My ribs screamed when I shifted against the ropes. The concrete floor bit into my bare arms, the damp chill seeping through my torn shirt. Somewhere to my left, Zaire's breathing hitched—sharp little gasps between clenched teeth.
"Zee?" My whisper tasted like blood. "You awake?"
A rustle of fabric. A low groan. Then his knee bumped mine.
"Unfortunately." His voice was sandpaper rough. "You look like shit, Jenkins."
I would've laughed if my stomach didn't throb so bad. The blindfold chafed my cheeks, the knot digging into the scar behind my ear—the one from the bike accident when I was twelve.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Heavy. Methodical.
Zaire's fingers brushed my wrist—three quick taps—our old signal from the study hall. Mask Man's coming.
The door screeched open.
"Awake already?" That distorted voice—mechanical, like he was speaking through a fan. "Pity. I was hoping for more screaming."
The ropes bit deeper as I tensed. Zaire's pinky hooked around mine.
A metallic clang. Something rolled across the floor, stopping near my knees. The stench of cheap meat made my empty stomach heave.
"Eat up," Mask Man said. "You'll need your strength."
The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Silence.
"Listen." His knee pressed against mine. "We're getting out."
Footsteps echoed down the hall. Heavy boots. Two sets.
I licked my cracked lips. "How?"
Zaire moved first. His shoulder bumped mine as he twisted toward the noise. "That's a spoon?"
I nodded before remembering he couldn't see it. "A fork. Metal. Left side."
His breath warmed my neck as he leaned close. "Can you reach it?"
I stretched my legs, my toes brushing something smooth. "Almost—"
Zaire's fingers brushed my bound hands—cold metal pressed into my palm. A fork. Bent.
He whispered. "Start cutting."
I didn't know if I could cut it
The footsteps paused outside our door. A key jangled.
I shoved the spoon under my thigh just as light flooded the room.
"Still alive?" A kick to my shin.
I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper. Through the blindfold, I saw shadows—two men. One fat, one skinny. Both reeked of cigarettes and cheap whiskey.
The fat one crouched beside Zaire. "Boss wants 'em ready for transport."
Skinny Guy snorted. "They ain't going nowhere."
"Eat up," Fat Guard laughed. "Last meal and all. If you don't wanna eat, starve. I don't care."
The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
Silence.
I spat out the blood pooling in my mouth. "Zee—"
"Working on it." The spoon scraped against his ropes. A snap. Then his hands were on my biceps. "Almost... there."
The rope fell away. I tore off the blindfold.
Moonlight bled through a high window, painting Zaire in shades of blue and purple. Blood crusted his temple. His left eye was swollen shut.
He grinned. "Like the new look?"
I grabbed the spoon. "Shut up and turn around."
The hallway stank of bleach and piss. Zaire pressed against the wall, peering around the corner.
"Office," he mouthed. "Two doors down."
I nodded, my bare feet silent on the concrete. The office door was unlocked.
Our phones sat on a metal desk—screens cracked but alive.
Zaire grabbed his just as the walkie crackled to life.
"Status check."
We froze.
Fat Guard's voice boomed down the hall. "On our way, boss."
Boots stomped toward us.
Zaire moved first.
He slammed the door shut just as Skinny Guy reached for the knob. The impact smashed fingers—a howl.
Fat Guard barreled in. Zaire sidestepped, planted his foot, and sent the man crashing into the desk.
I dove for the walkie. Skinny Guy grabbed my hair.
Then Zaire was there.
I'd never seen him like this—lips peeled back, eyes wild. He drove his knee into Skinny Guy's groin. Once. Twice. The man crumpled.
Fat Guard lunged. Zaire twisted his arm—pop—and drove his forehead into the man's nose. Blood sprayed.
"Where's the mask?" Zaire growled, kneeling on the man's chest.
Fat Guard spat in his face.
Zaire smiled. Then he jammed his thumb into the bullet wound on the man's shoulder.
The scream rattled the windows.
I stared. This wasn't the Zaire who made stupid jokes in chem class. This was something darker.
"Keys," he said calmly. "Now."
We tied them up with their belts. Gagged them with their socks.
Zaire pocketed their keys. "Now we wait."
I checked my phone—2% battery. "We should call the cops."
"After." He dragged the guards into a supply closet. "We need to hear it from him."
The walkie crackled. "Report."
Zaire pressed the button. "All clear," he rasped, mimicking Fat Guard's voice.
A pause. Then: "Coming down."
We hurried back to our chairs, looping the cut ropes around our wrists.
The door creaked open.
"Well, well." The voice was different now—no distortion. Familiar. "Look who's still breathing."
The mask came off.
The mayor smirked down at us, his tailored suit untouched by the filth around him.
"I knew you'd be trouble," he said, tapping my cheek. "Just like your mother."
Zaire's ropes creaked.
The mayor chuckled. "Relax, I am just cleaning your mess." He straightened his tie. "Hannah and Andrew understood the price. Pity you two didn't."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Those bastards were trying to steal from me, backstabbers!"
Zaire moved faster than I could blink.
His fist connected with the mayor's jaw. They crashed to the floor. Zaire straddled him, raining down blows.
"Zee—enough!" I grabbed his arm.
The mayor spat out a tooth, laughing through the blood. "Too late. The others are already dead."
Zaire punched him again. The mayor's head lolled. Unconscious. He still hit him.
"We got what we wanted, ZAIRE!!!! ENOUGH!!"
I pulled out my phone. Dialled 911.
Zaire wiped his bloody knuckles on his jeans. His breathing was ragged. His hands shook.
I reached for him.
The blood on Zaire's knuckles had gone tacky. I caught his wrist, turning his hand over in mine. His fingers trembled—fine tremors running up his arm like live wires.
"You're hurt," I said.
He blinked, his pupils still blown wide. "It's not mine."
A lie. The gash across his eyebrow wept fresh red. His left pinky was bent at the wrong angle. I pressed my sleeve to his forehead. He flinched.
Sirens wailed closer.
Back at the precinct...
Hallowe's coffee had gone cold. He stared at the crime scene photos—Andrew's body, Hannah's, Chad's empty dorm room. The map on the wall bristled with red pins.
"Goddamn kids," he muttered.
The radio crackled. "Dispatch to all units. Possible 10-91 at—"
Hallowe's head snapped up.
"—caller identified as Mia Jenkins. Call dropped during transmission. Tracing—"
His chair screeched as he stood. "Jenkins?"
The rookie at the computer nodded. "Cell tower ping puts her near the old cannery."
For three seconds, Hallowe didn't move. Then he grabbed his hat.
"That girl's got more lives than a damn cat," he grunted. But his hands shook as he buckled his holster.
At the cannery...
The first cruiser's headlights cut through the fog.
Zaire slumped against me, his breath hot on my neck. "Told you we wouldn't die."
I watched Hallowe emerge from the squad car—his usual scowl softened at the edges.
"Jenkins," he called. Almost relieved.
Zaire's bloody grin flashed in the dark. "Guess the old bastard does have a heart."
Hallowe's flashlight beam hit us. His voice carried across the empty lot:
"About damn time you two caused me some paperwork."
But he was already shrugging out of his jacket to drape over my shoulders.
******
The flashing red and blue lights painted the scene in jagged strokes. Two officers emerged from the cannery's rusted doors, dragging a thrashing figure between them. Mayor Richard Vaughn's usually perfect silver hair was matted with blood, his expensive suit torn at the shoulder. A dark stain spread across his shirt where Zaire's fist had split his lip.
"I'll ruin you all!" Vaughn screamed, his voice raw and guttural. Spittle flew from his mouth as he twisted against the officers' grip. "You don't know who you're dealing with! I'll have your badges! I'll—"
The taller cop shoved Vaughn's head down as they forced him into the back of a squad car. His threats turned to muffled roars behind the glass.
Sheriff Hallowe stood frozen near the ambulance, his weathered face slack. The cigarette dangling from his lips had burned down to the filter, forgotten. His eyes darted between the squad car and where Zaire sat on the ambulance bumper, wincing as a paramedic stitched the gash above his eyebrow.
Hallowe finally moved, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached. "Tell me I'm hallucinating," he rasped, the cigarette bobbing. He looked at me first. "That's not the damn mayor back there."
Zaire hissed as the paramedic dabbed antiseptic on his knuckles. "He confessed to everything. Hannah. Andrew. Chad." His voice was flat, but his hands shook slightly where they rested on his knees.
Hallowe's jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter. He stared at Zaire's battered face, the makeshift bandages, then back toward the squad car where Vaughn was now slamming his head against the partition.
"Jesus Christ," Hallowe breathed. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "The mayor. The fucking mayor." His voice cracked on the last word.
The paramedic finished wrapping Zaire's hand and moved to check my vitals. Hallowe stood there for another long moment, his shoulders slumped under the weight of the revelation. Then, without another word, he turned and walked slowly toward the squad car, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust in the flashing lights.
From inside the car, Vaughn's enraged screams had turned to something worse - low, guttural laughter that carried through the night.