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“Don’t panic if this triggers an alarm. You’ll still have a head start over the men searching the grounds.”
I nod, even though my stomach roils and my heart wants to explode. Xero’s features are grim, looking like he’s also forcing down a surge of panic.
Walking toward him on numb legs, I reach for the bar, press down, and push. The door opens with a groan, letting in the harsh sunlight. A blast of warm pollen hits my sinuses, making my nose itch. Just as I’m about to step out into the blinding light, an alarm rings.
My muscles stiffen. It’s a dull sound, like it’s on its last batteries. Not loud enough to carry upstairs, but insistent enough to attract any of Delta’s men on the grounds.
I glance around, my eyes still adjusting to the intense daylight, and find a courtyard where baby trees sprout through pavement cracks. Beyond them, shrubs loom almost six feet tall, overrun by climbing plants. Fifty feet into the jungle of weeds, a gnarled tree stands with outstretched branches entangled in a struggle against plants trying to smother its existence.
“Go,” Xero barks, snapping me out of my stupor.
My heart races. I glance around again, looking for a means of escape—the gate, the road, the truck—but there’s nothing but foliage.
“I’ll guide you. Just run toward the tree.” Xero sprints away, leaving me gaping at his broad back.
I dart through the courtyard, my wet feet slapping on the concrete. It’s too late to consider that I’ve created a blood trail for the men to trace.
“Don’t worry about that.” Xero calls over his shoulder, already disappearing through a narrow gap between two shrubs. “We’ll use these weeds as cover. The next man who lays a hand on you is as good as dead.”
The alarm keeps ringing through the empty courtyard as I dart into the overgrown plants. Then the air shifts, becoming heavier—thick with the scent of damp earth and decomposing foliage.
I continue onwards, with branches whipping my face and arms, leaving stinging cuts. Thorns tear at my makeshift socks, making me wince with each step.
Climbing plants form a thick canopy that blocks out most of the light. I stumble over tangled roots, not knowing if the ground beneath me will give way and send me tumbling into some animal’s underground lair.
Xero doubles back, offering me his hand. “Come. It’s straight on.”
He pulls me forward, his grip my only source of comfort. I want to think his body is a protective barrier between me and the unknown, but he’s just a figment of my imagination.
“Focus, little ghost,” he snaps, jolting me back to reality.
I place a hand over my mouth and nose, trying to filter the pollen and blink through watering eyes.
Male voices echo in the distance, accompanied by approaching footsteps. As Xero guides me to the right, I picture myself running through a manicured garden bordered by shrubs. Attendants in crisp white uniforms stand at the perimeter, ready to intervene at the first sign of misbehavior.
My nose tickles, and I stifle a sneeze. What the hell was that?
“A suppressed memory,” he says. “This used to be the hospital’s garden. There’s an exit on the other side of the old oak, but you need to focus on the present, alright?”
Sending Xero a silent word of thanks for holding onto my repressed memories, I keep moving.
“Step where I step.”
As I follow Xero through the dense foliage, the ground trembles with thundering footfalls. It’s so exaggerated that I can’t help but wonder if I’m hallucinating.
“Assume it’s real.” He pulls me into a hollow within a thicket of thorny bushes.
I set the phone down on the ground and crouch with the scalpel pointed outward.
“She has to be here somewhere,” a male voice says from a distance.
“Shhh!” hisses another.
My heart pounds so hard that every inch of my body quakes. I’m sure the shrub I’m hiding in is trembling in sync with my panic.
“Deep breaths.” Xero hugs me from behind, cocooning me in his strong arms. “Just stay quiet.”
My nose itches again. I hold my breath for what feels like an eternity, listening for signs of movement. Beneath the chirping of the crickets and the rustling leaves, I catch the sinister sound of male whispering.
