’s eyes are on my face. I can feel the question vibrating in him, but he doesn’t speak.
Dr. Mare steps back, tossing the gloves into the bin with a snap. “This wing is sealed. I changed the codes after the last breach. Nobody gets in unless I want them to.”
The moment is cut short by a low, insistent pounding at the main entrance.
All three of us freeze.
The knocking is precise—three knocks, pause, two, pause, one. It’s a code, but not one I know.
Jace checks the small glass inset in the door, then relaxes just a hair. “It’s Cass and Rhett.”
Dr. Mare goes to the intercom and buzzes them in. The door cracks open, and the other two spill inside, dragging a haze of gun oil and sweat behind them.
Rhett is bleeding freely from the scalp, blood streaming down the side of his face and matting his dark hair. His shirt is torn at the sleeve, exposing a fresh graze lined with black gunpowder. Cass has a split lip and a shiner blooming under his left eye, but his grin is intact—lopsided and wolfish as ever.
“Party’s here,” Cass says, but his voice is hoarse.
Dr. Mare wastes no time. He gestures Rhett onto the gurney and starts stitching up his scalp, movements so quick and precise they barely register as pain. Rhett grunts, says nothing, just keeps his eyes fixed on me.
Cass drops onto a rolling stool, spinning once before favoring me with a wink. “You look like you had a rougher night than we did, Birdie.”
I try to smile, but it feels stuck. “You missed the fun.”
He leans in, examining my bandaged wrist. “Jace saved the day, huh? Gotta watch out—these Betas are tougher than they look.”
Jace flushes, but shrugs, as if praise is an old shirt that never quite fits right no matter how many times it's jammed on.
While Dr. Mare treats Rhett, Jace helps me clean the blood off my other arm, his hands steady despite the tremor I feel in my own. Cass wipes the crust from his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, then kicks back and watches the proceedings with the detached amusement of a man who expects a punchline, sooner or later.
The door is locked and deadbolted behind us, the world outside reduced to the occasional echo of violence. We’re alone, just the five of us, and for the first time I feel the edges of something sharp and inevitable slicing through the air.
Dr. Mare finishes the stitches, tapes a dressing in place, and glances up at Rhett. “You need a tetanus shot.”
Rhett shakes his head, lips pressed thin. “Already had one.”
Dr. Mare moves on to Cass, inspecting the split lip and the swelling under his eye. “Anything else?”
Cass grins. “A beer?”
Dr. Mare ignores him, swabbing the cut and pressing an ice pack against the bruise. Cass winces, but doesn’t pull away.
I find myself standing in the center of the room, every movement of the others orbiting around me. Jace hovers at my shoulder, not touching but close enough that I can feel the static between us. Rhett, patched and bleeding, stands to my right, arms crossed but posture open. Dr. Mare circles behind, never far, always watching. Cass paces, restless, but never lets himself drift more than a few steps from my line of sight.
I clear my throat. “What now?”
Rhett answers first. “We wait. Viktor’s crew will try to storm this wing, but Dr. Mare has the codes and the fire doors will hold.”
Jace nods. “We’ve got enough supplies in here for a week.”
Cass shrugs, then flexes his bruised jaw. “Or we could take the fight to them. Never been one for waiting around.”
Dr. Mare’s gaze lands on me, serious and unblinking. “You’re the priority,” he says. “They want you because you blew the whistle and forced their hand. We keep you alive, the rest can burn.”
It’s not romantic, but it’s real.
I look at each of them, one by one. Jace, eyes soft and full of hurt. Rhett, mask of command cracked just enough to show the worry beneath. Cass, all jokes and bravado, but something desperate flickering in the way he keeps glancing at the door. Dr. Mare, hands steady, always steady, but the muscle in his jaw clenching with every new threat.
I’m not sure when I become the gravity in this room, but I feel it now, every tug and pull. There’s a heaviness in the air—fear, yes, but also need. The need to protect, to claim, to survive not just as a body but as a constellation of bruised, battered hearts.
Dr. Mare gestures me over to the supply cart. He checks my wrist again, his fingers tracing the bandage with a pressure that’s both possessive and tender.
“You should rest,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.
I nod, but don’t move. I look at Jace, then Rhett, then Cass. All of them watching. All of them waiting for me to choose where to fall.
