After the Fall: The After the Fall Series Book 1 by Bell Justin & Kraus Mike

Author:Bell, Justin & Kraus, Mike
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Muonic Press Inc
Published: 2023-02-03T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

As Rick remembered, the hallway itself hadn’t been terrible and he angled left, racing toward the mythical bathroom that Phyllis had directed him toward, the torn section of sleeve clutched in his hand. There was a metallic, sour tang to the air, a little bit stronger than Rick had tasted before, but not unbearable, yet he still moved with a swiftness along the wall toward the first door on his left. The door was closed and he twisted the doorknob, easing it open so he could slide into it, where he released the breath he realized he’d been holding, a sudden gasp of exhalation.

It had only taken him ten or fifteen seconds to get to the bathroom and already it had felt like a struggle holding his breath that long— how would he possibly make it up three flights of stairs. He stopped for a moment to empty his bladder, then flushed the toilet, happy that there was still some semblance of running water. The activity lights on the network devices in the other room indicated that the generator was still active, even if it meant the prison was teetering precariously on the edge of operations. Going to the bathroom sink, he removed his shirt and gave himself a quick, cold water bath, splashing the tepid moisture on his face, his hands, beneath his arms, over his chest and down both of his upper limbs. Even though it wasn’t starkly cold, it was surprisingly invigorating and after wiping at himself with paper towels for a few minutes, he felt at least just a little more alert.

With the water still running, he held the torn shirt sleeve cloth beneath the faucet, soaking the cotton polyester blend with moisture, trying to will his heart to slow its jackhammer rhythm. Closing his eyes, he ran through the series of events from the previous day, trying to separate the panic he’d felt from the actual reality of the situation, retracing their steps, silently calculating the time and distance to get back to that upper level. He could picture the room in his mind, beyond the counter where they processed new prisoners, a room with little ambience, flat, paneled walls, storage lockers along the right side as he came up the stairs. That’s where he’d find the riot gear; that’s where he’d hope that the generators were still pushing power to the electronic keypads.

Rick exhaled, standing inside the small bathroom, the soaked sleeve torn off his shirt covering his curled fingers, water dripping, striking the floor with a steady, rhythmic drip drip drip. His senses seemed to be sharpened, chiseled to a fine, clean edge, and he regulated his breathing, steadying his accelerating heart rate.

“Okay,” he whispered, “let’s do this.” Pulling the torn strip of shirt sleeve to his face, he drew a deep breath, sucking in all the air he could into his lungs, then held it, shooting forward, out of the bathroom door. As he moved, he bound the torn and soaked

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