6
Chapter Six
REESE
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Reese, you have to stop,” Sin tells me.
“No. One of these is the way out.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Sin grabs my arm, pulling me in against his body.
“I’m always the first to tell you not to give up, right?” Sin asks.
“Yes,” I mutter.
“We’ve come a long way,” he says, releasing a lungful of air. His arm tightens around me and his lips press against my forehead.
“What are you saying?” I ask through a soft cry. “I can’t stay in here. I can’t. You know I don’t like the dark, Sin. It reminds me of the nightmares I had in the shed. I had them every day. Every night. The darkness of the shed would swallow me whole and take me as its prisoner and while I may not be captive in that particular shed anymore, it has yet to release me—it will always own part of me, whether we survive or die here.”
“Nightmares, huh? I guess it was the same for me in Chipley’s prison. I get it. Trust me.” Then why is he telling me to give up right now when all we have been doing is fighting for survival?
A scream echoes through the surrounding area—a woman’s scream, or more like a shriek. I’ve heard it four times since we arrived down here in this hole—or whatever it is. I’ve also heard a man crying, screaming the words, “No, don’t hurt me,” at least a dozen times. There are children whimpering and there are several elderly individuals begging for mercy—for what, I don’t know. These are the other people held captive as prisoners down here in the dark. But amongst all of the cries for help, there is one sound I can’t understand. A man with dress shoes, walking back and forth, laughing through haunting, melodic tones, as I assume any laughter without cause would sound like. Who could laugh at cries and pleading, from people begging for help and forgiveness? On the other hand, what could we all want forgiveness for?
Sin’s arms squeeze around my waist. His cold lips are now pressed against my neck, but the shiver spiking down my spine is from my epiphany. “We’re surrounded by the sick, aren’t we?” I whisper. He doesn’t answer—his arms just tighten more. “We’re not protected.” My words are softer than a breath of a whisper, but they sound like sirens in my head. “How do you think the toxin is passed from person to person?” An epidemic means it’s widely spread, which also means it’s easily transferred.
“I don’t know,” he utters against my ear. “But they were all wearing protective masks, which tells me—“ The words sound lodged in his throat, or maybe he can’t get himself to say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to finish his statement because it has already crossed my mind way too many times in that past hour we have been down here.
“What are we going to do?” I ask him.
“Wait,” he says. “What else can we do?”
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Here,” I tell him, pulling him over and resting his hand over the bar. “It’s hollow.”
“So?” he says. I reach down into my shirt and retrieve a key. As I place it into his hand, his fingers close over mine, and the key. “How did you get this? I never gave the key back to you once we got down into the bunker.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “I don’t know if it works, but we can try it.” One of the patrols dropped it as they walked out of the room, leaving me alone to make a decision on where I wanted to go. It wasn’t accidental, though. The one who dropped it looked back at me and then down at the key. Maybe it was a trap, or maybe it was to help an innocent-looking girl who he knew would end up in this situation. But like all of my other questions, I know this one will go unanswered as well.
The sound of clicking heels from the laughing man grows louder; I’ve come to learn the pattern over the short period of time we’ve been in here. There are two-minute intervals after he passes in each direction, which hints at us being in an incredibly long hallway filled with other dark holes—cells. At least I think this is a cell. All I do know is the ground is wet, water is dripping somewhere nearby and it smells like mold and mildew. The ground is not smooth cement; it’s uneven, cracked and rough like a textured plaster. The bars keeping us contained feel like they’re covered in rust, thick enough to slice my hand if I were to grip it too tightly. This isn’t a prison or part of the hospital; we’re underground. Far underground. Considering we were street level when the patrols found us, we were then dragged down what seemed like a dozen flights. Those assholes didn’t even give us a moment to explain our situation. They only put us together because they said they were running out of space.
“After he passes the next time, we’ll wait thirty seconds and try the key out, okay?” Sin says.
“Okay.” Even my whisper echoes in this small area.
