Page 11 of Rogue Mission
Nice. Just what I need. A soggy bra, an industrial wedgie, and a public death.
When they find my body, I'll stink like a swamp rat and my sparkly thong will be on full display thanks to the shredded skirt bunched around my waist.
This is my life. This is it.
"I just…wanted to discover some great new mineral," I whimper, my dream going down the tube with the sweat dropping off of me.
If I wasn't so busy praying for deliverance, I might laugh.
Instead, I press my forehead against the cold metal and whisper, "Angels, if you can hear me over this stupid alarm? I need a get-out-of-jail card.Rightnow."
A pang of sadness hits me so hard I actually stop struggling.
If this is the end of my life, I'm kind of… sad.
Not terrified. Not furious. Just sad.
Because I had plans. Stupid plans—find that lithium deposit in Nevada, publish that paper on crystalline structures, maybe get a cat—and now I'm going to die in an air vent with my sparkly thong on display and not a single person will cry at my funeral because there's no one left to cry.
My Nan wouldn't quit. She'd rip a hole in this metal and swing out of the building on a fiber-optic cable, laughing like a mad woman the whole way down.
She'd call this "a grand adventure" and tell me to "use that big brain of yours, Rosie-girl."
God, I miss her.
The ache of it hits fresh—three years gone and I still reach for the phone to call her when something exciting happens. Except nothing exciting ever happens to me.
Or didn't. Until I got kidnapped and stuffed myself in an air vent.
Now I’m wishing for a little less excitement. But she would have loved this story. Would've made me tell it every time we were together.
Which will never happen again.
My eyes blur with tears as I squirm again. The vent screams in protest right along with my skin.
You'd think with this much sweat I'd slide. Butnooo.
I'm about to start wailing in my misery when something lights up below me.
Light.
Oh god. Yes!
That means the end of the tunnel, right?
A soft, flickering beam comes creeping up from below. I can't see what it is from though—not past the boobs squashed into my face—but it reflects off the metal walls, seeping up the cracks between me and the sides.
A moment later, a thud echoes up the duct.
Then another.
There's a trapped bird inside my ribs, and it's going for a wing-flapping record of some kind.
Another thud.
Is… is that sound good? Heart pattering, I consider my next move. Like there are many options.
The next instant the fire alarm vanishes, plunging me into silence so complete I can hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. And my breathing is loud, ragged, too fast, the kind that's going to make me pass out if I don't slow down.
