Page 190 of Stay Scared

“Move toward projection and I open him.” Ash’s face tightens. Blood immediately darkens the fabric where the knife has broken skin. His hand clamps around Rook’s wrist. He is already testing the hold.

“Go,” Ash says. Rook pushes the blade deeper. Ash’s breath stutters. I stop.

Mark reaches toward me before catching himself. “Salem.”

“Get the tape to Owen.”

“I’m not leaving you with him.”

“You’re carrying the thing he can’t erase.”

Rook tightens the arm around Ash. “You have seconds before he starts losing pieces.” Ash slams the back of his head toward the beak. Rook jerks away just enough to avoid the hit and twists the knife. Ash’s entire body locks against the blade.

“Stop it.” The words leave me before I can kill them. Rook looks over Ash’s shoulder. He likes that.

I look at Mark. “Go now.” Mark stares at Ash. Ash’s fingers are still locked around Rook’s wrist.

“Do it,” Ash says. Mark runs. Rook lets him. Mark was never the prize. Ash waits until Mark’s footsteps disappear before driving his heel backward. Rook’s knee buckles, and Ash twists violently. The knife tears free. For half a second, he almost gets loose. Rook catches his injured arm and wrenches it behind him. Ash snarls, and the sound hits harder than any order the Voice ever gave.

Rook puts the blade under his ribs again. “Enough.” Ash stops fighting the hold with the point already inside his torn shirt. His eyes find mine. Anger burns there.

Rook jerks his head toward the passage. “Walk.” The corridor forks beneath an old service sign. PROJECTION points one way while RIDE ACCESS points the other. Rook steers Ash toward Ride Access. I stay beside them. The passage drops beneath the theater. Cracked amusement-park tile replaces concrete, warped by roots and old water damage. Damp wood and rust thicken the air. Somewhere beneath us, old machinery knocks at irregular intervals. A faded sign hangs above the next doorway. THE LAST RIDE. Black streaks cover the smiling skeleton painted beneath the lettering. Rook shoves Ash through. The abandoned loading station opens beyond it. Two funeral-carriage vehicles wait beside a narrow platform. Their black paint has blistered away in strips, exposing rust beneath the decorative trim. Portable battery packs have been wired into the original rail controls with newer cable.

Ash sees them immediately. “You powered the condemned track.”

Rook shoves him toward the first carriage. “It still runs.”

“It was closed because the brake assembly cracked.”

“Then sit carefully.” Ash turns on him. The movement happens so fast Rook barely gets the knife up. Ash catches his knife wrist, but Rook slams the metal bar across Ash’s wounded side. Ash folds. I move.

Rook points the blade at me. “Inside.” Ash has one hand braced against the carriage, blood slipping between his fingers. His eyes lift to mine. He wants me behind him. There is nowhere behind him to go. I climb into the carriage. Rook forces Ash beside me and takes the rear-facing seat across from us. A rusted lap bar lowers. It stops several inches above my thighs, loose enough to move beneath. The carriage jerks forward. Ash’s shoulder hits mine. He grunts and catches himself against the bar. The motor drags us through a rotting curtain and into darkness. Portable lamps wake one by one as we pass. A grinning undertaker leans over an open coffin. Painted mourners peel away from the walls. Something mechanical turns its head too late and keeps staring after us. The ride smells like wet timber, old grease, and Ash’s blood. It has spread along his side and down toward his waistband. His hand stays over the cut. Rook keeps the knife low near his knee, close enough to strike either of us before the carriage clears another scene. Ash watches the blade. Rook notices.

“Try it.”

Ash looks up. “I’m considering it.”

“So am I.” The knife tilts toward me. Every muscle in Ash tightens, but he holds perfectly still. Rook smiles behind the beak. The mask hides his mouth. I hear the smile anyway. The carriage jolts across a bad rail joint, slamming Ash’s shoulder into mine and throwing Rook’s knife hand sideways. Ash catches it. Everything happens at once. His fingers crush Rook’s wrist against the seat’s metal edge. Rook drives a boot into Ash’s wounded side, but Ash keeps holding on while the knife scrapes across the lap bar. I grab Rook’s forearm. He punches me across the shoulder with the metal bar. Pain bursts through the bruise. My grip breaks, and Rook tears free before shoving the blade under Ash’s jaw. The carriage enters another dark chamber. Only the lamps beneath the seats remain. Ash goes still. A thin line of blood appears where the blade touches skin. Rook’s breathing is loud behind the mask. Ash’s is louder. I can smell fresh copper.

“Next time, she pays for it.” Ash looks at me. He hates every inch of this. I need him angry and alive. The public broadcast murmurs faintly through a speaker hidden beneath Rook’s coat. His maintenance radio is clipped there too. Old casing. Manual wheel. Short antenna. No digital display. I look away before he catches me studying it.

Rook notices the silence. “You have nothing to say now?”

“Your knife is doing most of the talking.”

His head tilts. “You were louder with an audience.”

“You were farther away.” The carriage enters a chamber painted with cracked red flames. Tarnished mirrors throw the three of us back in broken pieces. Rook lifts the radio and plays a clipped recording. My voice comes through the small speaker. CRIMSON NIGHT SHOULD CLOSE. The sound dies.

Rook lowers the radio. “You already gave them the beginning.”

I stare at him. “If you want something, say it.”

“Tell them the three of them held you here.” Ash’s hand tightens on the lap bar. Rook sees it.

His knife shifts closer to my knee. “Tell them you were manipulated into staying.” I look at Ash. His face has gone frighteningly calm. He is planning something stupid.

“No, I won’t.”