Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Eddy’s face flickers, splitting into four, then eight, a range of smirks as their hands tear at me, peeling away layers of who I’d been.
Their grunts turn feral, desperate. Sticky.
My existence is a void, one that’s suffocating but will be a reminder with every breath I take. Just kill me.
I’m not here. I’m not anywhere.
My eyes close, the tension floating away. Everything… floating away.
If I survive, will I want some grand, bloody revenge where I come back with a knife and carve their names into their own skin?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
No.
Sometimes survival can be simpler. Crueler in its silence.
Sometimes, the promise of never seeing their faces again is more satisfying than violence.
“Yes,” I whisper to myself, that final bit of fatigue pulling me under with every rock of their hips.
That will be my survival. That will be my win.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Hella
“Get it out!” Beast gestures for the pliers, and I dump the backpack on the ground, fishing out the set.
Three pliers stolen, a Zippo, someone's half packet of cigarettes, and a stack of cash.
Another bullet tears through the iron gate.
“Hurry up!” I spin around, lifting my hand with the gun and scanning the area. We have four minutes left.
Four minutes.
I'm not feeling optimistic.
“Hella!” Beast's voice snaps me back, and I dive into the hole he's torn open before we're both off again, our feet pounding dirt and dodging falling trees.
More bullets scream past, missing the shoulder they grazed earlier. Never thought I'd say it but thank fuck for the Schyronide in my system numbing most of the pain.
Beast stumbles beside me, his breathing ragged.
“Left!” I grab Beast's arm, yanking him behind a thick trunk as gunfire peppers the spot we just left. Bark explodes next to my head.
Jesus fuck. I guess this is what you get for escaping a fucked up system that doesn't want you to leave.
We sprint through underbrush, branches whipping our faces. Our only shot of losing these fuckers is finding the highway that runs through here, but all this running has my lungs burning and my muscles on fire.
Flipside is we die, so I can cry about the pain later.
“There!” Beast points to where trees thin out ahead, moonlight glinting off metal guardrails.
We burst through the treeline onto asphalt and spot an old Chevy abandoned on the shoulder.
My heart pounds harder—finally some fucking luck.
“Cover me!” I sprint toward the car, Beast close behind. More shots crack through the night. One hits the pavement near my feet, sending up sparks.
We reach the car, and Beast goes for the driver's door. Hell the fuck no. I shove him aside.
He glares at me. “The fuck you doing?”
“You can't hot-wire shit.” I slam my elbow into the window, shattering the glass. Locks pop up, and I slip in, ripping open the steering column.
Beast slides into the passenger seat as I strip wires with my teeth. “Hurry up, they're coming!”
“Shut up and let me focus.” My hands shake as I touch the right wires together, again and again until the engine coughs once, twice, then roars to life.
Headlights sweep across us as a Vanguard vehicle screams around the bend.
“Go go go!” Beast yells.
I slam it into drive and stomp the gas. Tires shriek against the pavement as we fishtail onto the highway.
We’re out.
No.
We’re actually out.
Adrenaline spreads through my veins. Never thought I'd ever see the ass end of that place.
“Where we going?” I finally break the silence between us, looking between the road and Beast. This was going to be different for him, since he'd never seen the world outside Vanguard.
He swallows, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a photo. “You know where Tāwaha is?”
I snatch the photo from his fingers. “You mean as in the North Island?”
He nods once, eyes on the road, as if he looks at me too long, the universe will revoke this shit. “That’s where he is.”
Why the fuck did he say he like that…
I scan the photo. It’s creased and old, with faded ink at the corners. A guy with Beast’s jaw stands in front of a line of bikes outside farmhouse with WOODSMEN MOTORCYCLE CLUB carved across the front.
There's an address scribbled into the corner.
Tāwaha, Aotearoa.
“You sure this is real?” I ask, unsure.
“No.” He drags his palm over his mouth. “But it's not Vanguard. That’s enough.”
Fair.
We drive.
Hours blur into gray road and yellow lines and the occasional suicidal rabbit sprinting across our path. The South Island scenery stretches out long and empty, cold air leaking through the broken window and numbing my cut-up forearm.
Beast dozes in five-minute hits, head landing on the window before jolting awake like he’s expecting a siren or an alarm or someone screaming his number.
Same.
Every parked car we pass could be Vanguard.
Every truck climbing up behind us sits in my rearview a little too long.
My brain runs profiles without permission. Distance. Speed. Headlight spread.