Page 78 of Runaways

"Fine," Tate groans, rolling his eyes.

"No!" the man screams.

Tate pulls the knife back before repeatedly driving it into the soft flesh of his lower abdomen. The man screams until he can't, and when I feel his arms go slack, I release them, letting him fall to the ground.

"That was too easy," Tate complains. "I prefer at least a little bit of fight—makes it more exciting. I like that he cried, though."

"Whatever," I tell him. "We'll toss him over that ledge, and no one will find the body for a long time—if ever."

I grab the half-naked man under the shoulders and drag him in that direction, but Tate stops me. "Wait," he says. "I want the arm."

"The whole arm?" I ask. "I thought you said a finger."

"I want the arm," he says again. "I'll need you to break the bone first, but I know that won't be a problem for you."

No, it won't.

I let the body flop onto the snow-covered ground again. "Do you have a preference on which arm?"

Tate shrugs. "I don't, but thanks for asking. You're very considerate when you want to be."

I roll my eyes and then grab the right arm by its wrist, pulling it until it's at about a forty-five-degree angle.

And then, I stomp it in half.

"Nice," Tate says. "Very nice."

He kneels in the snow and begins sawing through the flesh. Once the arm detaches, we drag the body to the ledge and throw it into the ravine.

We retrieve the arm on the way back, stashing it in our cooler in the backseat.

"Let me know if you get hungry," Tate says.

"Yeah, I'm not doing that again."

"Really? I'd do it if you would. I feel like it was a really good bonding experience. No?"

I ignore him, keeping my eyes fixed on the highway.

He shrugs. "Ah, well. Next stop: Winter Falls. Whatever the fuck that is."

twelve

If You're in Trouble and You Know It, Make It Worse!

Noah

Make it stop.

That's what I think when I open my eyes.Make it stop.

But the 'it' is my phone vibrating against the hardwood floor as the alarm goes off, and no one can make it stop but me. As I roll over, my eyes catch the time displayed on the microwave, and I realize it's probably been going off for a while.

Fuck. I'm going to be late.

I crawl out of bed, my head pounding, but at least my stomach isn't rumbling for once. I toss my leftover fries into the microwave and then head to the bathroom, where I quickly rinse off before straightening my hair and applying some makeup.

"It's not frizzy," I say aloud, remembering what Zoey told me last night. I run my hands through my short red locks and shake out my bangs. It could use a trim, I guess…by a professional, for once. In my next life, maybe I'll wear a wig. Then again, the nice ones are expensive, from what Iunderstand, and they'd prove limiting if I ever found myself in an intimate situation again.

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