Screams no longer ring out from inside the facility, and my worry mounts as the silence grows. Waiting has a price. One I’d happily pay. It sickens me to my core that this time I can’t.
It’s not the only reason I’m going in—but it’s the one that matters most.
There will also be supplies. Food stores. Clothing. Medical kits, if I’m lucky. And facilities like this have libraries, too—records, manuals, maps. Useful things. Plus, there’s a chance the armory hasn’t already been stripped bare, so there may be weapons.
All of it matters.
Not more than the lives crying out for help, but I can’t discount or forget my other reasons for seeking this place out.
For days, I’ve watched from a distance, keeping my ears open and my eyes sharp, cataloging patterns and counting movements. They're quiet during daylight. I suspect it’s due to the heat, which is thick and oppressive here. It’s probably driving them to seek shelter during the day and only move about outdoors after dusk.
When they do move about, they’re easier to track, since most of them carry flashlights, thin beams slicing through shadow.
From my perch on the hillside, I’ve studied them for over a week. There are at least five of them, maybe more. Guards, prisoners, civilians—I can’t tell from this distance, but what they are doesn’t change my plans. I’m going in regardless.
Thankfully, the fencing is no longer powered with electricity, not that I plan to scale it and climb over the razor wire. But if I do have to make a hasty escape, it’s an option.
The route I’ve already mapped out shows the best place to gain access is on the west side. I’ll cut a man-sized hole in the fence out of the windows or the guard tower.
But I’ve had to wait until the elixir is mostly out of my system, and my skin shines under the sunlight with its true coloring.
Today is that day. Using a nearby tree as a shield, I disrobe and change into the outfit in my bag, worn jeans and a beige heart-shaped top that hugs too closely to be practical. An old jacket goes over it, soft with age and travel. I trade boots for sneakers. Worn and torn clothing reminiscent of what a lone woman might wear when traveling and fighting for survival.
Picking up a handful of dirt from the forest floor, I smear it over my clothing, arms, and face. I rip a few holes in my top and stretch them out.
Next comes the pain. I stare at the blade as I prepare myself. I draw a breath and hold it as I press the blade into the meaty part of my thigh, slicing cleanly through denim and skin. Blood wells immediately. I grit my teeth through the pain and slash another cut across my left side.
The wounds will make my sudden appearance more believable, and the pain will both sharpen my focus.
With a branch and leaves from the ground, I mark myself up—scrapes, smudges, signs of flight. When I’m finished, I stash what I won’t need in my bag. Then I begin arming myself. I stuff the handgun behind my waist, throw the rifle strap over my shoulder, and strap a knife to my belt.
No woman in her right mind would travel through these hills unarmed, and I need to look the part. Like a woman fleeing for her life and seeking shelter from the hell on her heels.
I take the eastern slope, keeping close to the trees as I descend. The air grows warmer with every step, carrying the faint scent of ash and old smoke. My cutters whisper and click through the fence, opening a gap just wide enough for me to slip through. Thankfully, I do so without raising any alarms.
Once on the inside, I note the buildings that have suffered the most damage during whatever occurred here. The bullet holes and marks of a bomb or a fire blemish the large slabs of stone that make up the exterior walls.
Most of the windows are high up, and a few are broken, their glass shards having rained down and now lying on the pavement in the prison’s courtyard.
My pulse steadies as I move toward whatever doom lies before me. I pull the handgun from my waist and keep it at the ready as I search for an open doorway. The first I come to leads into a dark hallway. Zero light, and zero sound. I lean against the inner wall and give my eyes a moment to adjust. I center myself, push down every bit of fear that tries to rise, and force myself to move.
I searched two entire buildings and found nothing. It’s not until I enter the third that I hear evidence of human life. The sound of heavy boots, and mewling that’s distant and barely audible.
The cells in this area have large metal doors, not bars, and I hide inside an open one as the footsteps get closer by the second. I slowly place my rifle on the floor, then stand as I trade the gun for the knife and wait. I slow my breathing and squeeze my grip around the blade handle.
The glow from the flashlight grows across the floor, giving me an idea of how close he is. The instant he gets to the doorway, I scuff my sneaker across the floor, and as I anticipated, he stops.
“Someone there?”
He enters, and I pounce. I slam my elbow into his windpipe. There’s a grunt. His gun drops to the floor, then skids across it. Not a guard then. Or a careless one.
While he’s gasping, I’m spinning and plant my boot straight into his gut, knocking him back. He stumbles into the corridor with a wheezing gasp, arms flailing as he fights for balance. I don’t give him time to recover. The second kick I deliver relocates his balls to another part of his anatomy. The groan he releases is guttural, and his knees give way as he buckles forward.
The clean slice across his Adam's apple has his throat opening like ripened fruit under a hot blade. Blood spills in a fountain down his chest. His hands go from his dick to his neck, even as dread fills his eyes. His mouth opens and closes like that of a fish out of water. No sound, just unintelligible gurgles.
I scoop up his dropped weapon and scan the corridor, listening for raised voices or running feet. The facility remains wrapped in its uneasy quiet, but that won’t last long. I trade his gun for the one behind my waist as I leave him to take his last breaths against the cold tile floor.
The next guy doesn’t go down as easily. My first strike is with the heel of my palm straight into his sternum, then I hook my foot behind his ankle and sweep. His legs fly out from under him, and he hits the concrete on his back with a bone-jarring crack.
