Page 36 of Mutant Mine

I must try to make it to the door.

Can’t make it to the door — they’re in the way. I won’t get past them.

Could I get to the bathroom and lock myself in?

No — they could batter the door down. It’s not that strong.

What about the door behind me? The other one, which Roth comes and goes through sometimes?

I don’t know where it goes. Might be a dead end.

But… Roth might be in there. He would protect me.

Yes. It’s the only option that holds even a tiny possibility of survival. It’s the only thing worth trying.

The element of surprise gives me a fractional advantage. They’re expecting me to run towards them, trying to get past them to the main door. Instead, I turn and run further into the room, to reach the opposite wall. The wall with the mystery door.

I just about make it, crashing into the door and fumbling with the handle — but I can’t quite get it open before they’re on me, pulling me backwards. One of them yanks my head back by my hair, then slams it forward into the door.

The pain is dazzling. For a moment, everything goes bright white.

When I come back to myself, they’ve got a firm grip on my arms, one on either side of me. This is giving me déjà vu. Of course, they’ve handled me before; I can even feel pain where their hands are digging into the bruises they left last time.

They’re pulling me through the room. I thought they’d be heading towards the bed, but instead, they’re taking me out through the main door and up the corridor.

That’s worse. That’s much, much worse. They must have a private room of their own, where they can take their time with me.

Through the dizziness, one thought is crystal clear: Imust notlet them take me to a second location. If they get me behind a locked door at the end of an empty corridor, where no one can hear me scream, I won’t ever get out of there alive.

But what can I do?

I bend and push, testing the strength of their grip on me. It’s plenty tight — but I feel a sharp pain in my leg, as if something has cut me.

…The knife.The knife. I still have the knife! I’ve been carrying it around ever since I took it from the kitchen.Christ, why did it take me this long to remember the fucking knife?!

To get it out of my pocket, I’m going to need my hands free.

I start fighting as hard as I can: pulling, pushing, elbowing, stamping, kicking, and even swinging my skull around trying to head-butt them. The younger guy curses, and lets go of my arm for a second.

One second is all I need. I manage to shove my hand into my pocket and pull the knife out before he’s back on me, raising one fist. I duck under his arm, slide my body intimately close to his, and ram the blade forwards as hard as I can.

The young man staggers backwards, away from me. He takes the knife with him — it’s stuck inside him, and my hand slips off the warm, wet handle. He’s making a painful gasping sound.

The older man and I both stand frozen. Together, we watch as his comrade stumbles forward a few steps, then topples to the ground. He gurgles one last time, then falls still.

My ears are ringing.

“Jez!” chokes out the older man.

I wonder, distantly, whether they cared about each other. Perhaps killing me was all planned out as a fun activity to enjoy together, and I’ve ruined it for them.

The older man staggers forward, and reaches a shaking hand down to grab the knife. He pulls it out of his friend’s belly, groaning when it releases a fresh gush of blood. Then his grip on the knife tightens until his knuckles whiten, and his cold eyes rise to meet mine.

A cry escapes me as I turn to run. I know I’m not going to get away. This is it. Game over. I’ve had my nine lives — maybe even ten — and this is absolutely, one hundred percentit.

Then I hear it: the deep, wordless roar of rage from behind me. Roth is standing there. His fists are clenched at his sides, and his face is twisted into a vicious snarl.

I am so, so unbelievably relieved to see him, I almost collapse at his feet.

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