He dropped the vial on the dresser, then pulled a small suitcase from under the chair. “You’re going to be a good girl now, Parker. You’re going to sit here and heal. When I come back, we’ll see if you’re ready to help.” He set the suitcase on the dresser, popped it open so I could see row after row of vials, the antidote for my dying pack.
He closed the case, locked it with a code, and smiled. “Don’t bother screaming. No one will hear you.”
I said, “Where are we?”
He stopped at the door. “Clovis. New Mexico. Outskirts. Nearest neighbor is three miles. Try not to get frostbite if you make it that far.”
He left. I listened to the click of his boots on the stone, then the heavy slam of the iron-banded door. Silence.
I pulled at the chains, hard. The metal bit into my skin, drawing blood. I didn’t care. I yanked again, felt the headboard shift, then stop.
I knew the angel Archon Seraphael was real. I heard he had walked right out of the stands and healed Menace on the spot after he had been stabbed and died. I knew that someone—I'm guessing the same angel—had touched me behind my right ear in that hospital. And I knew that I'd seen my mother when I had died. She had told me to listen. So that's what I did.
I closed my eyes and listened. There was nothing at first, then a faint hum—electric, starting at the spot behind my ear where I believed the angel had touched me. It felt alive, running down my neck, through my chest and into my arms.
I whispered, “If you’re real, if any of this is real, help me. I need to save them. Please.”
The hum grew louder, a vibration under my ribs. I didn’t know if it was a prayer, or just madness. Either way, it was all I had.
I opened my eyes and stared at the suitcase on the dresser, the cure for mydying world.
I swore to myself, and to whatever angel or demon might be listening, that I would find a way.
Even if it killed me.
My hands started to glow a faint blue, the color of arctic ice, the color of midnight with a moon.
The cuffs around my wrists grew hot, then molten. I hissed, not from pain, but from the power of it. The sound shook the walls, vibrated the dresser, made the suitcase tremble. The chains fell from my wrist just as I heard footsteps in the hallway. I jumped up and ran to the other side of the heavy door. I hope to hit him with it, maybe surprise him enough to make him fall.
The door crashed open. Silas filled the frame, a pistol in his hand. I slammed the door towards him, hitting him squarely in the back. The sheer weight of it caused a jolt that sent the gun sailing from his hand. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. The gun slid under the bed, and I made a sliding dive for it. There was no way Silas could get his massive frame under that bed. I had the Glock in my hand when that fucker looked under to see if I’d found it. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I put a bullet right between his ugly eyes.
The two bodyguards at his back ran into the room. I crawled out onto the opposite side of the bed. I had the element of surprise when I stood and shot twice, center mass on both of them.
The suitcase was no longer locked. The code had defaulted to 0000. I grabbed it and made for the hallway. I heard other voices, but I still felt the power of the angel mark guiding me. The corridor was long and lined with stone torches set at regular intervals. It looked like a wine cellar or a crypt. I could smell blood and bleach, could hear the soft thud of footsteps from somewhere behind.
I kept low, suitcase pressed to my chest.
I heard men’s voices, thin and furious, but they faded as I ducked through the labyrinth of corridors. I took every left, everydown stair, until I reached a heavy wooden door set with a rusted bolt.
I listened: silence.
I slid the bolt free and slipped through.
On the other side was a garage. Three cars, a row of motorcycles, a workbench lined with tools. There was a service door at the far end, but it was chained shut. I saw a side window, half open, and sprinted for it.
I dove through the gap, slicing open my arm on the broken glass.
Outside, the sun had barely risen. No sound. Just fields and the cold, brittle air of winter. My bare feet hardly registered the icy ground as I ran dressed in whatever nightgown that bastard had dressed me in.
A car was parked next to a building by the unmanned entry gate, keys dangling in the ignition. I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key.
Then, I drove.
I kept driving until I was far enough from the house to risk stopping.
I looked up at the sky, at the clouds over the plain. I didn’t pray this time. I just whispered, “Thank you,” to whoever had heard me.
I checked the bag. Twelve vials, all intact. I patted it, then started moving. The house behind me was alive with movement, but no one followed yet.
