Page 17 of Deviant

A lump forms in my throat at how badly I’ve let myself down. I thought I was better than this. I thought I was rational, logical, but everything I’ve created over the last week shows I’m anything but.

As a car pulls up, I feel a flash of hope only for it to be dashed as a family burst out from all four doors.

He’s not coming, is he?

Or maybe they got him. Shit, what if they got him?

I stumble back, crashing into a corner of the building as I realise that’s the only logical explanation.

They got him.

And now they’re coming for me.

I don’t makeit far. I barely get a few metres away before I hear the only too inevitable sounds of footsteps, boots, peoplechasing after me.

My feet are blistered and battered from the amount of walking I’ve done, my body is exhausted, but as the adrenaline pumps through my veins, I run as fast as I can. I pound my shoes into the uneven ground, and I give it everything I have.

Dogs bark, shouts echo.

I’ve never been on a hunt, but that’s exactly what this feels like.

I’m the fox, and they’re the hounds, chasing me down, and when my legs give out, when I can go no further, I know they’ll rip me to pieces.

My coat flaps in the wind. I shrug it off, needing every bit of speed I can get in this moment.

Something springs at me. Teeth snarl. As I roll into the dirt, it’s a dog that’s snapping at my face, all but biting it off.

More shouts erupt. Another dog joins the battle for my life, sinking its teeth into my calf as I shriek.

I try to kick it off, try to defend myself, but it locks its jaw, shaking me about like a rag doll.

And then the men arrive. Six of them.

A gun is shoved in my face, the dogs are pulled off and I’m dragged up by my hair.

I scream out more, I thrash, trying to cause a bigger scene, not that I think anyone would help me, but what other cards do I have to play now? I’m desperate, petrified. This is my last chance at escape, and I will do everything I can.

Some dirty fabric is stuffed into my mouth, and I bite down on the fingers that accompany it.

“Fucking bitch.” the man spits, backhanding me hard enough that I go flying into the mud.

The others laugh, one decides to kick me in the back, while telling me to behave myself, as if I’ll just suddenly comply with all of this.

My face is pushed further into the dirt, my arms are forced behind my back and they tie them tight enough that I feel my fingers almost immediately start to go numb.

I’m hauled over someone’s shoulder, carried like a damned sack of potatoes, and when we get back to the service station, nobody even batters an eyelid as I’m thrown into the back of a van.

Two men get in with me. The rest jump up front.

I start kicking out, jerking, doing everything I can to prove that I’m still not going to be taken that easily.

Someone slams their boot into my face. My lip splits, spurting blood all into my mouth. Another grabs my hair, wrenching me around, and he jabs a needle deep into my neck.

“Night, night, bitch,” he says with a snigger and then others join in like it was such a funny joke.

I fall back, my head slamming onto the metal floor. My eyes almost instantly blur, and, as I feel myself giving into whatever sedative they’ve drugged me with, a man’s voice rings out,

“All done, brother, we’ve got her.”

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