Page 50 of Primal

His pupils dart side to side. “S-said … ‘wrong team.’”

My jaw tightens. Wrong team?

Meaning someone other than me’s gone off script.

Meaning Payton—

Nails dig into my arm. “S’cold.”

I look down at the guy. At the shitty mall ring and a half-faded tattoo of some band logo on his thumb.

“He-help …” His Adam’s apple bobs.

Guy’s bigger than me. Toss him over my shoulder? Gut wound like that … no point. He’d bleed out before I got five feet.

Help him back to base, step by painful step? Fuck no. Payton’s wandering in these woods with some knife-happy killer in a mask just like mine.

A tourniquet won’t do shit for a gut wound.

I rummage through Payton’s backpack. The panties? Useless unless I’m bandaging a paper cut. The blindfold, though? Thick enough. Fancy. Might’ve cost her fifty bucks to not see shit. At least now it’ll buy this poor bastard a few more minutes of life.

“What’s your name?”

“Tr-Trevor.”

His eyes widen as I shove the blindfold against the hole in his gut.

He bucks, howling.

I grab his hand and press it to the cloth. “Wanna live, Trevor? Keep pressure on this. Don’t pass out. Got it?”

He whimpers. “Don’t … leave me.”

I unscrew the flask and press it to his lips. “Drink.”

He chokes on the first swallow. I tilt his head back, forcing more down his throat.

“Wh-what is it?”

“Holy water.”

He chokes out a shaky laugh.

I toss him the flask. “Take more if you start fading.”

His chin drops in a weak nod.

I turn, already moving.

Not fast enough.

Some sick fuck’s wearing my face. Gutting players like game meat. Deciding who lives, who bleeds.

Time to find my girl before he does.

11:26 PM.

Signal lost. Device offline.