Page 25 of Riot House
PWC?
Anyone with half a brain cell and a father in the military knows what PWC stands for:Proceed With Caution.
Hmm. Some kind of lover’s tryst? An invitation? A warning? It’s warm in my bed, as well as considerably dryer in here than outside. On any other night, I’d be so curious about the message and what it meant that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself; I’dhaveto sneak out and see what kind of salacious meetings were taking place inside the maze, but tonight my own self-preservation instincts tell me that I’m much safer right where I am, protected from flying debris, gale force winds, icy rain, and hypothermia.
About to try my breathing technique again, my eyelids flutter…and the light starts flashing again, with a whole new message:
A…R…E
Y…O…U
A
C…O…W…A…R…D
S…T…I…L…L…W…A…T…E…R
?
The light goes out, and this time it stays out.
What thehell? I launch myself out of bed. The rain’s so bad, even worse than before, rolling across the window in sheets, that there’s no way I can see the maze anymore. All I see is the gauntlet thrown down, the challenge of someone waiting out there in the dark.For me.
“Nooooo,” I groan. “You havegotto be kidding me.”
* * *
Thanks to Colonel Stillwater’s rush evacuation from Tel Aviv, I didn’t have time to go shopping for new clothes before I was bundled onto that personnel carrier. I have no coat with me. Not one that would provide any sort of protection against the gale that’s blowing outside. As I step out of the front door, I tighten my light, too-thin bomber jacket around me, thankful that at least my feet should stay dry inside my Doc Martins. The rain hits me square in the face, ice cold and shocking, forcing a string of curse words out of my mouth as I duck my head, forging forward, out into the maelstrom.
The wind rips my hood down and whips my hair up around my head. I don’t have to worry about it flying around my face for too long, though. By the time I’ve reached the corner of the building, it’s soaking wet and plastered to my skull.
“This is fucking insanity,” I hiss, jogging along the perimeter of the school, doing my best to keep my footing as I skid in the bog of mud that was once the border of the rose garden. Each second feels like a minute. The distance from the wall outside Doctor Fitzpatrick’s room to the entrance of the maze stretches out, increasing with every step I take instead of growing shorter, and I question whether I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
This is not a good idea.
This is a horrible idea.
No one knows where I’ve gone. I decoded a fucking Morse code message in the middle of the night, cast onto my bedroom wall, and like a stubborn idiot I decided to prove I wasn’t a coward rather than stay where it was safe and warm. Who fuckingdoesthat?
Dumb girls in horror movies, my father’s voice informs me.The stupid ones who wind up dead, with their body parts strewn across the lawn.
“Didn’t ask for your opinion, thanks,Dad,” I growl, gritting my teeth as a freezing cold gust of wind pelts droplets of rainwater into my face.
At the mouth of the maze, I consider turning back. For a long second, I give myself the opportunity to turn around. To return to the relative protection of my room. Then I remember that knife sticking out of my bed, and I scoff at that idea. My roomisn’tsafe. And I’m already drenched to the bone. My calves are covered in mud. And someone’s waiting for me in this maze, likely the person responsible for wrecking my belongings, and I want to face them. I want to faceWren, because I already know it was him who sent the message.
If I face him, I can nip this whole thing in the bud. I’ll be tackling the situation head on, and isn’t that what my father taught me?Never run from the enemy, Elodie. Never show them your back. Any sign of weakness will be your ultimate downfall. The most remarkable generals in history always met force with force.
Still. I’m aware how ill-advised this is. I should have left a note, requesting that something pithy and deprecating be engraved on my headstone:She lived recklessly and died the same way. God grant her the wisdom to make better choices in the afterlife.
Something about the view of the maze from my bedroom window gave me the creeps. I didn’t like looking out at it, but I did force myself to map out a vague route to its center. Left, left, right. Straight, left, right, right, then the hairpin, then, left, then one last right. My teeth chatter, clashing together violently as I try and follow the directions I have committed to memory. The walls of the hedges are high, though, sinister and imposing; it feels like there are arms reaching out at me from within them, hands grabbing for me, pulling at my clothes, trying to yank me into the sharp, dense walls of the labyrinth. It’s just rogue branches and twigs, catching on my jacket and the thin knee-length cotton of my pajama bottoms, but I can’t shake the awful panic rising in me that I won’t make it out of this godforsaken obstacle course alive.
Soon, I’ve gotten so turned out that I have no idea which way I’m supposed to be heading. I can feel my father’s disappointment radiating all the way from the Middle East. He wouldn’t have gotten lost in this nightmare place. He’d have bulldozed his way through the fucking walls, armed and ready to face whatever danger awaited him at its heart.
I’m not too worried about having lost my way. I know if I just keep turning in the same direction, over and over again, I’ll eventually reach its center point. So that’s what I do, turning to the left at every intersection or fork in the path, the soles of my boots crunching on the gravel, and I work on calming my nerves.
Panic will kill you quicker than anything else.
Panic will kill you quicker than anything else.
