Page 3 of Guarded from Corruption

I’m still locked inside this terrible place, and I need to find a way out.

I got out.

It still doesn’t feel real.

I swapped clothes with the nurse and somehow maneuvered her up onto the bed and turned her so she looked like she was sleeping.

Then I made the terrifying journey through the facility, certain I was about to be caught at any moment. Head down, trying desperately not to panic, shoving my shaking hands in the pockets of her scrubs, I hurried down hallways searching for an exit and hoping it wouldn’t need a key or an access code to leave.

Twice I passed another employee in the hall and nearly had heart failure, convinced I was moments from being caught. But they were too intent on their own duties—heads down, eyes focused, footsteps purposeful—to give me even a passing look.

I peeked into several rooms like mine and saw more women held hostage, and I felt like the worst person in the world for passing them by. For not helping them escape with me.

How could I? A drugged woman stumbling through the hallways with me? Wearing one of those pale pink hospital gowns, no less? I would have been caught for sure.

But I swore I’d come back, and I will. Somehow I’ll get help.

I just need to help myself first.

Unfortunately, it’s easier said than done.

When I slipped out the exit door into the night, I had no idea where I was. It was just a nondescript building sitting out in the middle of nowhere; with one long gravel driveway leading off into the dark.

I could have followed the driveway, headed to the nearest road, and waited until someone drove by. Certainly a good samaritan would eventually stop for me and bring me to the nearest police station.

Except. Someone from the facility I just escaped could as easily come across me. Grab me off the side of the road, toss me in the trunk, and take me right back there. Punish me. Make sure I never get a chance to escape again.

So I stayed in the shadows instead. Hugged the road but kept myself hidden among the trees.

And that’s where I’ve stayed.

Running, too scared to stop though I know it’s been hours. My legs are beyond cramping; they’re just a mass of aches and throbbing pains. My face is sticky with blood from all the times a branch smacked me in the face. A full breath seems a distant possibility as my lungs strain for air.

I’m so scared.

In all my planning, I didn’t think about what to do once I escaped. I didn’t think about getting to safety.

I didn’t think about the things that make me afraid to go to the hospital or the police for help.

Crap. The sun is coming up; soon it’ll be so much easier for the people I escaped from to find me again.

And I’m still out in the middle of nowhere. Still in Texas, I think, but I’m not certain.

Still in danger.

Then I see something. A small wooden sign that reads Campground with an arrow pointing to the right.

Yes. A campground. Campers mean phones, which means I can call someone I trust for help.

But who? Whoever I call, won't that put them at risk, too?

And then it hits me.

Shea’s brother. Niall. Former Green Beret. She told me he recently moved to San Antonio to join an elite security agency. An agency that helps people in trouble with nowhere else to turn. People like me.

With a burst of speed, I make a right, rushing toward the campground ahead. Ten minutes later, I nearly burst into hysterical sobs when I see the parking lot with a smattering of cars. And when I find a phone sitting in an unlocked car and the passcode is miraculously 1234, I can’t stop tears from escaping.

I’ll put it right back, I silently swear to the very trusting and not very tech-savvy phone owner. I just need to make a very important call.

---