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The elevator doors opened. I stepped in.
CHAPTER 37
GONE
"Elena!"
Leah's voice. I grabbed the elevator door before it closed. Leaning out, I saw Leah jogging from the opposite exit.
"I couldn't get to Savannah," I called.
"Me neither. Shit! All hell's broken loose in there. We'll never get back inside."
"Hurry then."
As she ran, the elevator door jerked, as if trying to close. I shoved it back, but it kept moving, pushing harder and harder until I had to lean against it, straining to hold it open.
"Come on!" I yelled. "Something's wrong with the doors."
When Leah was less than five feet away, the door jolted violently, slamming into my shoulder. I stumbled. Leah reached to grab me, but I fell backward into the elevator car. The doors clanged shut. I jumped up and pounded on the button to reopen the elevator.
"It won't open!" I yelled. "Hit the call button!"
"I am!"
The elevator lurched suddenly. It heaved upward, rocking and jerking so hard I nearly lost my balance. As I grabbed the side rail, a shrill grinding noise split the air. I white-knuckled the rail, brain scrambling to remember what to do in an elevator crash. Bend my knees? Get on the floor? Pray? The elevator slowed, then ground to a halt. I barely dared to breathe, waiting for the floor to give way beneath me. Then the doors opened.
I found myself staring at a waist-high wall. No, not a wall. A floor. The elevator had stopped between levels. As I stepped forward to look out, the elevator jerked again. Machinery groaned in the shaft overhead and the car began sinking. The floor inched from my waist to mid-chest. My window of escape was vanishing--literally. Grabbing the edge of the floor, I vaulted up, lost my grip, and fell back into the car. I clambered to my feet and tried again. This time I managed to keep my hold and wriggle through just as the elevator vanished down the shaft.
As I looked around, I recognized the top floor. So the elevator had brought me all the way up. Praise be. If I'd been let off on the middle level, I wouldn't have had a clue where to find a staircase.
I took a moment to compose myself and remember where the exit was. To my left, at the end of the hall. As I turned, voices echoed through the corridor, coming toward me from the rear. I looked around for a hiding place. There was a door about twenty feet down the hall. I sprinted for it, threw the door open, and was jumping inside when I realized the voices had stopped. The guards were back at the elevator. As I listened, they argued over what to do about the broken elevator, then unanimously decided to hand the decision to someone else--namely Tucker. A minute later, they were gone.
I waited until the sound of their boots receded into silence, then I eased from my hiding spot, looked both ways and ran. The corridor ended in a small room. Inside was the door to freedom. All I had to do was open it. And to open it, all I needed was the retina and handprint of an authorized person. Goddamn it! Why hadn't I thought of this? Getting to this level was only half the problem.
The voices near the elevator returned. Back already? I raced for the closet again. Once inside, I listened. Only two voices this time. They were waiting for their companions to return with Tucker. I didn't have time to think up a foolproof plan, or much of any plan at all. I didn't stand a chance against more than two guards. If I hesitated, I'd be trapped in this closet until someone found me.
Pushing open the door, I checked the hall and made sure I couldn't see the guards--meaning they couldn't see me. As quietly as possible, I hustled toward the elevator. I stopped at the corner, crouched, and peered around it. The guards faced the opposite wall, one peering into the elevator shaft, the other bitching about the delay. I took one breath, then launched myself at the first guard, knocking him into the elevator shaft. His arms windmilled once, and he plunged out of sight. I nearly stumbled in after him and managed to avoid it only by using the momentum to twist and spring at the second guard. His hand went for his gun. As he yanked out the pistol, I snatched it from his hand and flung it down the elevator shaft. Then I slapped my palm over the guard's mouth and shoved him forward. When he resisted, I heaved him off the ground and carried him. His feet kicked frantically. One struck my torn kneecap, sending such a jolt of pain through my leg that I pitched forward. A hairsbr
eadth from dropping him, I regained my grip and started to run, half-stumbling, half-loping toward the exit.
I dragged the guard to the door. The security panel was the same as those on the cell-block exits. I hit the button Bauer had used and jammed the guard's chin upward. As the camera whirred, the guard realized what I was doing and shut his eyes. But it was too late. The first light flashed green. I grabbed the guard's hand and wrenched open his fist. Bones snapped. I forced his broken fingers around the door handle. The second light turned green. Placing my hand over his, I yanked open the door. Then I snapped his neck. I didn't hesitate, didn't wonder whether I had to kill him, if there wasn't some other way. I didn't have time for a conscience. I killed him, dumped his body on the floor, grabbed his boots, and bolted.
I raced into the forest, eschewing the network of paths and heading for the thick brush. No one came after me. They would. The question was how far I'd get before they did. How many miles to the nearest town? Which direction? I pushed back the first tendrils of panic. Finding civilization couldn't be my first priority. Getting someplace safe was more important. While the residual human in me equated public places with safety, I knew that any hiding place far enough from the compound would suffice. Run far, take cover, and recuperate. Then I could concentrate on finding a telephone.
It was another night like the one when Winsloe had hunted Lake: cold, damp, and overcast, the moon dimmed by cloud cover. A beautiful night for a prison break. The darkness would cover me, and the cold would keep me from overheating. As I soon discovered, though, body temperature wasn't a problem. I couldn't move fast enough to work up a sweat. Off the paths, the woods were rain-forest thick. Every ground-level inch was clogged with vines and dead vegetation. Every aboveground inch was covered with bushes and spindly trees, all vying for pockets of sunlight unclaimed by the towering old-growth forest. Here and there I stumbled onto paths trodden by deer, but I kept losing them as they petered out into thin trails already reclaimed by wilderness. A place for animals, not humans. Now, unlike most prison escapees, I had the option of turning into an animal, but I couldn't spare ten minutes to Change. Not while I was still so close to the compound. Any pursuing guards would be on foot so, for now, I could afford to share their disadvantage.
As I barreled through the forest, I realized I had one--or several--physical disadvantages not shared by the guards. First, I was wearing a pair of men's size twelve boots on women's size ten feet. More important, I was injured. Cuts covered my arms and face, stinging each time a branch whipped back against me. I ached from the zillion other still-healing wounds accumulated in the past week. I could live with that, though. Grit my teeth and be a big girl. My knee was another matter. Since Bauer had ripped it open in the infirmary, the fire had died to a dull, constant burning. The guard's kicks had reignited the flames, and running through the forest was only adding oxygen to blaze. After twenty minutes, I was limping. Limping badly. Hot blood streamed down my shin, and raw flesh rubbed against my pants, telling me Tucker's sewing job had come apart. I had to Change. Simple arithmetic: One bum leg out of four was twice as good as one out of two.
I slowed, moving more carefully now so I wouldn't leave an obvious trodden path. After I zigzagged for five minutes, I found a thicket, crawled inside, and listened. Still no sound of pursuers. I pulled off my clothes and Changed.
I was still straining with the final stages of my Change when something knocked me to the ground. Leaping up, I twisted to face my attacker. A rottweiler stood three feet away, growling, a stalactite of drool quivering from his curled upper lip. To his left was a large bloodhound. A tracking dog and a killer. These two hadn't strayed from a neighboring farm. They'd come from the compound. Damn it! I hadn't even realized they had any dogs. The kennel must have been outside. If I'd paused before bolting into the woods, I would have smelled the dogs and have prepared. But I hadn't taken the time.
My Change finished, I pulled myself up to my full height. The hound wheeled and ran, not so much intimidated as confused, seeing a canine and smelling a human. The rottweiler stood his ground and waited for me to take the next step in the dance of ritualized intimidation. Instead, I leaped at him. Screw ritual. Now was no time to stand on ceremony. Tracking dogs meant pursuing guards, and pursuing guards meant guns. I preferred to take my chances with the rottweiler.
My sudden attack caught the dog off guard, and I sank my teeth into his haunch before he tore away. He twisted to grab me, but I darted out of reach. When I lunged again, he was ready, rearing to meet me in mid-jump. We crashed together, both struggling for the crucial neck hold. His teeth grazed my lower jaw. Too close for comfort. I broke away and sprang to my feet. The rottweiler scrambled up and leaped at me. I waited until the last second, then feinted left. He hit the ground, all four legs flying out to stop his slide. I dashed behind him and vaulted onto his back. As he fell, he twisted, jaws snapping onto my foreleg. Pain shot through me, but I resisted the urge to jerk away. I slashed at his unprotected throat, teeth ripping through fur and flesh. The rottweiler convulsed, bucking to throw me free. My head shot down again, this time grabbing his mangled throat and pinning him to the ground. I waited until he stopped struggling, then let go and ran.
Already the baying of a hound reverberated through the night air. The ground vibrated with running paws. Three dogs, maybe four. The hound had rediscovered his courage in a backup team. Could I fight four dogs? No, but experience had taught me that one or two would run from a werewolf, as the hound had. Could I handle those that remained? As I wondered this, someone shouted, making the decision for me. In the time it would take me to challenge and fight the dogs, the guards would be on us. My options narrowed to two: Throw the hound off my trail or lead the dogs away from their handlers. Either way, I had to run.
