My own hollow reflection peers back at me from the window, pale and gaunt, a ghost of the posh London boy I used to be. The memory of those years feels far away now, slipping through my fingers like the fine grains of desert sand.
The exhaustion weighs heavy, dragging at my bones as I slump against the cracked vinyl seat. My head is poundingsomething fierce, thoughts scattered and sharp-edged. How the bloody hell did it come to this? Running for my life from the bastards who want me dead, just for being born a Solovey. Just for existing.
I can feel the stares. Stares from the people working behind the counter of this joint. Hushed whispers hiss through the stagnant air as they gawk at the sorry state of me. I must look a right mess, clothes torn and caked with dirt, hair matted with sweat and grime. Like something the cat dragged in, as Mum used to say. One of the girls brought me a glass of water, but it’s been sitting untouched for a long time. The idea of putting anything in my roiling gut makes me want to hurl.
Eventually, I take a sip. Wait. Then take another.
I just have to last until Logan gets here. I’m sure I can hold on until then. I’m sure the people running this place won’t mind. They let me borrow the phone and haven’t openly said anything about my sitting in the corner booth. I’m one of the three patrons anyway.
Yes, I just need to get through this hell until Logan arrives.
The rumble of engines right outside shatters my thoughts, and I jerk in my seat to peer out the window. Two SUVs, dark and ominous, prowl into the parking like a pack of hungry wolves. Bloody hell. It's them. The arseholes hunting me down.
Panic claws up my throat, choking the air from my lungs. I need to scarper, now. Need to find a way out of this godforsaken place before they put me back into that bloody room.
I down the rest of the water from the glass and lurch to my feet, ignoring the screaming protests of my battered body, and stagger toward the counter. "Is there a back way out of here?" I rasp, my voice rough as sandpaper from dehydration.
The worker, the same girl who gave me water, blinks at me, like a startled deer caught in headlights. "Um, there's a staffentrance back there," she says slowly, pointing a hesitant finger in the direction of a corridor, "where the restrooms are."
"Thanks," I mutter, already moving.
I stumble down the narrow hallway with the stained walls. The bathrooms reek of piss and bleach as I careen by, shoving through the heavy metal door at the end with the last dregs of my strength.
Nevada's barren landscape greets me, once more. The sun's unforgiving rays—even this time of the year—are searing my skin. I suck in a breath, the air hot and gritty in my lungs.
Gotta keep moving.
Can't let them catch me.
Adrenaline in my veins is a temporary elixir gifting false vitality to my exhausted limbs. I run, trainers pounding the cracked earth, jagged rocks biting into the soles. Each stride jars my bones, sends bolts of agony lancing up my shins. But I don't stop, can't stop.
I don’t look back either.
I can hear them but I’m not ready to face them.
There. In the shimmering distance, a dilapidated structure rises from the desert like a decaying carcass. An abandoned building, crumbling. A possible sanctuary.
My breaths rip from my throat, ragged and harsh. The taste of copper coats my tongue. Behind me angry shouts echo across the desolate expanse, spurring me faster.
Almost there. Just a little further.
I reach the weathered building, its towering concrete walls offering blessed shade. I tug on the rusted handles, but the doors remain stoically shut, denying me entrance. Locked. Of course.
Despair crashes over me in a suffocating wave. I can't go back. I won't. Frantic, I scan the ground, searching for something, anything. There. A large chunk of stone. I grab it,ignoring the bite of its jagged edges against my palm. I hurl it at the nearest window.
The glass explodes in a brilliant cascade of crystalline shards. A slim chance. My only hope. I tumble through the gaping hole, the broken teeth of the window frame snagging on my clothes. I hit the ground hard, palms shredding on the unforgiving debris. But I'm in.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the rivulets of crimson snaking down my arms. The cavernous interior of the former store stretches before me like a graveyard of forgotten relics and broken dreams. Motes of dust dance in the slivers of light piercing through the cracked ceiling, a spectral waltz amid the decay.
I keep moving. My gaze lands on the escalator, its once-gleaming steps now a rusted skeleton. I stumble forward, each step an effort. Behind me, the discordant symphony of splintering wood announces the arrival of my pursuers.
They're inside.
"Blyat! Find him! Find this faggot!"
The answering speech is a mix of English and Spanish. They echo through the deserted space, ominous.
I throw myself onto the escalator, my blood-slicked hands scrabbling for purchase on the corroded metal. Up, up, up. Don't look back.