Ai's POV

Ignoring the tattling voice of my more sensible side I scurry into the shadows of a seven vehicle pile-up. An ache in my chest claws up my throat, threatening to choke me. My palms, sweaty, ironically are ice cold. I can't feel my tongue either but I know it's there, because I can taste fear beading around my lips.

I'm not brave. This might be the worst idea I've had all week.

Another crazy idea Ai?

Cal is going to kill me, though not if the vamp gets me first. The work I've put into training, getting stronger; all for nothing. I'll never be as big or strong as I want to be. Cal refuses to encourage me. Daemon at least gave me lessons in grappling, and practice with real guns and knives, leaving the Academy to fill in the gaps. But out here it doesn't matter how strong you think you are.

Once the vamps get you, dead is dead.

In my pocket my fingers reach for the hilt of the knife, closing over the handle to flip it open. I try twice and get it right on the third. Spying a gap between the cars, I squeeze into it, jamming my body up against the hood of a large 4x4 and the tail end of a van. Behind me is a bus. I shove myself tight up against it, and squat there holding my knife out like I'm ready.

Nothing to hear but me panting. Nothing to see but shadows, casting their own bodies over everything, moving only when the breeze tells them too.

Then it laughs—a child's giggle.

It sounds far away, but that means little. Hybrids can move fast. They are for certain, faster than me any day of the week, especially if they're gasping for blood. Sometimes hybrids—half-breeds or vamps as we call them - go insane from blood-lust. They lose all awareness of being human or whatever humanity they had in them in the first place, and kill anything they find, draining it to the bone.

Their insanity stems from starvation. Nature takes over, survival kicks in; they become swifter, stronger, nastier than usual. While my biology pales in comparison, driving me desperate and small.

Which is just great, really.

It's freezing. I have a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach. And there's an urge to crawl into a dark corner and cover my head in my hands. I wish I was at home now; not sitting in the wet waiting for terrors to find me; holding a splinter of steel for comfort. Fight or flight is overrated.

Breathe, just breathe.

When I get home, if I get home, I can breakdown then. I can't now. Now, I need to run. As this, is a terrible hiding place.

Glacial breezes tease through the layers of clothing, lingering on my skin where the damp patches are. With teeth clattering loudly (jaw clenched so hard it hurts), I get lower on the ground, and crawl on my elbows and stomach under the bus.

Rainwater soaks me to the bone.

I drag myself through icy pools, my fist still gripping my tiny weapon as though my life depends on it. It probably does. Or maybe it won't matter.

Maybe, I won't see it coming.

I struggle against gravity as I meet the far side, and wrench myself onto my feet. They move without me asking.

One foot, then the other.

Faster.

The major intersection, a concrete mess of snaking streets and elevated junctions, is my last obstacle before I reach the harbour. I need only cross an exposed section to get there. There's no point in skulking, clinging to the sidelines. I run, into the centre of the chaos, finding a straight path through a tangle of roads.

The rush of it has spun me into panic mode, unable to draw in a full mouth of air. Pain stabs at my insides and there's a tightness around my torso. As though a rope is coiled there, burning as it gets smaller, tauter. No sound except of ragged breathing, stones flying, and soles pounding concrete, above the roaring of wind in my ears and the hammering of my heart.

I haven't run in a while. And it hurts.

When I come to the tail of the intersection, I go flat out, pushing further, ignoring the stitch beginning to bite. Though I can't possibly take much more. Is this how I'm going to die−of a heart attack? The towers guarding the entrance to the bridge are less than a short distance, tall and imposing, promising an end to this. I hit the last leg across a vast open space like I'm flying.

The ruined city falls away behind me; leached colours and faded borders. A sheet of bleak water stretches out in front. Tourists used to come here, stare across and take pictures. Empty shops and cafes now boarded up and left to rot. This was one side of a whole city−now it's the Outside looking In.

I've arrived at the river.

The hum is everywhere. Existence of an invisible, plasma wall. It comes from nowhere and suddenly pervades everything. Relieved at the sound, I'm almost home.

There aren't any guards; the buzz of ionised air is enough to keep away warm bodies with no right to enter. I've seen a person turned into jam−exploding into hot sticky mess of red and blackened gore, seared bits raining down−the second they tried to go through without an active regulation identity chip.

Fortunately for me, I still have one of those.

Behind me, it - the vamp stalking me (I'm convinced it's a vamp) - growls, an inhuman bark.

I'm not dead yet which is surprising. Though any moment I expect an attack; to end up bloodied and mutilated like the corpses we find in the streets on foraging days. My top speed is fast, but not that fast.

At school; when I was 'dutiful daughter', I was also 'track queen'. I lived to run. It's almost funny now I'm just another outsider, running to live. As if that's not enough, wet strands of hair flick in my face, stinging my eyes with perspiration, making me squint. I can't see a blasted thing.

And I bet I look a mess too.

Why worry about that now—when I should be too busy trying to not to get killed—I've no idea.

I use my free hand to scrape at my face, removing all things stuck to it. My throat, dry and abrasive, makes harsh noises as I try to swallow. The stitch that was burning on my left side, stabbing my innards with every jarred step, has reduced itself to a dull ache. The thrill of something normal from before.

Why I'm not yet dead yet?

Everyone knows vamps like to play with their food. I pray to Eve, the creature is injured. Hybrids, bigger than both parent species, are more than human and viper put together. I may stand a fighting chance if this sucker has a damaged, gimpy leg.

The first tower looms above.

Almost there.

But not quite. It hisses in my ear, and I don't make a step further.

A dark mass bowls into me from behind and shoves me to the floor. Dragged forward in the momentum, I can't stop, somehow I keep moving on hands and knees, sliding on the loose stones, climbing to get upright.

Iron fingers grab my ankle, snatching me back. I fall hard on to the earth, slamming my front, the last bit of air forcing its way out my lungs with a yelp.

The knife which slid out of my grip when I tried to stop my face from smacking the asphalt, gleams in the dirt in before me.

I struggle for the paltry weapon, arms hugging the floor trying to propel myself forward. My hand closes, only just, on the tip of metal.

Then, the thing is on top of me.

It giggles, like a psycho, and yanks my head back up by my hair (must have lost my hat somewhere) and licks the side of my jaw. Out of the corner of my eye I see a dirty hybrid boy, scrawny, half my age. His fangs are small points, gleaming. His eyes roll above a sneer. He's enjoying this.

Without thought, I twist and shove the steel blade into his right eye. He howls, teeth bared like the snake he is.

Then an explosion knocks him off me.

His hand, still wrapped in the thick of my hair, pulls half out. Pain makes me cry out loud, tears springing. Someone is shouting, telling me to get up. Get up and run.

So I do.

I clamber onto all fours, ears ringing, and crawl away from it. Whatever the blast was, loud as it was, it didn't kill it. It's still moving behind me, screeching in frustration. Any minute now it will attack again.

Get to the Gate!

Another blast of gun fire.

I don't wait to see if it hit home. I suppress a whimper and haul myself upright, half run, half fall, towards the Gate. The invisible wall only metres away.

Someone is standing on the other side, in militia black, ready to shoot. He walks to me, past me, eyes trained on the vamp behind as I hurtle forward.

There is a release, a hiss of air, recognition from the scanner and I pass through, un-squished, sliding to the ground, hurting everywhere.

Inside my head, the robotic, hypnotic voice of the Gate—Global Advanced Terrestrial Entity, an artificial intelligence governing perimeter security–tones a greeting.

Ai van Rosendal, welcome home.

***

Author's Note -

Thumbnail image credit goes to the amazing Harpiya on deviantART! https://www.artstation.com/harpiya

Hope you're enjoying Ai's story! What do you think so far?

Do you think Ai should have waited Daemon?

Who do you think rescued her?

What do you think of her world so far?

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Lis x