She had no idea how near or far Friendly was. Moving was one thing, but if he was close enough, even a sound could seal her fate. Sloane’s breathing was finally slowing, and she began to delicately slide her pistol up and out of the holster concealed in the front of her waistband. She closed her eyes, letting her diaphragm ease down to fill her with the night she would have to become. To avoid being cut down by Friendly, she would have to become Friendly.
Sloane reached out with her senses. Was that footfall on wet bush? The rain came harder. Shit. So much for hearing. But with its hindrance came a boon- the pattering raindrops were the perfect muffler for her to pull the slide of her pistol back, chambering a round. Sloane caressed the front of the trigger guard with her index finger, gasping as lightning lit her surroundings for an instant. Almost in sync with its ensuant rumble in the sky, her finger snaked over the trigger, tucking the safety like a child into bed. Steeling herself as if through foresight as another strobe of lightning flashed, she almost ducked into a pivot as mud exploded four yards away from her, thundercrack hiding the gunshot.
In the brief light, she had noted the tree to her left. After a beat, she sunk to the ground and with a grunt, dove towards its trunk. Mud sprayed her flank as another shot cracked through the night, splinters stinging her midriff. She choked back a surprised sob. She should be terrified, but with that second round, Friendly gave away his direction. Past two more trees adjacent, she made out what could be the massive base of an uprooted trunk. Not as fortified as her current cover, but broader in its tangled mess. She would time her tucks and rolls, landing prone behind the base.
Sloane shut her eyes, envisioning a triangulation of Friendly’s supposed nest based on his second shot. There was obviously little hope of shooting him from her eventual cover with a handgun, but if she could continue skirting alongside his field of vision, she might be able to-
They came at once. A stabbing ache in her triceps, and a ferocious bite of four meaty fingers sinking into relaxed muscle. Sloane roared, flinging her elbow up and over her shoulder, blinding trying to crack who the fuck ever across the face with her gun. Suddenly the forest lit up. The entire forest. Like a neighborhood at Christmas, but with Fourth of July fireworks. Before she could wrench her arm free, a plunged syringe fell from her arm. She turned and saw a face that wasn’t Friendly’s. Then another. Overhead, flood lights cut on and the trees faded away, receding into yellow tiled walls. The rain stopped as the hoarse screech of a maintenance wrench diverted the flow of water from the shower heads surrounding her.
“Miss Sloane, it’s Milo. Give me the gun,” a gentle, aged black man in scrubs held a hand low and open. Three more faceless individuals in white gathered beside him, one of them cussing to himself.
“Get down!” Sloane hissed, immediately becoming woozy with whatever she was injected with. “Friendly’s out there, he’ll kill you all!”
“Dr. Friendly will not kill us all, Miss Sloane, now kindly hand me that gun. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Sloane bared her teeth, willing herself to keep awake. Three orderlies gasped as the gun slipped from her hand, coming to dangle by the hook of her first knuckle beneath the trigger guard. Milo slowly reached below, grabbing the gun as Sloane melted to her side. He held aloft two fingers, and two orderlies shuffled to his side, one cradling Sloane’s head in two hands, the other turning her onto her back. The third spoke into a radio, calling for a gurney while glaring warily on.
“With all due respect, Dr. Milo, why did we just chase an armed patient in severe duress into the showers without so much as an armed guard?” The third orderly, a gaunt Northerner asked.
“Because she wasn’t armed.” Milo tiled Sloane’s gun, smirking. His thumb pressed the magazine release scallop, his opposite hand catching the mag that resultantly slid out. The orderly craned his neck, trying to see over the doctor’s shoulder.
Milo tilted the magazine. As he was confident, there wasn’t a single brass round within it. Just a scrap of paper, rolled tightly. Alongside a key.
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(Special thanks to Laura)
She had no idea how near or far Friendly was. Moving was one thing, but if he was close enough, even a sound could seal her fate. Sloane’s breathing was finally slowing, and she began to delicately slide her pistol up and out of the holster concealed in the front of her waistband. She closed her eyes, letting her diaphragm ease down to fill her with the night she would have to become. To avoid being cut down by Friendly, she would have to become Friendly.
Sloane reached out with her senses. Was that footfall on wet bush? The rain came harder. Shit. So much for hearing. But with its hindrance came a boon- the pattering raindrops were the perfect muffler for her to pull the slide of her pistol back, chambering a round. Sloane caressed the front of the trigger guard with her index finger, gasping as lightning lit her surroundings for an instant. Almost in sync with its ensuant rumble in the sky, her finger snaked over the trigger, tucking the safety like a child into bed. Steeling herself as if through foresight as another strobe of lightning flashed, she almost ducked into a pivot as mud exploded four yards away from her, thundercrack hiding the gunshot.
In the brief light, she had noted the tree to her left. After a beat, she sunk to the ground and with a grunt, dove towards its trunk. Mud sprayed her flank as another shot cracked through the night, splinters stinging her midriff. She choked back a surprised sob. She should be terrified, but with that second round, Friendly gave away his direction. Past two more trees adjacent, she made out what could be the massive base of an uprooted trunk. Not as fortified as her current cover, but broader in its tangled mess. She would time her tucks and rolls, landing prone behind the base.
Sloane shut her eyes, envisioning a triangulation of Friendly’s supposed nest based on his second shot. There was obviously little hope of shooting him from her eventual cover with a handgun, but if she could continue skirting alongside his field of vision, she might be able to-
They came at once. A stabbing ache in her triceps, and a ferocious bite of four meaty fingers sinking into relaxed muscle. Sloane roared, flinging her elbow up and over her shoulder, blinding trying to crack who the fuck ever across the face with her gun. Suddenly the forest lit up. The entire forest. Like a neighborhood at Christmas, but with Fourth of July fireworks. Before she could wrench her arm free, a plunged syringe fell from her arm. She turned and saw a face that wasn’t Friendly’s. Then another. Overhead, flood lights cut on and the trees faded away, receding into yellow tiled walls. The rain stopped as the hoarse screech of a maintenance wrench diverted the flow of water from the shower heads surrounding her.
“Miss Sloane, it’s Milo. Give me the gun,” a gentle, aged black man in scrubs held a hand low and open. Three more faceless individuals in white gathered beside him, one of them cussing to himself.
“Get down!” Sloane hissed, immediately becoming woozy with whatever she was injected with. “Friendly’s out there, he’ll kill you all!”
“Dr. Friendly will not kill us all, Miss Sloane, now kindly hand me that gun. We’re not going to hurt you.”
Sloane bared her teeth, willing herself to keep awake. Three orderlies gasped as the gun slipped from her hand, coming to dangle by the hook of her first knuckle beneath the trigger guard. Milo slowly reached below, grabbing the gun as Sloane melted to her side. He held aloft two fingers, and two orderlies shuffled to his side, one cradling Sloane’s head in two hands, the other turning her onto her back. The third spoke into a radio, calling for a gurney while glaring warily on.
“With all due respect, Dr. Milo, why did we just chase an armed patient in severe duress into the showers without so much as an armed guard?” The third orderly, a gaunt Northerner asked.
“Because she wasn’t armed.” Milo tiled Sloane’s gun, smirking. His thumb pressed the magazine release scallop, his opposite hand catching the mag that resultantly slid out. The orderly craned his neck, trying to see over the doctor’s shoulder.
Milo tilted the magazine. As he was confident, there wasn’t a single brass round within it. Just a scrap of paper, rolled tightly. Alongside a key.