Page 86 of Glass Rose
“Not today.” I thrust the knife toward its temple, but it jerks sideways, the blade skitting across its cheek. I can’t hold it much longer. “Can’t you—Stay still, please!”
The runner freezes above me, its weight still crushing my arm, but the relentless pushing stops. Its muscles twitch and spasm like it’s fighting some invisible restraint. Black drool drips onto my cheek as its jaw works, teeth crunching together once with a sound like breaking chalk.
What the actual fuck?
Its milky eyes still track me, still hungry, still aware. This thing wants me dead, is literally dying to take a bite out of me, but something’s holding it back.
No time to question miracles.
I adjust my grip on the knife, fingers slick with sweat and blood, and drive the blade up through its temple. The resistance gives way with a sickening pop, like puncturing overripe fruit. Hot, viscous fluid gushes over my hand, down my wrist, soaking my sleeve.
Its body goes rigid, then slack, collapsing on top of me.
Deadweight in the truest sense.
I lie there for a precious second, gasping for breathbeneath the corpse, the smell of death filling my lungs. The moans of the approaching horde grow louder, closer.
Way too fucking close.
“Get. Off. Me.” With a grunt, I heave the body aside, roll to my knees, and then stagger to my feet, the world tilting dangerously.
Blood trickles into my eye from the gash on my forehead, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
If I wasn’t infected before, I sure as hell am now.
My clothes are soaked with black fluid, the viscous substance clinging to my skin like oil. I retrieve my knife from the runner’s skull, the blade coming loose with a sickening squelch.
The gap between me and the group of infected shrinks. Slower, but inevitable.
The railing’s right there. Ten feet away.
I limp toward it, and my lungs are on strike, each breath insufficient, like I’m trying to suck air through a straw.
I reach the railing and plant my hands on the cold metal, peering over. My stomach drops. The water is much farther down than it looked from a distance, dark and uninviting. I’ve never been afraid of heights—Correction, I never had the opportunity to be afraid of heights.
Waves crash against the bridge pillars, white foam marking where water meets stone.
Fuck.
My hand closes around the heart pendant at my throat, my mother’s voice echoing in my head.Mija, language.
Sorry, Mom. The situation calls for it.
The moans grow louder.
Die by infected teeth or take my chances with the fall.
“You’ve done stupider things.” I climb onto the railing, balancing precariously as wind whips my hair across my face. “You can do this.”
What if I hit wrong? What if there are rocks? What if?—
I glance back.
Big mistake.
The closest one reaches for my ankle.
Or blessing.
