Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
By the third cabinet door, she hits gold. Two cases of water are sitting on the shelves untouched. I swim past her to tear into the plastic. Together, we quickly start yanking bottles from the case and shoving them into my backpack.
A submerged shout draws my attention. Jerking my head over my shoulder, I see Brian holding his arm to his chest as thick ribbons of blood dance around him. The glass is broken on the vending machine and Brian apparently took on an injury in the process. The first aid kit is a definite necessity at this point.
I point toward the hallway, motioning for him to resurface. With a grim nod, he swims away, the cloud of blood thick as it trails behind him. Once me and Frannie have stuffed my bag as much as we can, she heads for the sink while I swim to help Kyle. Snacks are floating all around him as he attempts to gather them in his arms. I manage to unzip the front pocket of my backpack so I can start cramming any bags of chips or candy bars I can into it.
My lungs are no longer aching but full-on hurting at this point. I’m going to have to get the hell out of here soon. Frannie taps my shoulder from behind and thrusts a trash bag at me. Kyle takes it to use for holding more snacks. Her hands are empty of a first aid kit.
She points farther down the hallway. Perhaps there’s a supply room or something. I give her a nod and then she zips out the doorway and to the left. I motion to Kyle that I have to leave, but he continues stuffing the trash bag without looking at me.
Kicking away from the vending machine, I swim toward the doorway. I glance left toward the dark hallway but don’t see Frannie. I can hear what sounds like a muffled scream to my right and thrashing catches my eye. I start swimming toward where Brian must be but can’t find him in a cloud of blood.
Fuck.
How bad was that cut?
Did he hit an artery?
I wave away the blood, hoping to see him, trying desperately to ignore the way my lungs feel as though they’re seizing up in pain.
Nothing.
A shadow darts by.
I’m staring after it when someone’s hand bumps into me. Brian materializes from the blood cloud, pale and lifeless. His dead eyes remain open, as does his mouth. It’s then I realize more than just his arm is bleeding. He’s missing a huge chunk from his leg.
What the fuck?
The shadow darts by again, this time connecting with Brian’s middle. A tailfin knocks into me as the shadow turns sharply and darts away, prey in its jaws.
A shark.
A motherfucking shark.
I’m about to dart for the stairwell when the creature appears again, meat dangling from its ferocious teeth. It starts for me but then turns away before attacking Brian’s body once more. In a panic, I swim back down the hallway. Kyle is no longer in the break room. And where’s Frannie? I keep swimming until I make it into the opened door of a closet.
Something grabs my arm and I scream, expelling the rest of the air from my lungs. Before I can freak the fuck out and suck in a lungful of water, I’m dragged to the ceiling of the small space.
An air pocket.
I gasp for air in the tiny sliver of space, eyes locking on Frannie. We both have to tilt our heads up to barely keep our noses and mouths above the water.
“S-Shark,” I croak out, suddenly aware of my treading water while a creature lurks about. “It got Brian.”
Frannie whimpers. “A shark? How?”
Because the world thought we needed to be fucked with a little bit more apparently.
“We have to find Kyle and get the hell out of here,” I say instead. “Did you find the first aid kit?”
I feel her bump something into my hands. I grab onto the small plastic box, relieved to have it in my grasp.
“Anything we can use for a weapon?” I ask, accidentally sucking in some seawater that makes me gag. “Fuck.”
She nods before disappearing. A second later, she reemerges in our tight airspace and shows me the top of a wooden handle. Most likely it’s a mop or a broom.
“Stay behind me,” I instruct. “I’ll fight it off if it comes near us. No matter what happens, I want you to swim like hell to the stairwell.”
“Ok-kay,” she stammers. “What about Kyle?”
“If we see him, we grab him. Otherwise, we need to get back and regroup.”
“On three?”
“On three.”
She hands me the wooden handle and I trade it for the first aid kit. After we count off, we suck in air before submerging ourselves. I swim out the door of the supply closet, careful to look up and down the hallway first. Kicking my legs hard, I dart past the break room that remains empty. My broom—as I’ve learned since going under—is held out in front of me, ready to be used as a weapon.