Fic - Know Your Exits 4/7

[cj2017]

Title: Know Your Exits (4/7)

Rating: Hard R: violence, sex, huge amounts of bad language, discussion of adult themes, a pretty spectacular body count, casual slaughter of the innocent (including one minor series character), and scenes of a medical nature that might cause queasiness in those with a sensitive disposition.

Word Count: About 30,500 all told. This part 5,400

Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Wish I did. And I have shamelessly pinched some of their dialogue.

Things get a little dark for Sarah in this part…

 

~ ~ ~

Know Your Exits 4/7

~ ~ ~

               “Is it still the machines, Sarah?”

               “Where have you been hiding for the past eight years?”

               “Why Tarissa, Sarah? Why continue to target the Dysons?”

               The voices and shouts surrounded her, cat calls, taunts, inane questions and pleas for clarity. Numb with exhaustion, Sarah welcomed the overly-harsh grip on her arm, steering her through the mêlée, breaking a path and keeping the crowd at bay. When the steel of the first security door slammed shut, the sudden silence was jarring.

               “In here.”

               The officer had slate-gray eyes and a cruel twist to his lips, and these were the first words he had spoken to her since pulling her from the back seat of the car. She staggered as he propelled her into a small room marked Processing.

               “She’s all yours.”

               The female prison guard waited until the officer had released the cuffs from Sarah’s wrists before she handed her an orange jumpsuit. When the officer still didn’t leave, the woman raised an eyebrow, her arms folded.

               “Why don’t you go and get a coffee, Johnson? You don’t get to be here for this.”

               The grin left the officer’s face and his expression darkened. “Bitch already killed two of ours, and she took out another four today, before we got her pinned down. Just want to be sure you’re safe, that’s all.”

               The woman looked at Sarah, who seemed to be standing upright only through sheer force of will. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

               His hands came up then, his eyes all innocence. “Only doing my job. Talbert and me, we’re right outside. The FBI want her in an hour. Play nice till then.”

               When the door finally shut, the woman muttered “Asshole,” and shook her head, turning to Sarah. “You know the drill, I’m guessing.”

               Sarah nodded. “Yes, I know the drill.”

               Peering at her for a long moment, the woman narrowed her eyes. “I’m also guessing you’re gonna be needing a doctor, huh?”

               Too weary to put up any kind of pretense, Sarah laid a hand tentatively against her side, then looked down at the blood coating her palm, and nodded again. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I guess I am.”

~ ~ ~

               Muttering an apology, Derek hooked his hands beneath the janitor’s arms and dragged the unconscious man further into the supply closet. The shirt he had stripped from the man was too big, and the belt had been long enough to wrap twice around his waist, but no-one would notice that at a glance, and he was hoping fervently that hospital janitors would warrant no more than a glance. Pulling the denim-blue cap down low, he pushed the small cart out into the corridor, locking the closet door behind him. A janitor would know where he was going, so Derek had already picked up a hospital map from the main entrance and studied it carefully. He had done everything carefully; what he hadn’t done was wait for the two hours that he had promised Sarah.

               By the time the first baton had fallen, he had been on the edge of the parking lot, forcing himself to drive away when his baser instincts were screaming at him just to take a chance and drive straight into the police line instead. An hour later, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Satisfied with their prize, the police had retreated as quickly as they had arrived, which left Derek with a brief window of opportunity. Brief, because sooner rather than later some bright spark would stop patting himself on the back for long enough to realize that Sarah had stashed her drugs somewhere on the premises, and that an accomplice would subsequently be coming to retrieve them.

               Shaking out a fresh liner for the trash can, Derek pulled the old one out, the unusual weight and shape sitting at the bottom of it indicating that he had found the right restroom. Placing the trash-bag on the cart, he walked unhurriedly back onto the main corridor, turning left to the service elevators and hitting the button for the basement. Manual staff always exited via a basement, and, as he had predicted, no one spared him a second glance as he picked up the bag of trash and walked straight out into the sunlight.

~ ~ ~

               The doctor had introduced himself only as “Doc”. He was well on his way to retirement and smelled faintly of bourbon and cigarettes, but his hands were steady as he frowned at the criss-cross pattern of welts on Sarah’s back and shoulders and examined her for underlying fractures.

               “Take a deep breath for me. Good. And another.”

               She did as she was asked, even though it was painful.

He nodded in satisfaction. “Your chest is clear; ribs are all okay. Now, what the hell happened here? Someone take a fucking meat grinder to you?”

               Before Sarah could answer, there was a metallic rattling behind her. The doctor muttered under his breath, digging into his pockets and dropping two quarters into the tin that a nurse was holding out for him.

               “Never miss a trick, do you, Deanne?”

               “You keep this up, doc, and you’re gonna run outta money for whiskey again.”

               He scowled at Deanne, who smiled beatifically and handed him a small tray. “Twenty-five cents for every cuss word,” she said to Sarah, by way of explanation. “We’re both trying to give up, but it’s real fuckin’ hard.” The doctor laughed as Deanne reached into her own pocket. “Aww, shit.” The tin clanked again.

Sarah stared at the two medics, slightly envious of their world in which sentient machines posed no threat to civilization and one of their major concerns was an over-reliance on the word fuck. “It wasn’t a meat grinder,” she muttered, watching the nurse drawing clear liquid into a syringe.

               “No.” The doctor probed the wound, withdrawing his hand when Sarah made a quiet noise of discomfort. “It was a small caliber through and through, and you were lucky. Now, sit back for me.” He opened a packet and took out a suturing needle. “This is going to sting a little.”

               Sarah carefully leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She felt the sharp prick of a needle in several places around the wound, and then there was a pause before the doctor asked, “Can you feel this?”

               Looking down in confusion, she realized that he had given her a local anesthetic. She shook her head in answer to his question, raising her arm to cover her eyes as tears filled them; she had forgotten that it didn’t always have to hurt. She knew that she needed to keep her wits about her and that pain tended to keep her alert, but she was so tired, and the medics weren’t interested in her crimes, or her missing years, or her son. According to the clock on the wall, there were twenty-five minutes left before her hour was up and the FBI would come looking for her. The pain would be back by then. Drawing reassurance from that, she closed her eyes again, and, for the first time in hours, allowed herself to rest.

~ ~ ~

               The motel door opened before Derek could knock. He hurried past Cameron, closing the door, as she hesitated, with a puzzled expression on her face.

He went straight over to John, wrinkling his nose at the rank odor of vomit and infection. “We need to get these into him. Then we need to get to the cabin.”

               Without comment, Cameron began studying the dosages on the packets and drawing up the correct amounts, as Derek inserted a second IV line and connected the blood and antibiotics. She handed him another small IV bag and a syringe filled with the anti-emetic, and watched as he administered the medications.

It was only when he stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel, that she spoke. “What happened?”

               He folded the towel neatly, setting it down on the bedside table. “She got arrested.”

               Cameron regarded him, her face blank as the possible ramifications passed through her neural processor in a rapid series of permutations and calculations. “The media were present?”

               “Yes. I…” He paused, uncertain; he hadn’t thought to look. “I’m sure they were.”

               “Then the Triple 8 will be aware of her arrest.”

               “Shit.” Momentarily safe, with John finally receiving the correct treatment, Derek was beginning to see things as clearly as the machine. “Won’t it consider John a priority?” His voice was almost hopeful; out of all the shitty scenarios, that would probably be the simplest for them to cope with, but Cameron was shaking her head.

               “It is likely that John has also been identified, but the Triple 8 is aware that he is severely wounded, and it has no way of tracking him. Sarah has been a Kaliba target for months. The fact that she can be easily located will make her the simplest option.”

               “Jesus.” Derek slumped into a chair, suddenly feeling sick and overwhelmed. “You think it’ll target her at the jail?”

               Cameron handed him a bottle of water, and nodded as he drank. “I would.”

~ ~ ~

               Agent Auldridge had an accent that Sarah couldn’t quite place, and an apparent fondness for grandstanding. She didn’t encourage him by showing any reaction as he listed her past crimes and those that she stood accused of committing more recently. Shifting her hands where they lay cuffed in her lap, she felt a pang of sorrow as he mentioned Tarissa Dyson, and when he told her that the two murdered security guards had been off-duty police officers, she realized why the handcuffs were so tight.

His opening speech concluded, he had finally stopped walking around the room and now sat in front of her, his hands still moving hyperactively on the empty table between them. “So, there’s two ways I can bring your son into custody: with your help, or dead. Which do you think it should be?”

               His question was so unexpected that it felt like a slap in the face, and Sarah fought to keep her voice neutral.

“My son?”

“Your son, John Connor.”

“John is dead.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

The metal carved into her wrists as she twisted her hands, and she barely heard his glib response. As blood seeped onto her fingers, she continued to speak as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “He got shot at the Dysons’.”

She stared down at her hands, crimson glistening over the steel links. As she had intended, the pain kept her focused, but in the end it was too easy for her to believe what she was saying, and she choked on the words: “He died.”

A strange expression crossed Auldridge’s face, the wind suddenly taken out of his sails. He had been so absolutely certain, walking into this interview; certain of his subject and of the tactics he would use to break her down. Now, watching her stare straight ahead, he saw an unfathomable grief in her eyes, and found himself wondering whether she wasn’t already broken.

~ ~ ~

               Unable to give a plausible reason for being at the Dysons’, or an explanation as to why an unidentified and untraceable assailant would have attacked them there, Sarah barely even tried. When she challenged Auldridge about Tarissa’s time of death and about the fact that someone had shot her son, a flicker of unease crossed his face, and she knew then that the odds were definitely not stacked in her favor. She didn’t ask for a lawyer; if she was already condemned before a trial, then there really wasn’t any point.

               They had taken her back to her cell, bringing her a sandwich and a plastic cup of coffee, and leaving her to cope with the handcuffs while she ate. Disorientated, unable to gauge the time of day or how long she had been in the jail, she sat on the thin mattress of the cot and waited for them to come for her again.

~ ~ ~

               “Mom?”

It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to make Derek sit bolt upright on the edge of the chair in which he had finally dozed off. He reached for John’s hand where it lay limply on the sheet; the mere act of speaking seemed to have exhausted John, and he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

               “You back with us?” Derek stood up, and smiled when he touched John’s forehead; it was still warm but his temperature was nowhere near as high as it had been. “Here, slowly.”

               John sipped the water that Derek held for him, licking his parched lips and trying to make out shapes in the dim light. Cameron stood by the door in a familiar pose, the assault rifle that she favored held at the ready. IV bags hung at both sides of the bed, and two chairs were pulled up close. Derek had put the water down and was sitting beside him again. John furrowed his brow, unease creeping in below the morphine and the lingering fever.

               “Where’s my mom?”

~ ~ ~

               It certainly hadn’t been easy, but they had finally left the motel. Having attempted to get out of bed the instant he learned of Sarah’s arrest, John had ended up writhing in pain, and the morphine it had taken to control it had left a sizable hole in their already dwindling supply.

               Derek had made another promise, to John Connor this time, and it had been enough to quiet him and get him to the truck. He was sleeping again, more comfortable now that the fever had broken and Derek had been confident enough with his progress to travel in the front seat.

               “You shouldn’t have said that.” Cameron kept her voice low, her eyes on the road.

               “I shouldn’t have said what?” Derek knew exactly what she was referring to, but bloody-mindedness made him force her to be more explicit.

               “About his mother. You shouldn’t have promised that we would attempt to free her.”

               “You want to tell John that, when he’s awake?” He ground the question out through gritted teeth, galled by her absolute lack of emotion.

               “It is tactically unwise.” She looked over at him. “And Sarah will kick your ass from here to next week.”

               Derek blinked. He knew exactly where she had heard the phrase, and she had hit the nail on the head so completely that she might as well have imitated Sarah’s voice and completed the effect. The fact that the machine was right only made him more annoyed.

               “Do you think I don’t fucking know that?” He glanced at John, who hadn’t moved despite his raised voice. “She can kick my ass. We’re not leaving her in there for the Triple 8, or for the Feds to lock up and throw away the key.”

               The machine gave him another look, this one tinged with curiosity. “Sarah would order me to stay with John.”

               “And John will order you to go to Sarah.” He shook his head in despair. “And I thought the future was fucked up.”

               Slowing the truck for a red light, Cameron contemplated her response until the light turned green. “The future is fucked up,” she said pragmatically. “This is merely complicated.”

~ ~ ~

               The over-bright neon strip lights were making Sarah’s headache worse, and she struggled to concentrate on what Auldridge was asking her, afraid of letting her guard slip even for a second.

Not having gotten very far with slick and smartass, Auldridge was now attempting to be sympathetic and approachable. He had released the handcuffs from around her wrists and turned her hands over in his, frowning at the oozing wounds the restraints had left, and promising her warm water and clean dressings. Sitting quietly, his body language reserved, he had expressed his belief in her, in time travel and cyborgs and the apocalypse to come.

               He had sounded so sincere, and it had been so tempting, just for a second, to confide in someone and shift the burden slightly from her own shoulders. But she had remembered another man, a man who had also released the chains from her wrists and allowed her to see a chink of freedom before hauling her back into the dark. That time, she hadn’t seen it coming, and she was determined now not to yield to the same technique. So, when he finally got around to what was really at the crux of all his heartfelt promises, and pledged his desire to help her and to help her son, Sarah was able to look him in the eye without flinching as she gave him her answer.

               “My son is dead.”

               Auldridge had shaken his head once and banged on the door of the interrogation room. Before the prison guard entered, he had turned to her, asking her if she knew who Danny Dyson was.

               “Danny?” She was thrown momentarily, wondering if it was another kind of trick. “Miles Dyson’s son.”

               He watched as the guard closed the cuffs around her wrists, not intervening when she bit her lip against the pain. “Do you know where he is?”

               “No.” She ignored the burning running up her arms, her interest piqued. “Why?”

               “He’s been missing for three months.”

He nodded at the guard, who pulled her up by her arm and led her out of the room, meeting no resistance as she tried to match pieces in a puzzle for which Auldridge had barely started to collect the clues.

Left alone in her cell, Sarah lay down on the cot and pulled her arms tightly towards her chest. She could hear the shouts and coded conversations of other women in the neighboring cells, and the random clang of doors opening and closing. Too cold and too wired to sleep, she forced herself not to think about John, and found herself thinking about Danny Dyson instead.

Auldridge’s reveal about Danny had unwittingly confirmed Derek’s theory, that Sarah had been the intended target at the Dysons’. Although there were other possibilities, she knew in her gut that Kaliba were behind Danny’s disappearance, and that his name had been nothing more than a lure to draw her and anyone she was working with into a trap. Which meant that Derek’s second theory – the one he had tried so hard to skirt around – had also been correct: Kaliba now knew exactly who Sarah was, and had sent metal to eliminate her and anyone else who happened to get caught in the crossfire.

Looking at the bars and the three gray walls, Sarah felt the pounding in her head intensify. She wondered how long she had until the T-888 attempted to complete its mission.

~ ~ ~

               The key was where Sarah had said it would be. Derek closed the glass door of the lantern carefully; like everything else around them, it looked old and worn. When, to his surprise, the generator started first time, he realized that someone must have been paid to carry out general maintenance on the cabin. Inside, it had been kept in a reasonable state of repair, perfect for the occasion when your injured son, his uncle from the future, and their cybernetic bodyguard might have to flee to it.

               He turned on the lights, which flickered but stayed on. Once a small fire in the grate had begun to spread fingers of warmth to chase away the damp of the main room, he went back to the truck for John.

Sitting up in the back seat, John smiled slightly at Derek’s look of surprise. “I woke up while you were off playing Grizzly Adams. Cameron’s setting up a perimeter.”

               “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

               Together, they managed to half-walk, half-stagger the short distance to the cabin. When John shook his head at the suggestion that he lie down, Derek steered him to the sofa.

               “I’ve slept enough.” John shivered slightly and didn’t protest when Derek threw a woolen rug over his knees. “You brought my laptop in yet?”

               Derek nodded, pulling it from the pile of bags and sliding the case over to him. “They’ve taken her to the Los Angeles County Jail, if that helps any.”

               John’s good hand stopped flying across the keys and he looked up at Derek. His face was still pale and sweaty, his hair stuck up on end, but his eyes gleamed as he grinned, happy to have an ally.

               “Yes, thank you. That helps a lot.”

~ ~ ~

               The T-888 stepped over the rapidly cooling body and lifted the duffel bag crammed with weapons as if it weighed nothing at all. Manny had been extremely obliging, meeting every one of the machine’s requests, including providing the silencer for the gun that had subsequently killed him. He had seemed shocked by the turn of events, holding his hands up and backing away in a defensive move that had always intrigued the machine, because it was so utterly futile.

A small glitch in the uppermost corner of the machine’s visual interface made it hesitate before starting the car’s engine. It would have to be fixed, which would necessitate a delay, but the machine was unconcerned. Sarah Connor was confined, undefended, and wouldn’t be going anywhere for a long time.

~ ~ ~

               The dining hall was crowded, noisy, and ripe with the smell of poor hygiene and institutional food. It was doing nothing to improve Sarah’s appetite, but when the guard had come for her he hadn’t given her an option. Trying to remain inconspicuous, she took the opportunity to study the people around her. The majority of the guards were female, and she didn’t pay much attention to them, concentrating on the faces and demeanor of the males instead. Cameron had given an excellent description of the T-888 and none of the guards standing in the hall matched it. Taking a tray, Sarah stepped forward a couple of paces.

               It wasn’t a sound that made her turn, just a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye; she threw the tray out in front of her as the blade came up. It was a blind, defensive move, the tray catching a woman’s hands then continuing upwards to slam into her face, sending her to the floor, her shiv skittering away to get lost beneath tables and feet. An alarm blared suddenly, as the women around Sarah reacted angrily to her seemingly unprovoked attack, hands reaching for her, catching in her hair, and clawing at her face and arms. Still using the tray, she was able to fend off the worst of the efforts, women falling away from her, nursing bruises and cuts.

Then, without warning, she was thrown to the ground, something heavy sitting on her legs and a knee pinning her in the small of her back, as handcuffs were snapped around her wrists.

               “Food not to your liking?” The guard sounded breathless and more than a little puzzled as he pulled her to her feet, deferring to another officer for guidance.

               “Get her over to twenty-one. Fucking crazy bitch.”

               Sarah looked up, the voice sounding familiar, to meet the resentful gray eyes of Johnson, the police officer who had originally brought her to the jail. He winked at her as she was taken past him. With a sinking feeling, she turned to see him help the prisoner who had initiated the attack back onto her feet, then slip a crumpled wad of bills into her hand.

~ ~ ~

               Twenty-one was solitary confinement. A cell away from the main corridor, with a solid door, a bare cot, and a toilet. Three guards escorted Sarah there, two standing with nightsticks and CS gas at the ready as the third removed her restraints. The door slammed shut, multiple locks sliding into place, and she was left breathing heavily in the dark, the adrenaline beginning to wear off and make her legs shake. She walked the three paces to the cot and sat down on its edge, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. Moving her hands across the mattress, she pulled at the cot’s metal frame, working her fingers into its joints, feeling for weaknesses or loose parts. Nothing gave way, and the fixtures of the toilet were just as firmly attached.

               “Shit.”

               With no way of defending herself, Sarah sat with her back against the wall, hugged her knees to her chest, and watched the door.

~ ~ ~

Cameron studied the sprawling blueprints on the laptop and stored them efficiently in her CPU, highlighting the female wing of the jail and several potential access and egress points. Meanwhile, all of his nervous energy spent, John was leaning back on the pillows in the smaller of the two bedrooms, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“This plan has many flaws.”

John nodded at the machine’s tactful understatement. “I know.”

Aside from the blueprints, they really didn’t have a plan beyond Cameron breaking into the jail, finding his mother and breaking out again.

“It is very likely to fail.”

“I know that too.”

“Your mother wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Cameron, I know.” His voice broke then, low and desperate. “I can’t leave her there.”

“I know.” She clicked a key on the laptop and closed it. “I have to finish the perimeter. Five, perhaps six more hours. I will be as quick as I can.” She pulled the blanket higher to cover him.

He caught her fingers in his. “Thank you.”

A nod, her face inscrutable, and she turned to leave, dimming the main light and pulling the door closed behind her.

On the sofa in the living room, Derek was loading weapons, methodical and unhurried, his own nerves forgotten as he focused on the task. Cameron watched him for a minute, gauging his mood before she interrupted.

“John said I am not to kill anyone and must try to engage only the Triple 8.”

Derek slapped another magazine into place and set the weapon down. “John’s seventeen and idealistic.” Without hesitation, he took up a semi-automatic and an oiled cloth. “And sometimes the world just doesn’t fucking play that way.”

~ ~ ~

               Sarah’s eyes were closed as she lay on the cot, but she wasn’t sleeping, and she tensed as the door to her cell slowly opened. This wasn’t a routine check, it wasn’t the clank and thud of the door’s small observation hatch to make sure that she didn’t have a noose around her neck. There was nothing routine about this, which meant that this wasn’t a good thing at all.

               Two sets of heavy footsteps entered the cell, the door closing behind them. She was already moving in the dark, aching muscles protesting at the speed with which she was making them function, but even so she knew that she wouldn’t be quick enough. She had barely made it to her feet when hands clamped around her wrists, dragging them behind her back and holding them tightly. Kicking and twisting, she struggled to break free, but the man calmly shifted his grip and wrenched her arms upwards, forcing her to her knees in an effort to prevent her shoulders from dislocating. Panting against the pain, she heard a familiar grating sound as a thin cable tie was tightened around her wrists, biting into the raw abrasions that had never been given a chance to heal. A second man, head shrouded in a black ski mask, knelt in front of her and stuffed a rag into her mouth, grinning with nicotine-stained teeth when her eyes widened in shock.

Without being given time to adjust, she was hauled back to her feet. Panic was making her light-headed; she stopped trying to fight, focusing instead on breathing through her nose as she waited for the black spots to stop swimming across her vision.

               “Fucking bitch,” the man still holding her arms hissed into her ear. Even with the coarse wool of his ski mask brushing against her cheek, she easily identified Johnson from his voice. “This is for Alvarez and Sykes. They both had kids, y’know.”

               Alvarez and Sykes: names to go with the faces of the men she hadn’t killed. She knew them as innocent victims of a war that was being waged on their behalf, but there was no way that the two men in her cell, too cowardly even to show their faces, were interested in any kind of explanation.

               The first punch was perfectly placed in her solar plexus to drive all of Sarah’s hard-fought breath from her. She tried to lean forward, only for the second punch to slam into her jaw. Blood filled her mouth, soaking into the gag, but she managed to lift her head, to see the man in front of her dancing on his toes like a prize fighter.

               “So much for not leaving a mark, huh?” Johnson sounded amused and completely unconcerned, and whistled in appreciation as a ring on his partner’s hand connected with the soft flesh above Sarah’s left eye and cut in deeply. “Oh, ouch. That might even leave a scar…”

               His breath was warm on her cheek, heating the blood flowing down her face, and she could feel him hardening where her hands were trapped between their bodies. She felt dizzy and incredibly sick, barely reacting to the blows raining down on her as she struggled to stay alert and on her feet. Losing consciousness in her present company was simply not an option.

She shifted her hands slightly, hearing the catch in Johnson’s breath as they brushed against the front of his pants.

               “I don’t fucking believe this bitch…”

               He never completed the sentence, never got to voice his amazement that the woman they were busy beating was actually attempting to grope him. Instead, he shrieked in agony as her fingers clamped around his groin and twisted everything that she had managed to get a decent grip of. He was still letting out a high-pitched wail as he released her arms and she spun around, catching him in the chest with a roundhouse kick that took him to the floor. 

She watched him writhe for a second, satisfied that he was no longer a threat, then raised her head and braced herself for the inevitable retribution.

It was swift and utterly predictable. She curled herself into a ball when she landed on the floor, knees drawn up to protect her ribs, her head bowed low. Someone was whimpering, but she wasn’t sure if it was herself or the man flailing around beside her. Eventually, the kicking slowed, punctuated by harsh breathing as if her tormentor’s exertions had finally gotten the better of him. He bent low, whispering filth and promises of more pain to come, before hauling Johnson up and aiming one last parting boot into Sarah’s left kidney. It was a deliberate shot and it hurt, drowning out all the other pain to cut through her back like a heated knife. She tried to bite down on it, but she heard him laugh at the thin cry that escaped her. Then the cell door slammed shut and she was left alone in the darkness.

She lay perfectly still, the silence broken only by her labored breathing and the slow splatter of blood onto the floor. Nausea hit her without warning, and – terrified of choking – she forced the gag out past her swollen lips before retching helplessly, bringing back the blood she had swallowed and what little food had been in her stomach. The violent movement made pain erupt everywhere, stealing her self-control and leaving her sobbing and shaking. When gray began to creep into the edges of her vision, she fell willingly into the dark.

~ ~ ~

TBC…

~ ~ ~