Dragonfury 02 - Fury of Ice

His brain had already downloaded the file. Now he was just sifting through the rubble, looking for clues, acting on his ability to perceive things other people couldn’t, all while operating on an instinctive level that wasn’t ruled by intellect. Or logic, apparently.
    With a sigh, Mac shook his head and, moving slowly to avoid the toss-n-tumble in his gut, made for the stairs. He needed to get out of the shipyard before the sun rose. His captain would send a patrol unit looking for him. Probably try to haul his ass back to the hospital, but as he cleared the stairway and came up on deck, he got hit with a wave of…
    Mac blinked to clear his vision. All he got was static buzzing in his ears, the sound hissing like a radio with its wires crossed. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades, then ran down his spine as another wave slammed into him. He backed up a step. Then another. God, something wasn’t right. The clawing sickness was shifting, becoming more…something else entirely.
    White light flashed behind his eyes. Pain hit him like a body shot, cracking him wide open, twisting until his vision went dark. A scream lodged in his throat, his muscles twisted, knotting up so hard he felt one snap. With a “fuck me,” he stumbled sideways toward the side of the boat. Just as his hand connected with the handrail, agony took him over. He hit the water with a splash and, as cold, salty liquid filled his mouth and nose, he pictured his partner.
    Angela.
    His baby sister was in trouble, and there was nothing he could do to help her. He was already drowning, the pain tearing him apart.

     
    The steel bars barely made a sound as Angela slid them closed behind her. Crouching low, she listened, straining to hear beyond her hammering heartbeat, and twisted her hands to get a better grip on the box cutter. A shiver rolled through her as the flex-cuffs bit into her wrists. She wanted to cut through the plastic and free her hands, but time wasn’t on her side. If she took the minute she needed, she might get caught. So as much as it killed her, she would wait. When she was safe in the elevator, she’d slice through the cuffs. For now, she needed to swallow the fear and keep a hold of her impromptu weapon.
    But, man, the metal handle wasn’t cooperating.
    Slick with Lothair’s blood, it kept sliding between her palms, defying her will to control it. Angela tightened her grip on the cutter and scanned the hallway stretched out in front of her. Empty. Nothing but peeling paint and uneven floors. Her luck was holding. For how much longer? She didn’t know.
    “No sense sticking around to find out,” she murmured to herself.
    As crazy as it seemed, talking to herself helped. Hearing each word kept her straight and moving, instead of scared and paralyzed. ’Cause, yeah, inaction wasn’t an option. Later, when she found a way out of the madhouse, she would rant, rave…cry, scream…whatever. But she couldn’t give in to the pressure threatening to geyser inside her. Not right now. Not when she still had a chance.
    Glancing over her shoulder, she stared through the bars and listened hard. Nothing. No shout of alarm. No moans of pain. No sound at all.
    Pushing to her feet, Angela sprinted down the corridor, each of her footfalls light. Fluorescents flashed overhead, the long tubes buzzing, pointing the way to the elevator. Breathing hard, she paused at the mouth of the corridor. Bingo. One Otis, dead ahead, waiting with tarnished steel doors to take her to freedom.
    Her heart thumped a little harder as she closed the distance, reached forward and—
    Oh, God…no. The miserable sons of bitches.
    There wasn’t a button. Just a blank cement wall. Nothing she could push to bring the elevator down to her level.
    “Shit,” she said, mind whirling as she tried to think. Where to go? What to do? How much time did she have left before Lothair came to and found her gone? “Double shit.”
    Panic clogged her throat for a second. The cop in her shoved it aside. She didn’t have time for BS. There must be another way out…a rear entrance or something. No way the Razorbacks would build a bunker without a backup plan. The bastards weren’t that stupid.
    Pivoting on her bare feet, she looked left, then right. The corridor stretched in both directions. Yeah, the Otis might be the center of the underground complex, but something else lay deep in the maze. So now, the million-dollar question…which way should she go?
    Instinct