She did not know fear like it.
Fear that claimed her muscles, her blood and breath, her mind. Fear that told her to get up and break and run. That she had made a brave mistake, the same kind Patch had made.
Saint fell to her knees, scrambled for her glasses but instead found her bag, her hand meeting the cold metal as she raised the gun and aimed it into the darkness.
The gun was snatched from her hands with ease.
Another flash as he moved back into the shadows.
“You say you’re a saint, but maybe you’re a sinner like the others.”
She found her slingshot and box of silver steel ball bearings.
Her hands shook so bad she spilled a dozen to the floor before she loaded one.
Saint cried as she fired off a single shot into the darkness, toward where he might have been. She stood, her whole body shaking as she felt the crunch beneath her shoes.
Saint picked up her shattered lenses, slipped them on and saw things broken.
A curtain opened and red light filled the empty room.
She moved toward it, out into the main barn, to long aisles of boxes stacked four high. The lights burned red.
When she came to the end of one aisle she turned and moved up the next.
It was only then that she looked up.
And when she did, she gasped like she’d been punched in the gut.