Page 8 of Chaos & Carnage
The world comes back to me slowly and unpleasantly. Like full body pins and needles that start at my fingers and toes and slowly crawl up my arms and legs until it encompasses my core. At the same time, it feels like something heavy is crushing my head, making it impossible to think or even open my eyes.
With achingly slow movements, I swim toward the surface of my mind, trying to put the pieces together and figure out where I am and what happened. With every inch closer to the light, I can feel the pieces slotting together, but the complete picture hangs just out of my grasp, taunting me.
I remember I was going to see Dante and Enzo. I was on my bike, the wind in my hair, the asphalt flying past beneath me… until it wasn’t. Until it came up to meet me, or I fell to meet it.
A crash. I crashed.
Blood. The memory of so much blood bubbles up to the forefront of my mind. Oh, god, was I badly hurt? Is that what’s happening now—I’m slowly bleeding out on the street? I don’t feel the sharp dig of the asphalt in my back, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s difficult to feel much of anything over the stabbing pain consuming my body, gnawing on it like maggots on a corpse.
Terror bubbles up the back of my throat, and in a moment of blinding pain, I wrench my eyes open with a gurgled whimper. Black. Everything above me is black. Not even the blinking of a star.
“About fucking time you woke up.”
The voice scrapes against my brain like teeth against metal, and one inch at a time, I turn my head toward the speaker, even as the drums in my head kick up a riot.
I wince as bright light assaults my eyeballs, casting the man in shadow. Squinting until my eyesight adjusts, I can see the outline of a man sitting in front of multiple computer screens, the tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the keyboard beating in time to the pulse thumping behind my eyes. I’m surprised I didn’t register the noise as soon as I woke up.
I lick my chapped lips, groaning as I lift my head, casting a glance down my body. More memories rise to the surface as I notice the blood caking my skin, this time of a bright metal blade slashing through skin, the look of surprise and horror as red ribbons started spurting from his neck. From the throat of an Antonelli.
The puzzle pieces slide together as I catalog what injuries I can see. Road rash is visible through the ripped fabric of my jeans, large chunks of denim missing from my thigh to my ankle on my left side, where I must have slid across the road, and the top I was wearing is nothing but scraps now, providing zero modesty. The rest of the skin I can see is swollen and already darkening, making me look like one giant, jean-wearing bruise.
Patches of white gauze have been taped to my skin in areas where I can only imagine the damage is worse, but as I mentally search for any internal damage, I sigh a breath of relief. Everything hurts like a bitch, but nothing feels broken.
“How long have I been out?” I croak, my voice raspy with disuse and dehydration as I drop my head back onto the pillow beneath me, my eyes drooping shut as a wave of exhaustion washes over me.
“Nearly two days.”
My eyes snap open. “Two days?!” Pulling on strength I didn’t know I had, I push myself upright, biting back a groan of pain.Fuck, everything hurts.Sweat dots my forehead and coats my back by the time I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, and my head swims from the exertion.
“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t be doing that.”
Ignoring him, I tighten my grip on the edge of the mattress until the world is no longer tilted on its axis and my stomach doesn’t churn with violent promise. “How did I get here?” I dare to ask when the wave of nausea rolls off of me.
“You set my perimeter alarm off when you entered the building.”
I rub at my pounding temples as I try to remember. “It was your building?” I hadn’t even realized what part of the city I was in. Too busy with my destination to take a walk down memory lane while I raced through the streets. “Huh, I guess that was lucky.”
He makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, implying he doesn’t quite agree. I squash a small smile as I gather the energy I need to push up to my feet. The world spins again, but I plant my feet and wait for it to subside. When it finally does, I take a cautious step forward. My legs shake and everything screams in pain, but I don’t go crashing to the ground, so I take another step, slowly crossing over to the bank of computer screens.
Every step causes my heart to hammer harder against my chest and sweat to gather along my spine, making the remains of my top stick to my skin, nonetheless I keep going. He minimizes the window on several monitors as I approach, but I’m too focused on not keeling over to pay attention to whatever illegal shit he’s doing. I’m breathing heavily by the time I lean an arm on the large desk, my legs trembling.
“Fucking hell, have a seat before you pass out. I’m not lifting you off the fucking floor again.” He wheels a spare computer chair toward me, and I all but collapse into it, grasping the edge of the table so my weight doesn’t send it wheeling backward.
He immediately returns to whatever he’s doing on the computer, and I just sit and watch as I gain control of my breathing. Whatever he’s doing means nothing to me. I can’t even begin to make heads or tails of it as I watch him form string after string of what looks to be a random collection of letters, numbers, and symbols.
“What ya doing?”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, his fingers never ceasing their incessant tapping as they fly furiously over the keyboard. “None of your business.”
“Rude much,” I huff out.
Another few moments pass, where I sit and watch him, before I cast my eyes over the other screens. It’s more computer techy stuff that means nothing to me.
“Who’s Nomad?” I ask, the only word that’s repeated on multiple screens.
With a frustrated huff, he presses a button and all the screens go dark. Spinning to face me, only the dim glow from the monitors’ backlight provides any illumination, casting shadows along one side of his cleanly shaven face. I can’t make out the color of his eyes, and I’ve never seen them in enough light to know, but his chin-length blonde strands fall forward to cover his face before he quickly brushes them back out of the way.
His tongue flicks out to play with the piercing on his lower lip, the thin metal loop matching the one in his pale eyebrow. He’s also got a plug in his ear and I can see the beginnings of a tattoo peeking out from the neckline of his Henley. His eyebrows furrow, his lips pursed as he glowers at me, the sharp edges of his jaw, half shaded in darkness, making him appear dangerous. “What do you want?”