Page 47 of Don't Watch Alone
But I’m through with being the prey.
When Robert’s shadow appears on the floor in front of me, I jump out from my hiding place behind the mannequins, letting out a scream that sounds unfamiliar. He doubles over with a guttural sound as the extinguisher hits him in the ribs. I don’t wait. I swing again, catching his shoulder this time, then turn, spraying the extinguisher blindly into the air.
A blast of white mist surges into the store. Christian yells, coughing and swearing as the dust blinds him. I dash throughthe mist, leaving Robert suffering on the floor, returning to the mall hallways.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I know that if I stop, I die.
I keep running until the white haze thins, and I stumble into the central courtyard. The fountain in front of me is bone-dry, its cracked tiles resembling missing teeth; moonlight streams through the skylight, covering the area in an icy, holy light—a cathedral for the deceased.
The silence is shattered by a damp, raspy cough.
I spin. Christian stumbles out of the mist, ash staining his shirt, still gripping his knife. The grin he had before is gone. His eyes are nothing but murder.
“You hit Rob,” he wheezes, dragging one leg. “You actually hit him. You’re dead for that.”
I grip the fire extinguisher firmly, my arms trembling from exhaustion and fear.
Then Robert comes into view, his face a mask of rage and blood, dragging the crowbar across the tile. The metallic scrape screeches through the open area, a sound like bone against bone.
“Nowhere left to run,” he growls. “Time to finish this.”
Something in me splits wide open. I’m done running. I’m done being their prey.
I charge.
Christian lunges first, knife flashing before me. I swing the extinguisher like a bat. It slams into his forearm with a sickening crack. He screams, the knife clattering to the floor. I don’t stop. I swing again, smashing it across his face. He falls against the fountain’s edge with blood coming out of his mouth.
Robert yells and swings the crowbar. Pain bursts in my shoulder, but adrenaline keeps me moving. I catch the crowbar mid-swing, rip it from his grip, and slam the extinguisher into his gut. He collapses, choking as blood spills onto the tile.
“Not… so fun… huh?” The words burst from my mouth.
Christian desperately claws at my ankle. I’m consumed with rage. I raise the crowbar and bring it down on his hand. He cries out and pulls away. This time my swingconnects with his jaw. His head snaps sideways, and he goes limp.
Robert moves unsteadily toward me, hands halfway up, saying what sounds like a cry for help. I don’t let him finish. I put every last bit of rage, terror, and grief into swinging the crowbar. The impact cracks through the empty mall. He drops. Doesn’t move.
Silence.
The sound of my labored breath mixes with the low murmur in the lobby. My arms shake. The crowbar slips from my grip, slick with sweat and blood.
The fountain, the tiles, their contorted forms—everything painted in silver and red moonlight. I don’t feel like I’ve won. I feel like I’ve been gutted, as if a crucial part of me has been torn away.
Far off, sirens blare through the night. For the first time tonight, my legs give way. I collapse onto the cold tile, shaking, but alive.
Chapter twenty-five
Blaiz
Theflashingredandblue lights flash across the parking lot, turning the mall into a faltering hellscape. The walls are covered with dark shapes that jump and crawl, twitching like they are alive. I am sitting on the curb with a sticky, blood-stained plastic blanket. My hands won’t stop shaking. I can smell myself; it smells like copper, and something sour. I have a metallic taste in my mouth.
Officers flood the lot, similar to ants drawn to a dead body. Crackling and popping noises come from their radios. One barks an order. Another laughs a bit too loud. None of them look at me for long. When they do, their eyes look away, like I’m not a person anymore, just part of the crime scene.
Through the broken glass doors, I see them. Christian first. Robert next. On stretchersthey go by, pale, with their jaws hanging open. The strobe lights make their faces seem unnatural, like badly sculpted wax dummies. My stomach gets queasy, but I can’t look away. I did that.
A cop crouches down next to me. His voice is quiet, cautious, as though I could break.
“Can you tell us what happened in there?”
I try. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The screaming I did in that mall has left my throat incredibly sore.
