After an hour of banging away at the chains, I’m totally exhausted. All I’ve had to eat in the past forty-eight hours are some canapés and mini-quiches plus the few bites of stale bread I had when I got here.
Not exactly the best fuel for nonstop cardio. Still, I force my arms back up and drop the heavy bookend down again.
Just one more time.
Bang.
Nothing.
Come on, just one more.
Bang.
Oh God, my arms are noodles. I’m never going to get this. Maybe I’m wrong and the welded section isn’t the weakest, but like, the strongest. Maybe there’s something about alien Dragon fire. But I can’t start over in a new spot. I just can’t. I’ve already committed.
Tears trail down my cheeks. I don’t have anything else in me. I can’t lift this freaking bookend one more time.
Then I remember First covered in blood. Angry and roaring at me. I slump back against the wall.
And then I think of how I lit up when he touched me. And I scream in fury, lifting the bookend high up overhead and slamming it back down one more time.
The chain snaps at the weld.
Oh my God. Oh my God. I laugh in exhilaration then scramble to my feet. He could be back any moment. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. But I feel dizzy and I grab my forehead.
Okay, slow down. Think. Be smart. You’re in the middle of what’s basically a desert. Water. Food.
After a quick search through the cupboards, I find a water bottle. I fill it up quickly, grab the rest of the stale bread, then I grab a pair of boots by the door that are only a few sizes too big, but far better than the strappy sandal pumps I wore to the benefit.
Then I run. I run as fast as my wimpy, tired little legs can carry me.
Night fell a little while ago but there’s a half moon and I also found a flashlight at the cabin. I’m trying not to use it too much. If First has found me gone already, then he could just fly overhead and a light would give me away in two seconds.
I’m not able to run for long before I’m panting too hard and slow to just a fast walk. The night is cool but I’m walking so fast that I’m warm enough. I don’t want to think about when I have to stop.
I don’t even know if I’m headed in the right direction. I have no idea where a town or road might be. Just how secluded are we out here? And where exactly is here?
Embarrassing truth? I’m not much of an outdoorsy girl. I mean, I think I’m mostly going one direction and not in circles. I’m using the stars to orient myself… But don’t the stars shift throughout the night? The North Star, though. That one should stay still. And I think I’ve found it.
Look, I’m not outdoorsy, I said it. I was never in Girl Scouts and my family was the kind that vacationed in Cabo, not backpacking in the Sierras.
Being dropped in the middle of nowhere and told to find my way back to civilization is pretty much my version of hell.
Except, oh yeah, there’s also a psycho alien hunting me down.
Even as I think it, the description doesn’t seem quite fair, which only shows that I’ve obviously got the beginnings of Stockholm syndrome. I need to get the hell out of here, and now, before I lose anymore of my obviously fragile mind.
I pause, trying to orient myself again to the North star… and hear a rustle in the dry brush behind me.
My head swings around and I stare into the darkness beyond. I just barely crush down my impulse to call out who’s there?
Crap, did he find me already? I can’t have been gone more than a couple of hours, if that. I was hoping I’d made better time, but what if I’ve barely gone a mile or two?
I hold my breath and wait to see if I hear anything else.
The night is silent apart from crickets and the light wind blowing.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
Standing still isn’t going to help me either way, so I start moving again.
But moments later, I swear I hear it again, the slightest noise in the brush behind me. Closer than it was before.
I freeze. Shit, I can’t deal with this kind of nervous stress. “First?” I call lightly. If he’s here, I want to know. He has all the advantage. I don’t know that he can see in the dark, but I highly suspect it. He’s a winged predator and I’m just… I’m just, well, me. Little pacifist me.
There’s no response. Jesus, is he just playing with me? Or is no one really there and I’m letting my imagination play tricks on me?