Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) by Mikey Campling

Author:Mikey Campling [Campling, Mikey]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Mikey Campling
Published: 2016-06-14T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

2014

TOM STOOD ON THE STEEP SLOPE that led down into the quarry and groaned as a jolt of pain shot through his left leg. His knee buckled and he grabbed the spindly trunk of a nearby tree for support. The tree was long dead and his fingers sank into the damp, mouldering wood, but it held him up. For now. He spat on the ground. The taste of blood in his mouth wasn’t so strong now, but perhaps he was just getting used to it. Christ, what the hell am I going to do? He closed his eyes for a moment, but it didn’t help. He didn’t have any answers. He didn’t even know where to start. How could he even think about making a plan? He hardly knew what he was doing. But I’ve got to try, because, if I don’t…

He couldn’t finish the thought. He opened his eyes and stared down at the straggly mass of bracken and brambles that covered the slope below, and listened to the man stumbling through the undergrowth, close behind him. The man was already breathing heavily, so perhaps there was some hope there. It had only taken them a few minutes to scramble down this far. If the man was out of breath already, then he must be seriously out of condition. On a good day, I could be out of here in thirty seconds, Tom thought. But this wasn’t a good day. Not by a long stretch. His legs were only just steady enough to keep him upright, his bruised ribs turned every breath into a torture, and his back burned with a dull ache that grew sharper with every staggering step he took. But as bad as those pains were, they were nothing compared to his head. My head—it’s killing me. And he knew that this was true—literally. Gently, he put his hand up to his forehead and winced as another bolt of agony stabbed across his skull. His stomach lurched and a wave of nausea surged though his body. He tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs had other ideas and he gasped in pain. He closed his eyes, and two words repeated themselves over and over in his mind: head injury. He was going to die.

“What’s the problem?” the man complained. “You can’t stop here. Get moving.”

Tom opened his eyes and slowly, he turned to face the man. “Listen, I need to get to the hospital. My head—I need to see a doctor. I need an ambulance. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to.”

The man’s face hardened. He squared his shoulders. He’d been using the baseball bat like a walking stick, pressing it against the ground, but now he raised it to waist height. “Yeah?” he sneered. “Is that what my son said? And how about your other victims? Did they beg for mercy when you beat them?”

Tom’s scalp suddenly prickled with cold sweat. The ground swayed beneath his feet. He gripped the tree trunk so tightly, it was a wonder the rotten wood didn’t split apart.

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