Page 159 of Snared Rider

Chapter Thirty-Six

I racethrough the door Wilson came through before. This opens out into a long, sinister-looking corridor I really do not want to venture down, but I can hear Wilson moving behind me and I know if he catches me, he will do more than hurt me.

So, without considering what horrors might lie ahead, I take off up the corridor, adrenaline fuelling me, fear pushing me. I am not a natural runner; in fact, I am a terrible sportsperson. I did nothing remotely resembling activity at school and my foray into the gym in the past few years mostly involved faffing about on the machines for an hour while catching up on my latest podcast subscriptions. Right now, you wouldn’t know I suck at running because I’m going hell for leather.

The lighting is poor, but it’s enough that I can see the debris littering the floor. I sidestep the worst of it, but I can’t avoid it all and the bottom of my feet are nicked and cut as I move. I don’t stop running. I have to keep going.

And that’s what I do: I keep moving.

There are doors lining the corridor—where they go, I don’t know. I grab the handle of the first one I reach and twist it frantically. Then push against the door. Nothing happens. I shove again as I twist the handle but it still doesn’t budge.

Fuck!

Keep moving, Beth. Just keep moving…

I race to the next door and turn the handle but again, nothing happens. Why are all these bloody doors locked?!

Wilson’s furious yell stops me in my tracks. Instinctively, I twist on my heels towards the room as his voice echoes through the empty building. My blood freezes and my heart stops for a moment before kicking back into a staccato beat.

Oh crap.

He’s pissed off. And for a man like Wilson anger is not a good emotion. He’s uncontrolled and there’s no telling if he can calm himself down now he’s hit his peak. I have to get help for Dean and me. I’m our only chance at surviving this, which does not make me feel good because I’m hurting and I’m also trapped in this sodding building.

Still, the desire to live is overwhelmingly powerful.

I don’t want to die. I want to see Logan again, my father, my grandfather. I refuse to lie down and roll over.

This means it’s time to move.

I don’t bother checking the doors I pass now. I just run. I run like my life depends on it because it does. If he catches me he will kill me, of that I am certain.

So, I keep sprinting, stopping only to climb over debris littering the corridor. I keep glancing at doors as I pass, hoping like hell one of them will be open a crack so I can slip inside to hide. Luck is not on my side. There is no lifeline thrown in my direction.

But I need to get out of the building. Once I’m outside I’ll have a better chance of getting help but the corridor turns into another and it is a maze. I’m completely turned around, unsure if I’m heading towards an exit or if I’m heading back towards danger.

As I reach a T-junction in the corridor, I panic, unsure which way to go.

Left or right?

Wrong or right?

My breath rips from my throat as I glance between the two, weighed down by indecision. I don’t know which way is out.

Fuck, shit, bollocks!

I notice the old ‘Fire Exit’ signs above the doors. Hope surges in me, because they also have arrows pointing to the corridor on the right side. That must be the way out. It’s also partially blocked. Some of the ceiling has fallen on top of what looks like the remains of another desk. Where the hell that came from, I don’t know, and I don’t care. I should go left; that corridor is debris free, but something tells me to follow the exit signs. I trust my instincts and hope to hell they serve me well now.

I move to the debris and fumble my way over it, scraping my arms in the process. It’s difficult with my hands tied together and the pain in my chest, but I manage it—barely.

The further I move up the corridor, the more I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I can’t see an exit anywhere and there are fewer doors this end of the building.

I keep following the signs overhead, hoping, praying they’ll lead me out.

I’m close to giving up hope when I see salvation. There is a fire door at the end of the corridor. Relief floods me.

I jog, my feet dragging, freedom in my grasp.

I hit the door hard enough to rattle my bones and push down the bar that runs across the middle. I shove the door, expecting it to open fully.

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