Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

door itself was on the other side, swung almost fully inward, leaving a crack of space behind it. A reasonable person running for their life would sandwich themselves into that gap. It’d provide an iota of comfort in those final moments. They wouldn’t stand right out there in the open, accepting the fact they’d confront their attacker the moment he stepped into the room.

That wasn’t human nature.

Alexis fought against her nature with all the willpower she could muster.

The footsteps were there.

On the other side of the wall, only feet away from her.

He was one second away from stepping into the room.

She’d never experienced focus like this. She’d willingly put herself in a position where confrontation was guaranteed. She’d sealed either her fate, or the attacker’s. It was a crazy, mad sensation. She’d never get used to it, never be able to comprehend it.

Someone was going to die.

Slater’s words came to her.

The elbow is biomechanically stronger.

She took a deep breath.

The guy barrelled into the room — literally. His gaze was fixed in the slim gap between the wall and the door, searching for a body behind the wood. He’d spot Alexis in half a second. She had time.

For one attempt.

She detached from her body — she didn’t try, it just happened — and saw it all unfold from the perspective of the observer. Felt every muscle, taut and tense, coil like a spring. She set her feet and twisted at the waist and swung her elbow with her brain screaming, I want to live.

Please, let me live.

She hit him behind the ear, right where Slater had taught her to target, and felt the soft crunch of his skin and bone against the point of her elbow. She was, admittedly, a novice in the art of combat. King and Slater had the inhuman ability to destroy their foes like they weren’t living, breathing, resisting targets.

That wasn’t her.

But it stunned the guy hard.

He pulled the trigger of his rifle out of sheer shock and sent two rounds into the mattress.

Alexis went into a frenzy.

He was still hovering in space as he lost a modicum of balance and staggered half a step. It was nothing in real time, but she was focused as hell. So she repeated the same motion and hit him with the same elbow in the same spot. It rattled her whole body — she didn’t want to think about what it was doing to his head.

He started turning.

The gun barrel floated towards her.

Fast.

She elbowed him three more times as his head twisted, striking his ear, his cheek and his nose.

The cheek strike cracked his orbital.

The nose strike broke his nose.

The human body is strangely susceptible, strangely weak. She knew if he hit her once she’d crumple, crack, break, give up completely. Or if he got a shot off with the rifle aimed in her direction — that’d be that.

So she didn’t let it happen.

The barrel drifted down slightly on its trajectory. He was weakening. He’d been in the room for less than two seconds, but—

She went on autopilot.

She skirted to the right, looping around behind him so she filled the doorway, avoiding the line of fire.

He fired again, blind, wild.

She elbowed him in the face twice.

Pop-pop.

He went down to his knees.

She elbowed him in the forehead. Her strike had the aid of gravity this time, and it was charged with mortal fear.

His face was covered in blood, and she didn’t realise half of it was from the torn skin on her elbow.

She hit him one final time.

He dropped the gun and pitched forward, semi-conscious.

83

She stood over him, panting, completely overwhelmed. Her arms were lead. She could barely lift them.

She’d never been in a fight before.

She’d never laid a finger on another human being in anger.

She looked down at the guy’s broken nose, broken face, broken skin.

She picked up his weapon — a fully automatic assault rifle.

It was so heavy.

She couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t imagine snuffing his life out, ending the existence of a fellow human being. She couldn’t even begin to get her head around it.

Then he woke up, reached out, and grabbed hold of her ankle. His grip was iron. Her calves were smooth and small. He’d wrench her off her feet with one tug, and then he’d beat her to death.

No choice.

Kill or die.

She aimed the rifle at the top of his head and fired.

The gun leapt in her hands, sending her stumbling back, and she reached out a hand and caught herself in the doorway, gripping the frame with white knuckles.

The rest of the world fell away.

The corpse on the floor was all that remained.

She stood there, shaking, eyes wide, until a hand seized her shoulder. She didn’t have the energy to turn around. She didn’t have the energy to resist anymore.

She wasn’t a killer.

Yes, you are.

Violetta said, ‘Are you hurt?’

Alexis dropped the gun, relief flooding her. She looked over. Violetta’s eyes blazed. So cool, so calm, so collected.

Alexis shrugged.

Violetta looked past her, through the doorway, and her eyes went wide.

She spun Alexis around to properly face her. Took her cheeks in her hands. Made sure they were staring each other in the eyes.

She said, ‘Are you okay?’

Alexis said, ‘Yeah.’

‘You or him. Remember that.’

Alexis pulled away from her grip. She wanted to look at the body. She needed to see it, make sure it was real. Blood pooled around his head, soaked the carpet.

Violetta said, ‘How does it feel?’

Alexis didn’t have the words to describe it.

‘Me or him,’ she said.

Violetta patted her on the cheek. ‘Congrats on popping your cherry.’

‘Are … are there others?’

‘I took care of them.’

‘How many?’

‘Four,’ Violetta said. ‘I think.’

‘How are you so … nonchalant?’

‘Them or us.’

Alexis nodded.

‘Where’s the girl?’ Violetta said.

A different fear gripped Alexis’ chest.

Fear for others, not just herself.

She remembered the two shots ripping into the mattress.

She said, ‘Oh, God.’

It couldn’t be like this. Not after how hard they’d fought. Not this late.

She forgot about the corpse entirely and took three bounding steps into the room. Flattened herself to the