Page 36 of Burn Like An Angel

“Too late. Dealer’s choice.”

My curled first snaps outward to connect with his face. I lavish the sight of his nose exploding into bloody fireworks upon impact. The lurid red splats coating his shocked face are mesmerising.

I wonder what the blood would look like spilling from his broken skull. Shards of bone and soft, squelchy tissue floating in the remains. He wouldn’t lay another finger on Ripley then. Not without his head intact.

Bringing my knee up to smash into his stomach, I wait for his pained wheeze before punching him again. Over and over. The pain slicing across my knuckles is an exquisite shot of pure adrenaline. Heavenly.

His friends stand there, shuffling their feet like they’re stuck watching an uninteresting theatre performance. Neither moves to intervene.

“Tell me, did you scream and beg for mercy when their experiments began?” I ask conversationally.

Punch. Crack. Ooze.

“Perhaps you prayed for someone to come to save you from the big, bad doctor.”

Smack. Crunch. Splat.

“Truthfully? You should’ve stayed down there.” I laugh loudly. “It would’ve been safer.”

Thwack. Grind. Squirt.

His attempts to fight back are feeble at best. Inconsequential. I’ve switched gears and slotted into a less-visited corner of my mind. The primitive part that embraced violence and strength to endure the same torture he did.

The pain of each blow is insignificant. My tired muscles protesting. Stomach growling. Head pounding with exhaustion. Human weakness wasn’t allowed in Priory Lane, so I quickly learned how to block it out.

Pausing, I hold him by the throat, watching the crimson rivulets spill over his cheeks. “At least down there, you were safe from me.”

With a final, bone-grinding hit, I toss his unconscious carcass to the floor. Rick rolls through debris and sharp glass, a wet rattle pushing past his lips. Disappointing. I’d hoped he would beg before passing out.

As satisfying as it would be to bleed the bastard dry, a part of me is curious to see how many pieces Bancroft and his organisation will cut him into as punishment for leading the riot.

I look up at the two patients standing there watching the show, a single brow raised. Still neither moves to attack.

“This piece of shit is going to get himself killed when the authorities decide to intervene. Unless you’d like to join him, I suggest you consider your options.”

“Options?” the female patient repeats. “We’re here to fight.”

“We know the truth about the real experimental program. Incendia will target us first when the riot ends.”

“You weren’t with us.” She pulls her head back in confusion.

“Not in Harrowdean,” I correct with a shrug. “But every institute in the country has a Z wing program.”

Her eyes widen as she seems to view me in a new light. Even her close-mouthed friend seems thoughtful. Regardless of our choices, we’re facing the same threat. Total fucking annihilation.

“This is bigger than all of us.” I look between them. “Your pathetic riot means nothing to a multi-million pound corporation.”

Colour drains from the female patient’s face, making her bruises and visible injuries stand out. Her bravado is vanishing faster than our chances of survival.

“Do you really think we’ll be rescued and released like this asshole is saying?”

“Well… The others… He…” she struggles. “We have hostages!”

The woman is as stupid as the rest of these morons, skipping around with their unearthed contraband and makeshift weapons, thinking this is some kind of game. It’s laughable.

“The only reason management hasn’t stormed Harrowdean and wiped us out is the media attention. When that dies down, they’ll bring in the bulldozers.”

Their posture changes—both seeming to shirk away from the writhing bag of organs at my feet.

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