Firstlife
Page 24
A composite number. A prime number. The prime factors are: 7, 59, 2011
My brain wants to dissect each of the individual numbers, but there’s no time. I drop the hand beside the scalpel and beat feet to the best of my ability, heading for Vans’s office.
The number of obstacles in my way: two, at the very least. Nurse Ratched will be nearby just in case Vans has need of—
I trip, landing with a hard thud, losing my breath. I look over my shoulder and discover Nurse Ratched slumped against the wall, her neck at an odd angle.
Ooo-kay. One obstacle. The lock on the office door.
In the distance thunders a stampede of feet, the wild cheers of inmates, the thud of furniture being turned over. An alarm screeches to life.
My best isn’t good enough; I have to do better. I scramble up and lurch into motion, hobbling instead of running.
“Ten! Ten!”
The voice comes from behind me. I turn. Sloan is beating at the gate that separates the prisoners’ wing from the offices. Her features are ablaze with a combination of excitement and strain, her fingers curled around the wire so tightly, her knuckles are bleached. Behind her, several kids are beating Colonel Anus and Ben Dover into pulp and powder. Fists are flying. Feet are kicking. Nails are raking and teeth are biting. The guards struggle...at first.
“Get your ass over here!” Sloan demands.
The kids responsible for beating—killing—Anus and Ben appear beside her, blood smeared on their faces, coating their hands.
Do I attempt to rescue, despite my weakness? Or do I flee while I can?
As if I don’t already know the answer. I needed help, and Killian and Bow stepped up. These kids need me. I have to do my part.
“Have you seen Killian or Bow?” I ask, limping over.
“No.” Sloan glances behind her. “Hurry!”
I press the severed hand against the ID pad, swipe the card along the side, but...the door remains closed, exactly as I feared, as the screen asks for a code. What should I do?
Frustrated, I beat Vans’s hand against the pad. My gaze is drawn to the number. The number! Could it be the code? With a quivering finger, I jab at the keypad. Success! The lock disengages, and the kids are able to shoulder their way past me.
I return the severed hand to its place and move down the hall.
“Idiot!” Sloan shouts. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Have to find Killian and Bow,” I call. Can’t leave them here to clear the way for me, endangering themselves further, when my way no longer needs clearing.
Kids, kids, are everywhere, fighting the guards and orderlies with equal fury; they are winning, but there’s no sign of my helpers. I step over a motionless, bloody body—Comrade Douche has a baton stuffed down his throat.
Someone slams into me from behind, pushed by someone else. I trip forward and knock into yet another person. An inmate. His gaze is wild as he swings around, his fist already cocked and loaded to issue punishment. A rush of adrenaline loosens my sore limbs and I duck, avoiding contact, then dart past him.
I search every open cell, every corridor. Still no sign. Zero! Maybe they’ve already left?
I brave the boys’ ward with no luck and return to the gate. The crowd has thinned considerably, but D-bag and Titball have taken posts on either side. Both men wield a baton, beating on anyone who comes into striking range. Namely three girls and two boys desperate for freedom. So desperate, they continually throw themselves at the guards despite the fact that their bodies are already bloody and battered, their energy almost completely depleted.
Dread floods me, and I grind to a stop. New obstacles in my way: two.
A pair. The atomic number of helium. Once again my number of choices.
Fight or flight?
My trembling magnifies. I want out, and I won’t leave the kids behind; I have to fight.
Deep breath in...out... I square my shoulders, take stock. D-bag is holding one of the boys on the floor with one hand and beating him with the other. Titball has pinned the others in the corner, but his eyes are locked on me.
Kill him.
Killian’s voice whispers through my mind. A hallucination, I know. And why not? I’m Nutter.
Disarm him and move on.
Now I hear the disembodied voice from Vans’s office.
My mind flashes back to every leer, push, punch and battle. Every time I was dragged down the halls. My calendar. Today’s chains and poison.
Obstacle. I’ll kill! My wrists and shoulders scream in protest as I rush forward. Along the way, I grab the scalpel I stole from Vans. One second I’m twisting to avoid being grabbed by Titball, the next I’m stabbing him in the neck. Jab, jab, jab.
He drops to the floor, his body twitching.
I expect satisfaction. Instead I want to cry.
I’m panting as the inmates move away from D-bag and me, peering at me as if I’ve done something both horrifying and amazing—as if I’m as bad as our enemy.
“Stay here or follow me.” I pull out the severed hand and key card. “Your choice.”
Chapter seven
“Fear keeps you alive. Fear reminds you that you are alive.”
—Myriad
Alarm blasting.
Blood soaking my hands.
Kids babbling at my sides.
Problems mounting one after another.
Because I worked the locks, I’m the last to make it through the secret door that’s hidden behind the fireplace in Vans’s office. I race down a long narrow hallway, the walls and floor made of concrete. I pass another open door and enter...hell on ice. Zero! The thin lab coat and even thinner uniform offer little protection from the harsh winterscape now surrounding me. I’m on a mountain. There’s snow at my feet, in the trees and dancing in the wind.
A loud boom suddenly assaults my ears. As a bolt of lightning cuts through the sky, the land below me vibrates. The realms are still fighting?
My eyes tear from the cold—the tears instantly freeze. With only a single breath, my nose, throat and lungs burn as if they’ve been scalded by acid. Goose bumps rise from my head to my toes, and I shudder. Kids I’ve ignored and fought, liked and disliked, are running in every direction, but they aren’t running fast. Hypothermia is already setting up camp, their blood turning into sludge.
How long can we survive out here? A few hours...perhaps an entire day if we’re hearty?
We’re not hearty. Me most of all.
Whatever. Have to try. Can’t go back.
I motor forward.
Boom! The noise doesn’t come from the sky but the ground. A few yards away, an inmate—just—explodes, bits and pieces of...of...human flying in every direction. I flail for purchase, but the ground is too slick. I skid while swallowing bile as those bits and pieces plop all over the ground.
Screams of fear erupt. Chaos reigns.
Another battle between the realms, or maybe land mines? To my knowledge, a realm battle has never ripped a person into a thousand pieces. “Be still,” I shout, but no one hears me. We have to take a minute, figure this out, search for other bombs.
I scan the area and manage to find the ignition site. Smoke curls toward a sky that’s set ablaze by a dipping sun. Oh...my... Daylight! For a moment, I forget where I am, forget the horror of what just happened and the trials I’ve endured. The colors—gold, pink, blue—are mesmerizing.
Is Troika like this?
My brain wants to dissect each of the individual numbers, but there’s no time. I drop the hand beside the scalpel and beat feet to the best of my ability, heading for Vans’s office.
The number of obstacles in my way: two, at the very least. Nurse Ratched will be nearby just in case Vans has need of—
I trip, landing with a hard thud, losing my breath. I look over my shoulder and discover Nurse Ratched slumped against the wall, her neck at an odd angle.
Ooo-kay. One obstacle. The lock on the office door.
In the distance thunders a stampede of feet, the wild cheers of inmates, the thud of furniture being turned over. An alarm screeches to life.
My best isn’t good enough; I have to do better. I scramble up and lurch into motion, hobbling instead of running.
“Ten! Ten!”
The voice comes from behind me. I turn. Sloan is beating at the gate that separates the prisoners’ wing from the offices. Her features are ablaze with a combination of excitement and strain, her fingers curled around the wire so tightly, her knuckles are bleached. Behind her, several kids are beating Colonel Anus and Ben Dover into pulp and powder. Fists are flying. Feet are kicking. Nails are raking and teeth are biting. The guards struggle...at first.
“Get your ass over here!” Sloan demands.
The kids responsible for beating—killing—Anus and Ben appear beside her, blood smeared on their faces, coating their hands.
Do I attempt to rescue, despite my weakness? Or do I flee while I can?
As if I don’t already know the answer. I needed help, and Killian and Bow stepped up. These kids need me. I have to do my part.
“Have you seen Killian or Bow?” I ask, limping over.
“No.” Sloan glances behind her. “Hurry!”
I press the severed hand against the ID pad, swipe the card along the side, but...the door remains closed, exactly as I feared, as the screen asks for a code. What should I do?
Frustrated, I beat Vans’s hand against the pad. My gaze is drawn to the number. The number! Could it be the code? With a quivering finger, I jab at the keypad. Success! The lock disengages, and the kids are able to shoulder their way past me.
I return the severed hand to its place and move down the hall.
“Idiot!” Sloan shouts. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“Have to find Killian and Bow,” I call. Can’t leave them here to clear the way for me, endangering themselves further, when my way no longer needs clearing.
Kids, kids, are everywhere, fighting the guards and orderlies with equal fury; they are winning, but there’s no sign of my helpers. I step over a motionless, bloody body—Comrade Douche has a baton stuffed down his throat.
Someone slams into me from behind, pushed by someone else. I trip forward and knock into yet another person. An inmate. His gaze is wild as he swings around, his fist already cocked and loaded to issue punishment. A rush of adrenaline loosens my sore limbs and I duck, avoiding contact, then dart past him.
I search every open cell, every corridor. Still no sign. Zero! Maybe they’ve already left?
I brave the boys’ ward with no luck and return to the gate. The crowd has thinned considerably, but D-bag and Titball have taken posts on either side. Both men wield a baton, beating on anyone who comes into striking range. Namely three girls and two boys desperate for freedom. So desperate, they continually throw themselves at the guards despite the fact that their bodies are already bloody and battered, their energy almost completely depleted.
Dread floods me, and I grind to a stop. New obstacles in my way: two.
A pair. The atomic number of helium. Once again my number of choices.
Fight or flight?
My trembling magnifies. I want out, and I won’t leave the kids behind; I have to fight.
Deep breath in...out... I square my shoulders, take stock. D-bag is holding one of the boys on the floor with one hand and beating him with the other. Titball has pinned the others in the corner, but his eyes are locked on me.
Kill him.
Killian’s voice whispers through my mind. A hallucination, I know. And why not? I’m Nutter.
Disarm him and move on.
Now I hear the disembodied voice from Vans’s office.
My mind flashes back to every leer, push, punch and battle. Every time I was dragged down the halls. My calendar. Today’s chains and poison.
Obstacle. I’ll kill! My wrists and shoulders scream in protest as I rush forward. Along the way, I grab the scalpel I stole from Vans. One second I’m twisting to avoid being grabbed by Titball, the next I’m stabbing him in the neck. Jab, jab, jab.
He drops to the floor, his body twitching.
I expect satisfaction. Instead I want to cry.
I’m panting as the inmates move away from D-bag and me, peering at me as if I’ve done something both horrifying and amazing—as if I’m as bad as our enemy.
“Stay here or follow me.” I pull out the severed hand and key card. “Your choice.”
Chapter seven
“Fear keeps you alive. Fear reminds you that you are alive.”
—Myriad
Alarm blasting.
Blood soaking my hands.
Kids babbling at my sides.
Problems mounting one after another.
Because I worked the locks, I’m the last to make it through the secret door that’s hidden behind the fireplace in Vans’s office. I race down a long narrow hallway, the walls and floor made of concrete. I pass another open door and enter...hell on ice. Zero! The thin lab coat and even thinner uniform offer little protection from the harsh winterscape now surrounding me. I’m on a mountain. There’s snow at my feet, in the trees and dancing in the wind.
A loud boom suddenly assaults my ears. As a bolt of lightning cuts through the sky, the land below me vibrates. The realms are still fighting?
My eyes tear from the cold—the tears instantly freeze. With only a single breath, my nose, throat and lungs burn as if they’ve been scalded by acid. Goose bumps rise from my head to my toes, and I shudder. Kids I’ve ignored and fought, liked and disliked, are running in every direction, but they aren’t running fast. Hypothermia is already setting up camp, their blood turning into sludge.
How long can we survive out here? A few hours...perhaps an entire day if we’re hearty?
We’re not hearty. Me most of all.
Whatever. Have to try. Can’t go back.
I motor forward.
Boom! The noise doesn’t come from the sky but the ground. A few yards away, an inmate—just—explodes, bits and pieces of...of...human flying in every direction. I flail for purchase, but the ground is too slick. I skid while swallowing bile as those bits and pieces plop all over the ground.
Screams of fear erupt. Chaos reigns.
Another battle between the realms, or maybe land mines? To my knowledge, a realm battle has never ripped a person into a thousand pieces. “Be still,” I shout, but no one hears me. We have to take a minute, figure this out, search for other bombs.
I scan the area and manage to find the ignition site. Smoke curls toward a sky that’s set ablaze by a dipping sun. Oh...my... Daylight! For a moment, I forget where I am, forget the horror of what just happened and the trials I’ve endured. The colors—gold, pink, blue—are mesmerizing.
Is Troika like this?
