“I suspect they’re all over the building,” Nico whispers. “I’m going to find the door and come back for you.”
Can he find the right door before the Game Master comes back to throw me in a dumpster somewhere?
Nico groans as he stands. I wait for his footsteps to retreat. Instead, I hear a dull thud.
And silence.
Each second draws a harder pound from my heart. Is he okay? Did he pass out? I press my stump against the ground, just enough to ground me so I don’t blow this whole thing.
The silence stretches on forever. I can’t hear him breathing. Or moving. My brain fills in all sorts of pictures about where he could be or what he could be doing. I see his head cracked open and bleeding on the tile. His empty eyes staring up at nothing. The Game Master, back sooner than expected and standing over his body right now, realizing we played him.
I want to open my eyes, but my face is angled into the tile and I can’t risk it.
Every second that passes without sound from Nico feels like an eternity. Time becomes stretchy, pulling like taffy and condensing the second I try and fail to hear him.
How long until I should check on him? What if he’s dying right next to me, bleeding out, and I do absolutely nothing?
The Game Master’s going to come back. He put Greg and Rafael in the dumpsters when Rafael was still alive. He’ll do the same to us.
Sure enough, heavy footfalls eventually come into the room. They stop. A low chuckle echoes off the tile.
“Should’ve given in from the start,” the Game Master mutters.
I focus on the cold tile on my cheek. The taste of blood in my mouth. Anything except his words and what they could mean.
Rough hands grab me and fling me over a shoulder. My arms dangle. The sudden change of angle sends blood flooding into the tourniquet, and the only word I force through my brain islimp limp limp.
The pain is information. I pretend I’m floating above my body, pretend I can watch the Game Master carrying me like a bag of dog food, pretend Iama bag of dog food. I doubt I’d feel much then.
Cold air hits my face.
After days in that tomb, it smells better than anything I’ve ever smelled, like snow and salt. Even the exhaust smells sweet. I’m airborne for a second before landing hard on vinyl.
He leaves. More time passes before he comes back, and something hits the trunk with enough force to make the car rock. An arm flops across my chest. Nico.
Is he breathing? I can’t tell. There’s too much weight pressing down on me to check. His arm is warm, which has to be a good sign, right?
The trunk slams.
I pry one eye open, but it makes no difference. The darkness is so complete I could be staring at the inside of my own skull. I want so badly to check on Nico, but if the Game Master opens the trunk again and sees I’m not exactly where he left me, I don’tthink he’d shrug it off the way suspicious humans do inToy Story.
I shift against Nico, just a tiny movement, hoping that if he’s faking unconsciousness, he’ll give me a sign. All I get is silence.
The engine turns over. Just as I think it might be safe to pull myself out from under Nico, the car starts moving, and Nico’s body settles over mine. All his muscles have become dead weight, trapping me and crushing my ribs until each breath is an active effort. I’m getting sick of not being able to breathe.
We go over a bunch of speed humps—either that, or the Game Master is worse at driving than checking his victims are actually dead. Each bump brings momentary relief before Nico’s weight presses back over me.
There’s a definite turn. I start counting as soon as the car picks up speed, and the ride becomes smooth and straight. It’s hard to keep track of the seconds accurately when I’m being crushed and bounced, but using the full Mississippi like I’m back in elementary school helps me focus.
I try to count every pause and turn we make, and it works for a while until I hear the rumbling of semi-trucks, and the wheels start this constant hum. The highway vibrates the numbers out of my head, and I forget everything but the seconds.
The drive is the longest of my entire life.
Nico’s arm slides across my throat. I panic for a second, but I can still pull enough air in.
I’ve reached three thousand seven hundred and eighty-four when the car stops. We lurch with the car, and Nico’s limp body rolls back, freeing my chest. It’s not even a little bit relieving.
The trunk opens, and harsh light burns against the back of my eyelids. The Game Master drags me out from under Nico. My head lolls at what I hope is a convincingly lifeless angle.
