Page 87 of Uncontrolled

On the floor, near his head, are numbers written with smears of blood. They’re patterned in strings of three, each of them crossed out, the next set scrawled below in dried maroon, with another line through them. One hundred fifty-seven, reads the first. Two hundred forty-three, the second. Below them are more, like a list. Three hundred twenty-eight the next one says in shaky, almost unreadable lines as thick as a pointer finger.

I stare, substituting the numbers for letters of the alphabet, hoping they’ll make words, but they don’t. They’re not phone numbers. He’s telling me something. What’s the code? What’s he saying?

Goodbye?

157. 243. 328. 401. 440. 523. The longer they go on, the closer the numbers are to each other. The last set has no line through it.

And then it hits me. They’re not numbers at all.

“Times,” I whisper.

1:57 p.m. would have been just after he watched me die, when he’d already been too weak himself to go for help. By 2:43 he’d been laying with my dead body for forty-five minutes. 4:01. 4:40. 5:23. Hours passing. Hours when he’d been slowly bleeding out, in excruciating pain, holding on as long as he could as he tried in vain to keep his promise. I promise I’ll always come back to you. Only I’m the one who had to come back. Christopher stayed. He stayed for me.

I run my finger down the list. 5:23. 5:30. 5:44.

My eyes fly to the last time, the one with no line through it.

7:12, it reads. Less than two hours ago. Next to it is a crudely-drawn flower.

With shaking hands, I unlock the screen on my phone. There’s only one person I can beg for help. One Hail Mary left. I cue up the number and hit send.

Talia actually answers. “Are you going to talk to me this time or just sit there again?” she snaps.

It throws me off so much that for a second, I don’t respond.

“Whatever,” she says. “I’m hanging up. If you want to talk, talk, but if you’re waiting for an apology, you’ve—”

“How many calls?” The words are gravelly and strained. “How many calls did you get?”

There’s a pause, as if for the first time, Talia’s realizing something’s not right. “Two,” she says. “I thought you were mad about this morning.”

“Oh my God. He tried to call you for help.” Now I’ve got her attention. The sudden wavering cry from me doesn’t exactly calm her.

Talia skips our code. “What’s wrong?”

I shudder a breath as I fight for control. I have to get Christopher help. I have to get myself out of here because the Doctor is coming. He could be here any second.

“Allie?”

“Yeah.” I press the back of my hand to my lips. “Listen, I screwed up. Bad. I’m in a house,” I start before my voice breaks and I take a second to search the darkening interior. “Um, it’s in the Chariot District. There are four bodies.”

Five, I think as I scurry toward Christopher’s prone form.

“The hunters?” Talia asks and even through my distress I can hear her surprise. “Did they come after you?”

I don’t answer her question. “They’re trying to sell me to the Doctor.”

I hear the noise of Talia rifling through a drawer stop. “Give me an address,” she demands.

I’m too rattled to remember it, but I dig into my pocket for the now-tattered note Christopher left me this morning, the one the hunters missed in their search for weapons. I read her the cross streets. Tell her which road. “Brown house. Chain-link fence in the front. Gold car in the driveway. Older model.”

She waits as I catch my breath. My chest aches from the bullet. I need to rest and heal, but even in my semi-rational state, I know now’s not the time. “They said the Doctor would be here in six to eight hours. It’s been seven.”

There’s silence on the line. “Get the hell out of there!” Talia blurts as I hear the sharp jangle of keys.

“Wait!” I tell her. I have to stop her before she leaves her place. “You’ve got to bring… Ow.” I hiss a breath through clenched teeth as pain stabs through me. “Supplies. For a transfusion.”

“For Ploy,” Talia says, her tone cold. “You cannot be serious.”

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