Just like the Griever's Hole, the dead men hung by hooks, the Rat Man, the Cranks and the brick walls, Minho had hopes that Frankie's death was just another illusion. As much as he tried to distance himself from disappointment, this was one thing he...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
MINHO SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the creaky, fragile planks of mossy wood, feeling furious about the whole situation.
What was the whole situation exactly?
One, he was just struck by a shucking mega lightning and his clothes were on fire. He could feel the interchanging sense of pricks, chills and burn throughout his upper body, where the electrifying sensation stroke him less than a day ago.
Two, he hadn't taken a shower in too many days. Being soaked in a thunderstorm then being dried naturally made him smell stale.
Three, his hair. It was so disgusting, he had no words.
Four, crazy dudes in shredded clothes were holding him at gun and knifepoint.
Five, he was called Subject A-seven, the Leader. But here he was, sitting helplessly at some Cranks' feet while Thomas the Greenie was inside, conversing with their Hispanic leader, doing what a leader should be doing: save everyone's ass.
Oh, and six, this whole experiment was a shucking, cruel joke. What the shuck.
And then, when Thomas and Jorge emerged not ten but thirty-five minutes later: "You punched me with both of your fists. So we're gonna cut a finger off each hand."
How could he not be furious?
Minho stood up as soon as Jorge had pronounced his punishment and charged forward, but a knife was put dangerously vital under his chin until it drew a drop of blood.
He couldn't even talk without risking serious bodily harm, moreover look at the captor behind his back.
"Here's the plan," Jorge said calmly once the threat (him) was thoroughly detained, "Brenda, the WICKED duo and I will escort these moochers to the stash, let 'em eat up. Then we'll all meet on the Tower, let's say one hour from now. We'll bring up lunch for the rest of you."
"Why just the four of you?" someone asked, "What if they jump you? There's eleven of them to four of you."
"Thanks for the math lesson, Barkley. For now, shut your flappin' lips and lead everybody to the Tower. If these punks try anything, Brenda will slash Mr. Minho to tiny bits while the other two beat the living hell out of the rest of 'em. I don't even need to do anything. They can barely stand they're so weak. Now get!"
The dam of his bottled emotion erupted and Minho jerked his captor's hand away from his neck. He spun, ready to throw a heartfelt punch towards whoever stood there without caring if Brenda was a friend or foe.
He caught a glimpse of her feature: clean, tall, long haired, before she ducked and swiped her athletic leg under his knees, knocking him back towards the floor.
"Minho!" Thomas called out in concern, but his blood was too boiled for him to care.
The tip of the knife found his neck again.
The Cranks hooted and hollered once more.
"Stay down."
The fleeting, familiar feminine tone of forced boredom was enough to lower his bellowing rage. Only then did he realize how heavy his chest was heaving up and down along with his ragged breaths, as his head whipped around to find the source of that familiar voice.
Could it be? Please, let it be.
"Ah, right on time, hermana."
Jorge hopped down his makeshift podium and planted his rough hand on the newcomer's back, guiding her towards the center of commotion. Towards him.
"You better talk some sense into this boy's stronghead, Frances, or I'll enjoy cutting his neck instead."
Minho sucked in breaths. He didn't dare to tear his eyes off her, afraid that this was all just a figment of his imagination.
Her. His. Alive.
After weeks that felt way too long, that sacred name fell out of his lips like a desperate prayer.
