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Me? I was frozen. Nothing seemed real. An almost surreal-like haze obscured my vision. Was I dreaming? Was this a nightmare?
Between my gasps of terror, one coherent thought spliced through my horror. Save them.
Almost mechanically, my hand closed on the handle of a pan. Yes, I know, a totally badass weapon. I probably should’ve grabbed one of the large knives that were still by the vegetables. I mean, that would’ve been smarter than a dumb pan, but my thoughts weren’t on “which kitchen appliance would inflict the most pain”. Nope, they were merely “fuck fuckity fuck” like a normal person.
I meant to aim for Chef’s head, but my short stature restricted such a movement. Instead, the pan connected with his balls. Now how, you may ask, did I mix up a man’s head with his manhood? That was a very interesting question, and it had an even better answer.
Which you will hear at a later time because, currently, I was meeting the wide-eyes of Ryder from where he had released the heavier man. He was panting, leaning against the kitchen counter with sweat beading across his forehead.
“Shit, Addie,” he said, wincing in sympathy. His hand instinctively moved to cover his own balls, as if he was afraid my ball-clumsiness was contagious. Did he have such little faith in me?
“It was kind of an accident,” I muttered, slightly indignant. Whatever Ryder was going to say was interrupted by a rasping groan. Chef was ambling back to his feet, greasy hair matted down with blood and other unsavory substances. A pungent smell reached me as he took a step closer, hands outstretched. I raised my pan.
If that fucker wanted another swing to the penis, then I would be more than happy to deliver.
Asher came from behind Chef, arms constricting around the other man’s meaty neck. Chef buckled against his weight, but Asher held firm. It reminded me, vaguely, of a bull attempting to dislodge a rider. Chef’s red, piercing eyes began to slowly close, as if he was incapable of keeping them opened for a second longer. He slumped to the ground like a bag of rocks.
Asher and Ryder surrounded me immediately, each breathing heavily.
“Are you okay?” Asher asked between pants.
“I should be asking you that. All I did was hit him in the balls.”
“Cheap shot,” Ryder muttered, and I gave him a glare.
“Next time, I’ll just allow him to eat your face off!” I was lying, obviously, but he didn’t need to know that. I would never allow Ryder to lose his beautiful face. But a hand? He could survive with only one.
“We need to get down to the basement. Now,” Asher said, grabbing at my arm. His fingernails dug into my sensitive flesh, but I barely even flinched. I was used to pain. I welcomed it.
“No!” I argued, wrenching my hand free. The attempt was futile, for Ryder merely grabbed my other arm and began pulling me the direction we came from. “I need to find my parents and get them to safety.”
“Something strange is going on,” Ryder insisted. He ignored my protests as we moved down the now abandoned hallway. I hoped that meant everybody had gotten to safety. I refused to think of the alternative.
The alternative being, hundreds upon hundreds of red eyed, black veined zombies lurking through the resort. Was that what they were? Zombies?
No, that didn’t seem right. There had been something resembling coherence in Chef’s gaze, as well as Buttlicker’s. It was hungry, almost feral, but it had most definitely still been human. I tried to recall the latest newscast, but my mind had been more focused on the inconsistent weather than on any strange viruses.
What the living hell was happening?
“That’s what I would like to know,” Asher muttered. He sounded uncharacteristically tense, and his muscles were held taut. For the first time since we started this mission, I reached for his hand and tugged him to a stop.
“Hey,” I said, waiting until his eyes were on me. They were dimmer than usual, a mere reflection of his usual vibrant gaze. “You have to understand that what happened with Chef wasn’t your fault. He was going to kill us, and you merely defended us and yourself. Do you understand?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. I understood all too well the pulls of self-pity. You could drown in it, bask in the sorrow as it formed an unbreakable barrier around you. I didn’t want that for Asher. No, he was too gentle, too kind, to experience such a leaden, miserable feeling. If I could take some of the burden off his shoulders, then I would do so happily. “He’s not dead, okay? He’s only unconscious. He’s sick, but he’ll be fine. We’ll send him into a doctor after the tornado dissipates, and everything will be okay.”
I could tell he didn’t fully believe me, but I didn’t know what other words of comfort to offer him. Guilt speared my chest. It was my fault that Asher had been in the kitchen in the first place. The stubborn boy had chosen to follow me, despite my protests. If anyone should be blamed for what had happened with Chef, it should be me.
I didn’t say any of that to Asher or Ryder. Instead, I gave the former’s hand a squeeze and led him further down the hall, back towards the elevator.
I wasn’t surprised to find the other boys waiting for us when we arrived. What were they, stupid? Why hadn’t they gone downstairs?
“We were waiting for you,” Declan signed in exasperation.
See? Idiots.
“We’re not idiots,” Calax grumbled.
Total idiots.
“Let’s get down to the basement,” Asher instructed. He touched my shoulder, urging me in the direction of the elevator. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to take an elevator when there was a tornado nearby, but we weren’t thinking clearly. Could you blame us? We all just wanted to escape this hellhole as soon as possible.
