“Okay,” he whispers. He crowds into my space, shoulder braced against the wall so he doesn’t fall. “I fucking hate saying this, but I need you tonot fight them.”
“What?” I breathe, confused and terrified all at once.
“The more you fight, the harder these fuckers get,” he mutters. “They like the challenge. The more you resist, the more damage they’ll do. I need you to do everything you can to make sure they don’t kill you.”
“What if I don’t have a choice?” My voice shakes.
“Fuck, Eli…”
For a second…just a second…he lets the mask drop.
And I see him. All of him.
The man who told me he was dying earlier today. The man whose lungs are drowning him from the inside. The man who should already be gone.
But he’s still here. Still standing. Still protecting me with every breath he has left.
“I need you to do everything in your power to keep your body from shutting down,” he whispers. “Fighting spikes your heart rate worse than fear ever will. And if Cortéz finds out about your condition? He’ll use it against you. Against Skip. Against all of us.”
A violent tremor runs through him. He grips the wall to steady himself.
“So listen to me,” he forces out. “Fight only if it comes down to your life. But don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t provoke them. Don’t give them any reason to notice you.”
He swallows hard, then takes my hand with a grip that’s barely there anymore.
“Skip will come for you, sweetheart.”
His voice cracks.
“He’ll tear this whole fucking desert apart to get to you. You just need to stay alive long enough for him to get here.”
I lean gently into his body and hug him.
“I’ll be okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I was being selfish. I’ll be okay, Knucks. You can rest now.”
I step back, reaching to help him sit, maybe ease him to the floor, but I freeze when I look up and see him smiling down at me softly.
Like heisn’tdying.
Like he isn’t holding himself up by sheer will.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Not until the last of my strength is gone. Believe it or not, I still have a little left.”
I open my mouth to argue, to beg, to tell him…something.
But the basement door creaks.
Heavy boots descend the stairs, a beam of light slicing across the dark like a knife.
“You know,” the man chuckles, “I plum forgot you two were down here.”
Cortéz.
That voice…that smug, oily voice…turns my blood cold.
“Click those lights on,” he calls over his shoulder. “The generator will give us about half an hour before it runs out of gas. Plenty of time.”
A few moments later, the old bulbs overhead flicker once, buzz angrily, then explode to full brightness.
