She was the last one left alive, which meant that she had suffered the most. And when they finally held her down and slashed her throat or plunged a blade into her eye, it would be the memories of her dead friends that would accompany her into death.
She hung on for a few seconds, trying to regain her strength. But her muscles were knotted and ice-cold, cramps throbbed in her calves, and the longer she hung here the less chanced she’d have of ever hauling herself out.
So she started climbing. She gasped in effort as she pulled herself from the lake, then screamed in frustration as she fell back in. She clung onto the post but it was coated in slime and moss, and her nails scored fresh trails as she was pulled below the surface. Kicking, coughing water, she pushed back up and tried again. Every time she went back under she expected to see Father Buckner advancing on her, walking across the lake’s bed and grinning, the scythe in his hand ready to part her skin as he had done to Holden—
But she wouldn’t think of Holden. Not yet. She couldn’t.
At last she pulled herself far enough up to reach onto the dock’s surface and curl her fingers in between boards. She waited there for a while, catching her breath and listening for the sounds of anything breaking surface close by, and then with one final massive effort she tugged, raised a leg, and then rolled onto her back.
Dana coughed up water and gasped as she stared at the stars. Beyond exhausted, beyond terrified, she spread her hands on the wood and relished its solidity. She was afraid to close her eyes in case she saw things she didn’t want to see in there, sights that would haunt her for the rest of her life, however long that might be. And there would be such sights.
She breathed in and tasted Holden’s mysterious, lightly spiced breath; glanced at the treeline to her left and saw Curt’s eyes peering over the trees, blood on his temple and cheek, confident smile on his face as he revved the dirt-bike; moved her hands across the rough, dry wood and felt the warmth of Jules’s blood on her skin. And Marty, dragged off and killed; sweet innocent Marty who’d had a crush on her which she had never truly acknowledged. She had enough memories for a million nightmares. If she could only keep them at bay a little while longer, she might have a chance to get away from here.
Through the woods, she thought. As far and fast as I can. Or back to the tunnel, see if I can climb up and over the mountain or down and across the ravine. Or… or… and what she’d said to Holden echoed back to her now, about how there would always be something in their way. Or someone. The puppeteers would see to that.
But by not giving in and drowning to steal Buckner’s bloody victory from him, she had decided to fight those fucking puppeteers. And she would continue to fight them, every step of the way.
Her breathing became more regular, her determination grew. She saw a point of light moving slowly above her and thought perhaps it was a satellite. Her paranoia rich and hot, she gave it the finger.
Something smashed into the wooden dock right beside her head. The impact thumped into her skull, the noise shocking, her hair flicking up, a breath of displaced air giving her ear an intimate caress. She sat up and turned onto her hands and knees, ready to leap aside, and saw Matthew looming over her. The crowbar was still sticking through his face.
“Come on then, fucker!” she shouted, and found that she was hardly surprised. But terrified, she realized that she’d wet herself with fear. And that made her fury grow into something blazingly hot. “Come on, come on, come on!”
He came.
TEN
Sitterson worked the room.
He could see the glances he was getting and they made him smile, but only slightly. If he beamed they’d see him reveling in his success. He wanted to be more aloof than that. Just a little more. That way they’d all find him more interesting, and there were a few women in here he’d never tried it on with yet. He always liked to end these events with a blow job at least, and up to now he had an unbroken record.
Today, buoyed by his vague celebrity status after the close call and his rapid thinking, he’d set himself a much higher target. And there she was, Lin, standing over by the opened mahogany panels and actually leaning against the last closed one, as if she was ready to pull the lever herself. She chatted with a male colleague without smiling. There was another drink in her hand. And by the end of the day, Sitterson wanted her writhing beneath him with her tight hair released over a plump, fresh pillow.
“Oh, yeah,” he said softly, taking another drink of tequila and glancing around the room. People from other departments had trickled in, most of them bearing drinks, food, and a readiness to celebrate their success. The atmosphere was relaxed and jovial, but Sitterson had been here long enough to sense the air of underlying hysterical relief that most people still exuded. Laughter was a little too loud and free, drinks were drunk just a little too quickly, and there was a sexual tension in the air that would undoubtedly be drawn upon before the day was over.
He remembered the evening after his first time. He’d started in Story, and following their first scenario the party had been hard and fast, like this one, and so had the woman he’d met from Admin. She’d been giving him head in a restroom, sucking like he was the last man alive, when someone from Control walked in on them. Sitterson had frozen, expecting reprimands and instant dismissal. But the woman had just smiled softly and backed out, and the Admin girl had barely missed a stroke.
There was something animal and desperate about that act, which he sensed in the air here and now, and he knew that what they did took them all back to basics. The present existed only because of what they had done today.
It was live or die, and what better way to celebrate surviving than with sex.
On the big screens the Virgin was fighting for her life with the Matthew Buckner zombie. Sitterson watched for a moment, then looked away, across the crowd. No one else seemed particularly interested, but he knew it was something far deeper than that. It didn’t matter now whether the Virgin lived or died, and everyone in this room dealt with stuff that mattered. They no longer had control over her fate, nor did they need to.
Hadley might well be rooting for her, and perhaps some of the others too—hell, even Sitterson thought she was cute—but his internal defense mechanism was raised again. He saw her crying and screaming, he saw the monstrous zombie trying to kill her.
But now, it was all just a movie.
Truman was still watching. Of course. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open as he attached import to the girl’s life. But he’d learn soon enough.
Hadley was talking with a guy from Story and a woman from Accounts. Sitterson strolled over to hear their conversation.
“I wish I could do what you guys do,” the Accounts woman said. “It’s masterful.”
“It was good,” Hadley nodded. “It was solid.”
“Are you kidding?” the Story guy gushed. “Classic denouement. When the van hit the lake?” He raised his hands as if to say, What could be better? He was reveling in the woman’s adulation.
“Hell, I screamed!” Accounts said.
“Right?” Story acknowledged.