It’s not loud. It’s muffled, coming from behind the very door he’s guarding. But in the profound silence of this tomb, it’s as explosive as a bomb.
The sound rips through me, shredding the last of my control. The man sees the realization dawn on my face, and his smile widens in triumph.
I pull the trigger, and his head snaps back against the metal door. He slumps to the floor, finally silent.
But I’m already screaming, a raw, animal sound that tears from my throat. “GRACE.”
I kick the door. Once. Twice. The lock gives way on the third kick, and the door swings open, crashing against the inside wall.
The room is small, windowless, and there, on the floor in a pool of dark, spreading crimson, is my wife.
She’s on her side, curled around herself. A pistol lies near her outstretched hand. The side of her face… God, the side of her face is a ruin of blood and tissue. She tried… she tried to put the barrel in her mouth, but she must have jerked, or her hand was shaking because the angle is wrong. It’s a catastrophic wound, but not immediately fatal.
The world stops.
The rage, the violence, the cold purpose - it all evaporates, leaving behind a void of such profound horror that I can’t fucking breathe.
I stagger towards her, my legs buckling, and I drop to my knees beside her.
“No… no, no, no, Grace. No.”
My voice is a broken whisper. I gather her into my arms, pulling her limp, cooling body against my chest. The blood soaks into my shirt, warm and sticky. Her head lolls against my arm, and a low, wet, gurgling sound comes from the ruin of her jaw.
She’s still breathing. She’s alive.
But the sight of the damage… the sheer, brutal extent of it… it’s a vision of a despair so deep I cannot fathom it. This is what they drove her to. This is what I drove her to.
“Help me.” I scream over my shoulder, my voice cracking. “SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME.”
I press my hand against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s everywhere. There’s too much. Her life is literally seeping through my fingers. Her one good eye is open, but it’s unseeing, glazed with shock and agony.
“Look at me, Grace. Look at me,” I beg, cradling her face, avoiding the horrific damage. Tears stream down my face, mingling with the blood on her cheek. “You can’t do this. You can’t leave me. I’m here, I’m here now. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”
I rock her gently, a useless, frantic motion.
“Do you hear me, Dumpling? I won’t let you go. I won’t let you die, I won’t let you leave me.”
I stand with her held in my arms, her body unnaturally light, my own body trembling with the effort. With the grief, with the sheer, blinding terror.
“Move.” I roar at my men who are gathered at the door, their faces pale and shocked. “Get a car. Now. Clear a path.”
I race out of that cursed room, holding the shattered remains of my world against my chest. I run back down the corridor, up the stairs, past the bodies of the men I killed, past Lucas’s corpse.
None of it matters. The rampage is over. The monster is gone.
All that is left is a desperate, broken man begging a God he doesn’t believe in anymore.
I clutch her tighter, feeling the faint, shallow rise and fall of her chest. Each step is a prayer. Each breath she takes is a miracle.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper into her hair, my voice thick with tears. “You have to be okay. I won’t let you die. I won’t, I won’t.”
But the words feel like ashes in my mouth.
The blood continues to flow, a dark river staining us both and all I can do is run, hoping that I’m not already carrying her corpse in my arms.
This corridor is a sterile, suffocating tube of flickering fluorescent lights mingled with the pervasive, astringent smell of antiseptic. My shoes, usually silent on marble or carpet make a sickeningly loud squeaky scuff, scuff, scuff, against the polished linoleum with every pace.
Ten steps.
