Read Online Psychosis (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 3) by K.R. Griffiths - Free Book Online
Authors: K.R. Griffiths
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centre of the road, moving with as little noise as possible, searching the landscape for movement, frayed nerves jangling at the prospect of violence that hung in the air under gathering black clouds.
*
Alex had woken to the same sight every day for three years: the surgical white emptiness of his cell. They liked to euphemistically call them ‘rooms’ at Moorcroft Hospital, but none of the residents were under any illusions. If the door locks at a certain time, it’s a cell.
Waking to see Dr Jackson’s face hovering over his, full of concern and with a forehead smeared with blood, was jarring; for a moment he thought he must still be asleep.
“Alex, Alex. ”
Her voice sounded thick, sludgy. No, not her voice. His ears. Full of blood.
She shook his shoulder urgently.
The events of the day came rushing back, and he tried to get up, grunting as the seatbelt dug painfully into his chest. The doctor was backing out of the mangled car, and he struggled with the clasp for a moment, finally succeeding in freeing himself. His door was stuck, but the window was smashed, so he hauled himself through the opening and quickly checked himself for injury. His ribs hurt like hell – the seatbelt, he supposed - but other than that and a deep gash on his temple, he seemed to be okay.
Deborah looked in better condition. She had a matching cut on her head, but she moved freely enough.
“They’re coming, they’re coming, we have to go,” she said, and the hysteria in her voice made his teeth itch. He glanced back at the road that had betrayed them. Empty. Surely the things wouldn’t keep chasing a car that had disappeared from sight?
But then he heard it; faint, getting louder. Snarling.
Shit.
He nodded at Deborah, and charged toward a gap in the trees that lined the road, grimacing as the pain in his knees resurfaced. There wasn’t much in the way of forest here, just a smattering of trunks and then rolling fields beyond. Nowhere to hide.
“Run,” he gasped at Deborah, as he took off, running faster than he had ever thought possible, fuelled by terror. Even as he ran, he silently cursed his incarceration, feeling the lactic acid building up in his muscles almost immediately. His lack of fitness was going to get him killed. He would be the first person ever to die of cramp.
When he saw the steep drop approaching and heard the rushing of water, he knew immediately that it was going to offer his only chance of survival. He pointed.
“The river!”
He veered toward it, neither knowing nor caring whether Deborah had heard him. The drop was about thirty feet. He was just slowing to think about the potential for damage in jumping into the fast-moving water when Deborah sped past him and hurled herself over the edge. Glancing behind him, Alex saw the reason why she hadn’t hesitated: the things were right behind him, fifty feet or less, closing fast.
He jumped.
The water was freezing; it felt like it sheared off a layer of skin as he broke the surface. He felt his feet kiss the bottom, and was dimly aware that if it had been only a foot or two shallower, the drop would probably have smashed his legs.
The freezing liquid poured into his lungs, shocking his system, and he coughed painfully, succeeding only in drawing in another watery breath. The world was spinning crazily, occasional flashes of the sky and the surface of the river being torn away from him as the current sucked him under again. Finally he succeeded in righting himself, and saw that Deborah was already pulling away from him, working with the water, powerful strokes sending her shooting along the river. All those hours spent at the gym suddenly seemed less cosmetic and more like essential preparation.
Alex was a hopeless swimmer; always had been. He thrashed and bucked, and ultimately had no choice but to let the river take him wherever it wanted. He heard the splashes behind him; the things chasing them were pouring over the ledge above like
*
Alex had woken to the same sight every day for three years: the surgical white emptiness of his cell. They liked to euphemistically call them ‘rooms’ at Moorcroft Hospital, but none of the residents were under any illusions. If the door locks at a certain time, it’s a cell.
Waking to see Dr Jackson’s face hovering over his, full of concern and with a forehead smeared with blood, was jarring; for a moment he thought he must still be asleep.
“Alex, Alex. ”
Her voice sounded thick, sludgy. No, not her voice. His ears. Full of blood.
She shook his shoulder urgently.
The events of the day came rushing back, and he tried to get up, grunting as the seatbelt dug painfully into his chest. The doctor was backing out of the mangled car, and he struggled with the clasp for a moment, finally succeeding in freeing himself. His door was stuck, but the window was smashed, so he hauled himself through the opening and quickly checked himself for injury. His ribs hurt like hell – the seatbelt, he supposed - but other than that and a deep gash on his temple, he seemed to be okay.
Deborah looked in better condition. She had a matching cut on her head, but she moved freely enough.
“They’re coming, they’re coming, we have to go,” she said, and the hysteria in her voice made his teeth itch. He glanced back at the road that had betrayed them. Empty. Surely the things wouldn’t keep chasing a car that had disappeared from sight?
But then he heard it; faint, getting louder. Snarling.
Shit.
He nodded at Deborah, and charged toward a gap in the trees that lined the road, grimacing as the pain in his knees resurfaced. There wasn’t much in the way of forest here, just a smattering of trunks and then rolling fields beyond. Nowhere to hide.
“Run,” he gasped at Deborah, as he took off, running faster than he had ever thought possible, fuelled by terror. Even as he ran, he silently cursed his incarceration, feeling the lactic acid building up in his muscles almost immediately. His lack of fitness was going to get him killed. He would be the first person ever to die of cramp.
When he saw the steep drop approaching and heard the rushing of water, he knew immediately that it was going to offer his only chance of survival. He pointed.
“The river!”
He veered toward it, neither knowing nor caring whether Deborah had heard him. The drop was about thirty feet. He was just slowing to think about the potential for damage in jumping into the fast-moving water when Deborah sped past him and hurled herself over the edge. Glancing behind him, Alex saw the reason why she hadn’t hesitated: the things were right behind him, fifty feet or less, closing fast.
He jumped.
The water was freezing; it felt like it sheared off a layer of skin as he broke the surface. He felt his feet kiss the bottom, and was dimly aware that if it had been only a foot or two shallower, the drop would probably have smashed his legs.
The freezing liquid poured into his lungs, shocking his system, and he coughed painfully, succeeding only in drawing in another watery breath. The world was spinning crazily, occasional flashes of the sky and the surface of the river being torn away from him as the current sucked him under again. Finally he succeeded in righting himself, and saw that Deborah was already pulling away from him, working with the water, powerful strokes sending her shooting along the river. All those hours spent at the gym suddenly seemed less cosmetic and more like essential preparation.
Alex was a hopeless swimmer; always had been. He thrashed and bucked, and ultimately had no choice but to let the river take him wherever it wanted. He heard the splashes behind him; the things chasing them were pouring over the ledge above like
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