Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
My mouth goes dry. I take a step backward without thinking. The man takes a step forward. My heart slams against my ribs. No. Not again.
I turn to run. A hand clamps over my mouth from behind. My scream turns into a muffled choke. My body goes instantly rigid. Panic explodes in my chest. A second arm locks around my torso, crushing the air out of me. My mind flashes white.
The smell of sweat and cheap detergent fills my nose. My vision blurs. My legs kick. I stomp down hard, heel landing on something solid. A grunt. The grip tightens.
I bite down as hard as I can and my teeth sink into his skin.
The man swears, but he does not let go. Instead, something sharp presses into my side through the hoodie.
I stop fighting for one second because my brain screams at me that fighting will get me stabbed.
A voice hisses in my ear. “Be good. Be quiet.”
I shake my head, tears burning hot. I try to pull air in through my nose. I can. Barely.
Footsteps approach. The man in the hallway appears in front of us now, blocking the path back to the store. He’s smiling. A slow, ugly smile. “You made it real easy,” he says.
My stomach flips. I try to scream again, but the hand over my mouth presses harder. My eyes dart toward the store entrance. If I could get to the main area, if I could knock over a display, if I could make noise…
The man holding me drags me backward. Toward a side door I did not notice.
My heels scrape the floor. My hoodie rides up. Cold air hits my lower back as the door opens. The winter air slams into my face. The parking lot is too bright. Too open.
Ozzy is still at the pump. He’s facing the road. He’s not looking at me.
My entire body surges with desperation. I twist hard, trying to jerk my head enough to make noise. The grip around me tightens like a vice.
I manage a sound anyway. A muffled, ugly “Mmmp!”
Ozzy doesn’t hear it.
I kick again, frantic now.
The man swears and yanks me faster, toward the back of the building. Behind the store, the lights do not reach as far. Shadow swallows us. I try to dig my nails into his arm. He slams me into the side of a van.
My blood turns to ice.
No.
No no no.
The van door slides open. The dark inside looks like a mouth. The man shoves me in. I hit the floor hard, shoulder and hip screaming. The door slams shut with a metallic bang that echoes like a coffin lid. The air inside is stale, smells like rubber and old sweat.
My breath comes in sharp bursts. I scramble upright, hands shaking. My eyes adjust enough to see shapes. Two men. I’ve seen them before. I’ve been here before. They’ve laughed while I cried before. This can’t be happening again. One of them crouches, grabbing my wrists. He yanks them behind my back and cinches something tight around them.
Zip ties. The plastic bites into my skin. I jerk, trying to pull away. He backhands me. Stars explode behind my eyes. My cheek burns. My ears ring. I taste blood. I blink fast, trying not to sob.
The van lurches forward. I try once more to fight. To do something. I kick and thrash, but it’s no use because the moment the van makes a hard turn, my head slams into the wall of the van.
My mind screams Ozzy’s name.
Ozzy.
Ozzy will come.
Ozzy will burn down the world.
But the reality hits right after. He didn’t see me. He was facing the road. He thinks I’m inside buying a drink or using the restroom. He thinks I’m safe.
The thought makes my chest crack open. Tears spill before I can stop them. I force my breathing to slow. If I hyperventilate, I will pass out. If I pass out, I lose control. Control is the only thing I have left.
The van bumps over potholes. The smell gets worse. My wrists throb. The men do not talk much. One of them hums like this is just a job. And I hate him for that.
I stare at the seam of the door, at the thin line of light. I try to memorize turns. Left. Right. The length of the stops. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know this area well enough.
Minutes stretch into something cruel. Then the van slows until it stops.
The door slides open. Cold air spills in. A warehouse. The warehouse. The one where Ozzy and I just were only thirty minutes ago.
They yank me out of the van.
My legs are weak, but I force them to work. They drag me through a side entrance. The inside is dim, lit by one row of overhead lights that flicker and buzz. Dust floats in the beams like slow snow. The sound of my shoes scuffing on concrete seems too loud.