Page 174 of Rage

Director Devine moves to the door behind the stage, stepping down as the stage lowers into the floor, creamy white tile replacing it. As if on some sort of signal, the handlers begin to file out of the room one by one. Director Devine remains behind as they do, his eyes finding mine, his smile coolly confident.

“Good luck, children,” he says before he strides out the door, letting it slam closed behind him. A loud click lets us know it when it locks. We’re trapped.

Chapter Four

“Cyrus,” I croak out my boyfriend’s name.

“Can you move?” he asks.

I shake my head, trying not to panic. “Not really.”

“Why can’t we move?” someone else calls out, her voice high-pitched and panicked. How has she not figured it out yet?

“What’s going on?” another voice asks, a boy this time.

Fuck. Fuck!

Crackling sounds, and all our gazes move up to the small, round speaker in the ceiling. I flinch at the bright light and then tilt my head down until I’m not looking up. I can listen just fine without looking at the damn thing.

The Director’s voice comes over the speaker. “Just give us a moment, dears,” he says. “Our investors are getting used to their controllers. This session will be recorded. Also … may the best player win.”

The speaker shuts off but, already, my mind is running through the worst of scenarios. “He said player, Cyrus,” I say. “That means just one.”

“Don’t worry, Eris. It’ll be okay. You know it will be.”

“What if I try to hurt you? I don’t want to hurt you, Cyrus.” Tears rush to my eyes, and I blink them away.

“It’s not you,” he says, though his voice sounds further away. I turn my head and realize he stood up and walked across the room.

“You can move?” I try to move my limbs, but they still feel stuck.

He shakes his head. “I’m not moving myself,” he replies. There it is, right on his face: panic, horror, fear. He rarely ever shows it, but he knows as well as I do that Director Devine will kill all of us if it means proving a point to his investors.

I close my eyes and take deep breaths as my body begins to move. It feels wrong—like my head is disconnected. Who am I kidding? My headisdisconnected. My legs move, in shaky, robotic movements at first, and then faster, surer. I open my eyes, and everyone is on their feet. Some have fear written across their expressions while others—like Cyrus—have gone back into their impassive expressions. It’s a mask, I know, one they wear to hide their true emotions, a wall they hide behind.

I wiggle my fingers, finding they’re finally under my control when they weren’t before. I wiggle my toes as well. I’m not sure if anyone else can control anything more than the movements and expressions above their necks. I open my mouth to call across to Cyrus, to let him know, but before I’m able, chaos ensues.

One of the girls launches herself at someone across from her, tackling the guy to the ground. With a strong kick to his balls, she stands and grabs either side of his head, quickly jerking it to the side. The boy falls, an expression of shock on his face, his neck twisted at a strange angle, undeniably broken. I suck in a breath and hope like hell I can manage to get out of here alive. I look at Cyrus—I hope we both can.

Bodies hit bodies. Arms flail. Legs kick. Despite our training, despite our expertise, it’s clear amateurs are controlling our bodies. I manage to move my neck to the side enough so thatwhen the first girl to attack breaks off a leg from a chair and pins me down, trying to stab me through the throat, I avoid her.

My legs come up, wrapping around her upper chest and locking down. I roll, taking her with me until we hit the wall—her grunting and cursing while I remain silent through it all. There are sounds of some of the trainees crying and begging their friends not to do this, but there are no friends here. To the investors, we’re not even human—just experiments. I narrowly avoid the girl’s fist as we untangle ourselves, and she plants it into the wall, screaming when her knuckles break upon impact.

I reach out, grabbing her on both sides like she had with the first boy. I know trying to break her neck won’t work with the angle, but my controller clearly doesn’t understand that, because I can now feel the urges of what they’re going to make me do before I do it. I realize there must be a lag. I bring my head back—the only thing Icancompletely control—and slam my forehead into her nose. She lets out a startled cry and stumbles back.

We fight. I don’t know for how long, but it feels like for hours. I’m sweating, panting, covered in blood. The fumes of the bodies around me are starting to get to me. It hasn’t been long enough for them to start decaying, but death is a messy business, and they lay across the floor each at different angles, their pants soiled, their faces frozen, eyes glassy. I know I’m going to have nightmares; I’m already freaking out more than I already was. I’ve taken a few hard jabs to the stomach, and I want so badly to curl into a ball and protect what might be mine and Cyrus’ child. But I can’t do that.

I look up, and Cyrus meets my gaze. Vomit threatens to rise as I realize something else: we’re all that’s left. His chest is soaked in blood, his hands and forearms covered in it. He looks back at me almost pleadingly. “Eris…” He sucks in a breath. “Eris, baby…”

I take a step towards him, and I try to stop, but I can’t. My legs keep moving and, finally, the tears start to come. They roll down my cheeks as he approaches me as well. We start to circle each other. I’m openly sobbing now while he’s white as a sheet. He screams in denial as he charges me and takes me down. We topple over bodies, over chairs, the white tile beneath us smeared with blood and other bodily fluids.

Somehow, my controller manages to get me on top, and I’m gripping his neck. “I don’t want to,” I scream as my fingers contract. “No!”

Cyrus grabs me and throws me back. “Shit, fuck. I’m sorry … Eris.” He looks choked and sick, like he might throw up at any second.

I look down between us, and I know he’s going to kill me. The last time he was over me like this, Cyrus was kissing me—kissing me as he filled me. We were making love, hiding from the world,living. His hands wrap around my neck this time, and he squeezes, his grip tight. My vision blurs as I gasp for air, white and black spots dancing in front of my eyes. I can’t feel my legs—can’t feel my arms or my legs.

My senses are dead. Tears dribble from the corners of my eyes as I look up at him. I need to say it. He needs to know. I can’t die with him thinking he killed me. “Wasn’t… You…” I manage to get out. “Not… Never… You…” It’s getting harder and harder to do anything. I can’t tell if my controller has given up. Are they trying to move my legs, my arms?

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