Chapter Eighteen

Run

VINCENT STARED AT their executioner.

Fuck, we’re going to die.

He wondered if all final thoughts were so ineloquent. Garbled curses at a world that was cruel enough to give you a warning when it was far too late to do anything about it.

James yanked him to the right, and he crashed to the ground near the front of the truck.

Bang!

Shotgun pellets blasted the truck and kicked up a cloud of dirt.

“Run!” James ordered. He pulled Vincent to his feet, forced him forward, and somehow, his legs carried him. They ran toward the fence on the other side of the truck. The girl cried somewhere inside. The stocky man screamed out in frustration. There were footsteps behind them.

He was chasing after them.

He was going to kill them.

They were going to die here.

Become part of this wasteland.

The reality of just how much trouble they were in ate through his shock all at once, like a colony of starved termites had burrowed into his mind and torn it to pieces. He realized James was pushing him toward the fence behind the brick building. But he couldn’t climb it. Not with his ribs in their current condition. Hell, he could barely run. They needed to change directions. Run for the gate. He looked back to try to communicate this to James, and he spotted the stocky man standing in the dust behind them, aiming the barrel of the shotgun at them.

Bang!

James slammed into him, and they smashed to the ground. The fence shook as the pellets hit it. Pain exploded in Vincent’s chest. James was on top of him.

Oh God, the stocky man had killed him. Shot him dead. Something between a scream and a moan escaped Vincent’s throat. That fucking monster had killed James, and he was next.

But then the weight was gone, he was pulled to his feet, and James pushed him to the fence and screamed, “Climb!”

James was alive—he must have tackled Vincent to the ground before the pellets reached them. But there wasn’t time to celebrate that or try to redirect him toward the gate. Vincent grabbed the top of the fence and attempted to pull himself up.

The stabbing pain in his chest cut so deep that his strength evaporated. Before he had the chance to tell James to save himself, James wrapped his arms around Vincent’s waist and lifted him into the air. Vincent swung his legs over the top of the fence and dropped to the ground. A shock wave shot up his legs and struck him in his chest.

James landed beside him.

The stocky man charged toward them, fumbling with the gun. Reloading. The fence wouldn’t protect them from the blast of a shotgun. They needed to keep going.

James grabbed his hand and took off for the woods behind the fence. Each step sent pain rippling through Vincent’s system. He focused on the tree line. If they slowed down now, then they were as good as dead. Muscle memory, forged from years of jogging, took over, and he ran alongside James despite the pain.

“Get back here, you fuckin’ faggots!” the stocky man screamed.

They had just crossed into the tree line when he fired the next shot. Twigs and bits of bark sprayed the air. Vincent shut his eyes and raised his free arm to shield his face. The ground sloped down. His foot caught on something on the ground; then he and James were falling. They tumbled down a hill that only seemed to be growing steeper by the second, smashing through undergrowth and bouncing off trees and who knew what else.

When they finally came to a stop, he was face up on the ground, and his body burned so hot with pain he felt like he’d fallen right into a cremation chamber. The stocky man fired another shot, but it sounded far more distant than the last one. He screamed something, but that, too, was somewhere above them.

Footsteps beside him. He forced his eyes open. In what little light came from the stars above, he could make out James’s figure over him.

James knelt at his side. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know,” Vincent managed. He coughed, and pain pierced his chest. “I just—need a minute.”

“We have to go.” James slipped an arm under Vincent’s armpit and around his back and pulled him to his feet before he could object. The second Vincent tried to put weight on his left foot, the pain radiating from his ankle made his leg give out. He stumbled, but James held him upright.

“I must have twisted it or something.” He tried to inspect his leg, but he couldn’t see it well in the dark.

Snap.

A twig broke, and it didn’t sound all that far away. Any number of small creatures could have caused the sound in this patch of woods, but all Vincent could think about was the rage in the stocky man’s voice. He was angry enough to fire a shotgun at them in a residential area, and Vincent doubted he’d give up on the opportunity to kill them just because they’d run into the woods. James was right. They had to move.

Vincent grabbed onto James’s shoulder and whispered, “Let’s go.”

James helped him along. Vincent battled against the grunts and breaths that forced their way from his mouth each time they took another step forward, but between them and his heavy tread, he was far from inconspicuous. Sweat poured from his body, and stomach acid crawled up his throat. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of that barrel pointed straight at them, held in the hands of a man determined to kill them.

Thankfully, in a few more steps the trees thinned, and they were out in the open. The outline of a house stared down at them, undoubtedly lit up from a streetlight somewhere behind it. A growl filled the air. Chains rattled. A light fixed to the back of the house snapped on, and through the spots clouding his vision, Vincent caught sight of a large black dog running at them.

It was less than a foot from them when it was suddenly yanked back with a yelp. It had reached the end of its metal leash. Still, it leaned forward, barking and snapping as it choked itself. A light turned on in one of the second-story windows of the house. Skeleton branches of tall shrubs lined either side of the yard, but there was a gap to their right. James led him along the edge of woods and through the opening to the next yard.

Whether it was the pain or the knowledge that fucking dog was leading the stocky man right to them, Vincent wasn’t sure, but when stomach acid shot up his throat again, he couldn’t stop it. He bent over and vomited into the grass. The pain from the action made him vomit again.

“Quiet,” called someone behind them, and only when the barking stopped did Vincent understand that whoever had said it had been talking to the dog.

Vincent managed to take a breath. “I need a break.”

James pulled him forward.

“I said I need—” Vincent started until he looked up and saw that James was leading him toward a shed at the edge of the yard.

Once they were on the other side of it, James helped him to the ground. “You okay?”

Vincent didn’t feel okay. He felt like he’d been ground up in a blender. Examining himself did little to dispel this theory. His clothes were ripped and torn, covered in some combination of blood and dirt and whatever else he had smashed through in the woods. His body shook from exertion, and he was pretty sure he’d undone any progress his ribs had made in healing in the past month.

He didn’t know what they were thinking. They’d presented themselves on a platter to a psychopath who had already tried to kill them once, and they’d done so without any means to defend themselves. He’d been so blinded by the need to end this nightmare that he’d forgotten to turn off the flash on his phone. An idiotic mistake that still might cost them their lives.

“I’m so sorry.” He held back the tears.

James leaned down and hugged him. Half his face was caked in leaves and dirt, and his shirt was ripped all over. He didn’t look all that much better off than Vincent, but whatever injuries he’d sustained had to be superficial. He had enough strength to practically carry Vincent to this point; he could probably make it back to the car and get out of there in a matter of minutes on his own.

Vincent pulled his keys from his pocket. “You should go. Get the car. There is no way I’m making it back there before he finds us.”

James pulled away and stared at him like he had three heads.

“You can come back and get me,” Vincent offered weakly.

After what felt like an eternity, James said, “No. It’s not safe. We need to go.”

He pressed the keys into James’s hands. “I’ll just slow you down. Go.”

“I can’t,” James said. “I love you.”

I love you.

The movement of the lips, barely visible in the darkness—Vincent had seen it before. It had been the last thing James had mouthed to him in the tunnel before those monsters had shot him and tried to kill Vincent. And all he could think about after he’d woken up in that hospital bed was how he might have prevented what happened in that tunnel if he’d listened to James. Maybe if he hadn’t been so scared then, he could have run for it when James told him to, and in the ensuing confusion, James might have made it out of there as well.

Somehow, James had survived. But here Vincent was, putting his life at risk all over again. James wasn’t going to leave him here, and all he was doing was giving the stocky man more time to find them.

He pocketed his keys and reached out a hand. “We should get moving, then.”

The pain didn’t disappear. Neither did the sweat and nausea. By the time they’d made it across two more lawns, he’d vomited again—pure stomach acid this time—and removed his coat to find his shirt completely drenched in sweat.

He kept moving until they made it to a road. He opened his phone and pulled up Google Maps. They were two blocks down from Allequippa Street. A far way for Vincent to go in his current condition, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving. He’d rather die of exhaustion than live knowing his inaction had gotten James killed.

They had made it up one block when the sirens started. Red and blue lights passed by on the street ahead of them. Someone had called the cops. A relieving development until Vincent considered that, depending on what the stocky man told them, the police could be looking for him and James before long. They picked up the pace. When they made it back to the car, four separate police cruisers had pulled onto the side street where the stocky man’s house was located.

The moment they got inside, Vincent locked the doors and twisted the keys in the ignition. The engine roared to life. Somehow, they had made it out of there. He was so relieved he might have cried if he had the energy. Even though he’d been stupid enough to take a picture in the middle of the night with the flash on, they were safe.

The picture.

In the madness that had ensued, he’d almost forgotten all about the reason that’d brought them there in the first place. He took out his phone and pressed the home button. An empty battery appeared on his phone. Dead. Between Google Maps and the pictures, he’d drained the battery. He’d lost his cigarette lighter adapter, so he wouldn’t know if they’d gotten the picture until they got back to the apartment.

“More reason to get the hell out of here,” he told James, who was watching the screen.

After the sirens faded, an overwhelming exhaustion took hold of his body. He turned up the volume on the Fleetwood Mac cassette to keep from dozing off. He mindlessly mouthed the words to “Monday Morning,” the picture consuming his thoughts. He was almost positive he’d gotten a clear one, but if the flash had reflected off the glass of the window, then all their efforts could have been in vain.

The ten-minute drive back to their apartment felt like an hour. Vincent didn’t think he’d ever been happier to see the faded green sign for their street. He pulled into the right lane to turn onto the road, but James grabbed the wheel, keeping him in the left lane and forcing him to drive past the street.

“What the hell are you doing?”

James didn’t answer. He was focused on the passenger’s side mirror.

Vincent checked the rearview mirror. A matte-black truck was coming up the road behind them, too far behind to see who was inside. “Are they following us?”

“Don’t know,” James said, without looking up at him.

Had the stocky man called his friends? Made sure that, even if he was arrested, someone would track them down. Vincent turned down the music. They approached a red light. He stopped—naturally, turns on red were prohibited at this intersection. The truck got closer, but its high beams were on, sending nothing but light through the back of the car.

The streetlight turned green.

No other cars were on the road.

He was too exhausted to drive around for hours, hoping the truck was just happening to take the same route. He cut the wheel left and made a U-turn. He hardly gave the road out the windshield more than a passing glance, his eyes focused on the truck behind them. It continued down the street.

“Thank fuck.” Vincent didn’t think he could deal with anything else tonight. Just to be safe, he turned on the street before theirs and cut through an alleyway to get to it. He also parked a few houses down from their apartment. The longer walk was well worth a little peace of mind, and the prospect of seeing the picture made the pain of limping the distance almost bearable. He did, however, have to take a breather when he made it up the front porch steps.

“Come on!” Tyler screamed in exasperation. Vincent jumped, looking around. Tyler was nowhere in sight. He must be in his and Sam’s apartment on the other side of the big stained-glass window out front that was covered in dark curtains.

“I’m not going to say it again. Just go have fun,” Sam responded in a low, sharp voice from inside, confirming Vincent’s assumption.

“We should get going,” he told James. They were too close to figuring out whether or not they’d gotten the picture to get wrapped up in whatever was going on with Sam and Tyler. Plus, their current conditions would only raise questions. They made it through the main door and to the stairwell when Sam and Tyler’s apartment door flung open.

Fuck. Vincent stopped, one foot on the hallway floor and the other on the first step. He looked back down the hall, which was still empty.

“I have to go study,” Sam said, still inside. “But go party if you want to party. I’m leaving.”

Vincent turned to James, motioning for them to hurry up the stairs. They still might go unnoticed. He held on to the railing, and with James supporting him, he hopped up the steps.

“It’s not a party,” Tyler said. His words were ever so slightly slurred. He was drunk. “We are fuckin’ celebrating. Everyone has their girl with them but me. Come on. They all know I came back for you.”

“Which is why I texted you to not waste the Uber ride. I have to study. Go have fun.” Insincerity coated her words.

Vincent and James were almost halfway up the stairs.

“Fine,” Tyler said.

“Fine.” Sam’s voice was far clearer than before.

Vincent looked back. Sam pulled open the front door and stormed off without even noticing them. Tyler stumbled after her, falling into the wall across from their apartment door. He stood up and stuck his head out of the front door. “Well, maybe I just won’t come home tonight, then!”

“Have fun,” Sam said, farther away.

“I will.” Tyler slammed the door.

The sound made Vincent jump. He lost his balance for a second and had to hop to keep himself on the step. Tyler looked up at them. “Can I fuckin’ help you?”

Vincent faced forward. To James, he said, “Let’s go.”

James didn’t move.

Tyler burped. “That’s what I thought.”

James turned around to look down at him.

“Needa somethin’?” Tyler slurred.

“Let’s go,” Vincent said, more forcefully. He refused to let a drunken Tyler further delay them. He tried pulling himself up the next step, but he didn’t have enough strength. James snapped out of it and helped him.

“Smart choice. You don’t want a second round with me. I’d be your funeral for real this time,” Tyler said. He waited a moment to see if he’d get a reaction out of James. When he didn’t, he stormed out of the front door.

Vincent looked up at the ceiling, tempted to ask the universe what else it could throw at them tonight. He kept it to himself for fear it might answer with some other obstacle. He didn’t stop for another break until they’d made it up the steps, into their apartment, and down the hall to their bedroom, where he plugged his phone into the charging cord lying across the bedside table. It would take a minute or two for it to get enough of a charge to turn on. In the meantime, James helped him down to the bed.

Vincent didn’t lie back for fear that he’d pass out immediately. Instead, he remained in a seated position and waited, looking down at his feet. His left ankle had swollen to twice the size of his right. No wonder he couldn’t walk on it. He turned to James, who still stood over him. “Can you grab me something from the freezer to put on this?”

“Yeah.” He hurried out of the room. The back of his jacket was covered in holes but, thankfully, the wounds didn’t seem that deep. Only a little blood spotted the fabric among the dirt and other remnants from the woods. Tyler must have been pretty smashed not to notice the condition they were in. Or he just didn’t care. Vincent wasn’t looking forward to showering and seeing just how bad all the wounds covering his body were.

He tried the home button on his phone. Still dead.

James returned with a bag of peas and helped him out of his shoes before wrapping the bag around his swollen ankle. The cold bag started to numb it immediately, and he let out a breath of relief. A memory of his mother sitting at the kitchen table, her bare feet planted on bags of frozen vegetables after a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, came to mind, but he pushed it away. Now was not the time.

“Thanks,” he told James. He tried his phone again. The screen lit up. “It’s on.”

James sat down beside him. Vincent unlocked his phone and went to his camera roll. The stocky man stared back at them. The flash had created a glare on the window, but it wasn’t near his face.

They had him.

Vincent leaned against James, tears welling in his eyes. “We can send it out tomorrow morning. And then, we’re done.”

James didn’t say a word.

Vincent looked up at him. No relief or joy. His expression was inscrutable. “What is it?”

“We should keep this to ourselves.”