Page 19 of Terror

Chapter 7

Tabby

By Monday morning, the shakes subside, and I attend classes. Going to college is the only thing about my life that’s normal. Nobody in the classroom cares that I’m an Omega trying to shake off a drug problem, or that I can buy the school, or that I can’t find a single person who gives a shit and wants to genuinely befriend me without getting something in return. I buy the help. I buy the attention of the elite. I buy whatever I need. Money hasn’t bought me happiness, but it’s made it easier to grieve after my parents’ deaths. My relatives showered me with gifts and paid people to raise me. My money paid for everyone’s affection. Nannies, housekeepers, gardeners. Which reminds me. I need to make phone calls and re-staff before the party.

My belly growls as I leave my last class for the day. In the hallway, I stop and debate eating healthy at the school’s cafeteria or heading home for some junk. I haven’t prepped over the weekend, so I’ll likely just shove whatever carb is available in the pantry into my mouth. I spin away from the exit to the parking lot, heading for the cafeteria, thinking I’ll get a salad while I still have some resolve left.

A guy runs into me. I trip, but he grabs my elbow with a quick “Sorry” as he rights me.

“No problem.” I move on.

The many refrigerators and vending machines in the cafeteria stay silent as if atoning for their technological sins. In the back, the employees chat. I’m the only person there, and the near silence soothes me. I grab the premade salad and some dressing and stand at the checkout, digging into my purse for my wallet. A baggy. Immediately, sweat breaks out on my forehead, my heart speeds up, and I back away from the counter, looking around. Is Terror watching me? Someone slipped a baggy into my purse, and I know what’s inside. Before Terror, I’d just open the baggy, get a pill, and pop the thing into my mouth. Maybe chase it with water, maybe not. If anyone asks, they’re migraine meds, which I also carry in case people want one.

This time, I pay for the salad, then sit at the small table for two. My palms sweat. My hands start shaking again. It’s as if my body knows what’s in the bag, and it wants it. It wants it bad. The black plastic fork drops from my fingertips. Nausea strikes, and I moan quietly while my vision blurs. Napkin in hand, I wipe cold sweat from my face. Standing, I get my salad and stare at the exit. I’m dizzy, likely pale and shaking, and I feel like I’ll collapse any second now.

Only a few steps, and I’ll make it to the car. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, I move, and I’m glad the people behind the counter don’t ask if I’m okay. I’m always okay, and they don’t really care anyway.

In the hallway leading to the parking lot, I walk against the wall, hoping it will help hold me up. The empty parking lot greets me, and as my silver skycar comes into view, I think I’ll actually make it out of here without fainting. I walk a little faster, exiting the school only to get hit by the dry wind outside. The abrupt heat wave makes me pause, and I shield my eyes. My knees quiver, and I know I’m seconds away from folding. Fuck it.

I run for my car, open it, and sit inside the safe space, then reach for my paper bag in the console. I breathe into it, noting the immediate things I can control. The slick black console, the stack of scrunchies over the gear shift, the music player, the hologram displaying time that ticks slowly by, telling me everything is okay and I can deal with the now.

My shoulders slump, my body relaxes, and I drop the paper bag into my lap, then lean my head against the headrest, eyes on the ceiling. The shakes haven’t subsided, but I have a handle on my panic attack. After a deep breath, I dig into my purse and get the baggy. Oh God. If I think too long, I’ll fucking take the pill. Quickly, I open the window and toss the bag, then close the window back up. I command the car. I can’t get out of here fast enough.

A hand covers my mouth. Something sharp presses against my neck.

I still.

His breath whispers over my ear. “Should’ve taken the pills. It’s less painful. Travis sends his regards.” The sharp object enters my neck and slides out. Warm blood spills on my shoulder. The door clicks and the man leaves, and it takes me a second to realize he stabbed me in the neck. I press a hand over my wound, briefly contemplating if I should drive myself to the hospital. There’s nobody to help me. I’m on my own.

Survival instincts kick in and replace the ugly image of dying in the car, my dead body baking in the sun. I open the door and walk out, stumbling to get back into the school.

A girl screams.

A man grabs me as I fall and shouts for help.

* * *

My head swims, and I peel open my eyes, expecting to see the car’s roof. In its place, a gray alien looms over me, silver pupils dilating as he stares me down. He says nothing but puts one cold finger over my eyelid and a thumb under my eye. He spreads his fingers, forcing my eye wide open. A round small object hovers above my pupil. I jerk but can’t move.

“What are you doing?” I don’t recognize my own voice. It’s a sound a seasoned chain smoker would produce.

“Quiet, female,” the Telean doctor says. “You’ve suffered a severe neck injury, and your vocal cords are in repair.”

The object hovering over my eye flares, and I nearly jolt out of the bed.

“Calm, female,” he says.

The light blinded me. “A warning would be nice.”

“Quiet.”

The object flashes before the other eye. Now I can’t see anything. “Where am I?”

The Telean releases my eyelid. “Quiet.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet!” I can’t see, I can’t talk, and I don’t know where I am. Something sticky clamps my lips. I try to pry my mouth open, and I can’t. Oh my God, the Telean gagged me. Cold plastic wraps around my wrists. And binds me to the bed. I whine, struggling against the restraints.

“Leave us,” a voice says.

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