No Escape (4 page)

Alex considered himself to be a fairly foolproof bullshit detector, and there was something underlying the doctor’s voice that belied his words. “So you won’t mind if I take off, then,” he said cautiously.

The doctor cocked his head to the side. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea. You’re not out of the woods yet, Alex. We still have another round of antibiotics—”

“Too bad. I’m leaving.” Alex edged backward toward the door, keeping the scalpel pointed at him.

The doctor heaved a great sigh and said, “Very well. Good luck, Alex.”

Alex didn’t answer. He wasn’t thrilled about heading outside in a hospital smock, but he couldn’t repress the sense that if he stayed here, something really, truly awful would happen to him. He didn’t take his eyes off the doctor, barely even blinked. He kept waiting for the guy to rush him, or sound some sort of alarm that would bring other people running.

But the doctor never moved. He maintained a casual pose, arms folded over his chest, one foot crossed in front of the other. Relaxed, like he couldn’t care less whether Alex stayed or went.

Alex was so focused on the doctor that he didn’t register the presence behind him until it was too late. A sharp pain, in his neck this time. Alex spun, swinging the scalpel around with him, slashing as he turned.

The small nurse, Annette, had crept up behind him. He cursed—where the hell had she come from? She scurried back, a needle still clutched in her hand. The scalpel blade just missed her.

Alex’s eyes narrowed and he lunged for her again, completely enraged now. But he stumbled after two steps. His fingers released of their own will; he gazed blankly down at them as the scalpel clattered to the floor. Annette had stopped a few feet away and stood watching silently as he dropped to his knees, then to the floor. He lay on his back, gasping, his vision fading in and out.
Not again
, he thought.
Oh crap. Please, God—not again....

“Took you long enough,” the doctor muttered. His face suddenly appeared above Alex. A foot tapped his rib cage. “How much did you give him?”

“Forty CCs.” Annette’s voice wasn’t what he’d expected; it was clear, refined. The voice of a much larger person. Of course, she hadn’t been too small to take him down, he thought with a pang.

The doctor whistled. “You doubled the dose? That will change things. Did you log the data? You know how they get if the files aren’t updated.”

“I just finished inputting and encrypting it.”

“Good. Well, let’s hope this doesn’t kill him. How are you feeling, Alex? Not dead yet, I hope? Afraid we’re not quite done with you.” He let out a chuckle.

Alex stared up mutely. The doctor’s leer was unmistakable now. After a minute, he straightened and said, “All right, enough messing around. Have Monte help you get him back onto the table. And make sure he doesn’t regain consciousness this time.”

Alex wanted to stay awake and hear more. It seemed terribly important that he find out what was going to happen, although he suddenly had a hard time remembering why. Where was he again? Who were these people? Processing it all required too much effort, and he was so very, very tired.

Hands lifting him, then something softer beneath his back. The sense of movement, something squeaking—wheels? Was he on a train? Wait, no … that couldn’t be right....

That same voice again, saying, “Scrub in, Annette. We’ll open as soon as you’re ready.”

Someone close by was humming under his breath, a tune that sounded vaguely familiar. Alex knew that song; he could even picture the CD case. His mom used to put that CD on repeat, playing it over and over during late-night crying jags on the couch. Afterward, she’d stumble into his room to sleep beside him. He’d awaken in the dark with her arm wrapped around him, the smell of whisky and cigarette smoke entangled on the breath wheezing in his ear. Sometimes she’d whisper in her sleep, and he’d be able to catch traces of her dreams. Once she’d even said “I love you” clearer than anything, and he’d been able to pretend for a while that she’d been awake and talking to him.

Alex closed his eyes, a small smile playing across his lips as he remembered. That’s all he needed, just a little sleep. When he woke up, Jenny and his mom would be waiting for him, and everything would be just fine.

You’ve just read a story set in the world of Michelle Gagnon’s thrilling YA debut,
Don’t Turn Around
, already starred by
Kirkus Reviews
, which called it a “pulse-pounding, scary-great read.” Keep reading for a sneak peek of the novel.

W
hen Noa Torson woke up, the first thing she noticed was that her feet were cold. Odd, since she always wore socks to bed. She opened her eyes and immediately winced against the glare. She hated sleeping in a bright room, had even installed blackout curtains over her apartment’s sole window so that morning light never penetrated the gloom. Noa tried to make sense of her surroundings as her eyes adjusted. Her head felt like it had been inflated a few sizes and stuffed with felt. She had no idea how she’d ended up here, wherever here was.

Was she back in juvie? Probably not; it was too quiet. Juvie always sounded like a carnival midway: the constant din of guards’ boots pounding against metal staircases, high-pitched posturing chatter, the squeak of cots and clanking of metal doors. Noa had spent enough time there to identify it with her eyes closed. She could usually even tell which cell-block she’d been dumped in by echoes alone.

Voices intruded on the perimeter of her consciousness—two people from the sound of it, speaking quietly. She tried to sit up, and that was when the pain hit. Noa winced and fell back on the bed. It felt like her chest had been split in half. Her hand ached, too. Slowly, she turned her head.

An IV drip was taped to her right wrist. The line led to a bag hanging from a metal stand. And the bed she was lying on was cold metal—an operating table, a spotlight suspended above it. So was she in a hospital? There wasn’t that hospital smell, though—blood and sweat and vomit battling against the stench of ammonia.

Noa lifted her left hand: Her jade bracelet, the one she never took off, was gone. That realization snatched the final cobwebs from her mind.

Cautiously, Noa raised up on her elbows, then frowned. This wasn’t like any hospital she’d ever seen. She was in the center of a glass chamber, a twelve-by-twelve-foot box, the windows frosted so she couldn’t see out. The floor was bare concrete. Aside from the operating table and the IV stand, rolling trays of medical implements and machines were scattered about. In the corner stood a red trash bin,
MEDICAL WASTE
blaring from the lid.

Looking down, Noa discovered that she was wearing a cloth gown, but there was no hospital name stamped on it. She tried to get her bearings. Not juvie, and not an official hospital. She got the feeling that whatever this place was, bad things happened here.

The voices grew louder; someone was coming. Noa had spent the past ten years fending for herself. She’d learned better than to trust authority figures, whether they were cops, doctors, or social workers. And she wasn’t about to start trusting anyone now, not in a situation like this. Slowly, she eased her feet off the table and slid to the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself, repressing a shiver. The cement was freezing, like stepping barefoot onto a glacier.

The voices stopped just outside the chamber. Noa strained her ears to listen, catching a few fragments:
“Success … call him … what do we … can’t believe we finally …”

The last bit came through crystal clear. A man’s voice, sounding resigned as he said, “They’ll handle it. She’s not our problem now.”

Fighting to keep her teeth from chattering, Noa desperately scanned the room. A few feet away, a metal tray held a variety of medical instruments. She’d nearly reached it when the door at the far end of the room opened.

Two men dressed in scrubs crossed the threshold. The first was a thin white guy, a few strands of blond hair pasted across his forehead beneath a surgical cap. The other doctor was Latino, younger and stockier with a straggly mustache marring his upper lip. Seeing her, they froze. Noa seized the opportunity to edge closer to the tray.

“Where am I?” she asked. Her voice came out weaker than usual, like she hadn’t spoken in a while.

The doctors recovered from their surprise and exchanged a look. The blond one jerked his head, and the Latino rushed from the room.

“Where’s he going?” Noa asked. She was two feet from the tray now, and he was three feet past it.

The doctor held up his hands placatingly. “You were in a terrible accident, Noa,” he said soothingly. “You’re in the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah?” Her eyes narrowed. “Which hospital?”

“You’re going to be fine. Some disorientation is to be expected.” The doctor glanced back over his shoulder.

“What kind of accident?”

The doctor paused, his eyes shifting as he searched for a response, and Noa knew he was lying. The last thing she remembered was leaving her apartment and walking toward Newton Centre station to catch the train into Boston. She’d been heading downtown to pick up a new video card for her MacBook Pro. Noa had turned right on Oxford Road, passing Weeks Field on her way to the T stop. The last heat of an Indian summer day was soft on her skin, daylight sifting through trees already shedding their leaves in a riot of fiery oranges and reds. She’d been happy, she remembered. Happier than she’d been in a long time, maybe ever.

And then, nothing. It was all a big blank.

“A car accident,” he explained, a small note of triumph in his voice.

“I don’t own a car. I don’t even take taxis,” Noa said warily.

“A car hit you, I mean.” The doctor looked back again, increasingly impatient. Clearly the other guy had gone for help. Which meant she was running out of time.

Noa suddenly fell forward, as if the wooziness had overwhelmed her. The doctor lunged to catch her. In one smooth motion, Noa scooped a scalpel off the tray and pressed it against the side of his neck.

His mouth opened wide in a surprised O.

“You’re going to get me out of here,” she said firmly, “or I’ll slit your throat. Don’t make a sound.”

“Please.” The doctor’s voice was hoarse. “You don’t understand. You can’t leave, it’s for your own—”

A rush of footsteps pounding toward them.

“Shut up!” Noa shoved him in front of her, keeping the blade pressed against his neck as they went through the door. She paused outside: not a hospital at all, but a giant warehouse the size of an airplane hangar. Makeshift aisles composed of cardboard boxes and long lines of metal filing cabinets surrounded the glass chamber.

“Which way out?” she hissed, keeping her mouth close to his ear. They were nearly the same height, five-ten, which made it easier.

The doctor hesitated, then pointed right. “There’s an exit, but it’s alarmed.”

Following his finger, Noa spotted the narrow hallway leading off to the right. She propelled him toward it. Someone was shouting orders. As they entered the hallway, she heard the chamber door being flung open behind her. More yelling as they realized she was gone. It sounded like at least half a dozen people were after her.

The hallway was long and narrow and lined with more boxes stacked to shoulder height on both sides. One of the fluorescent tubes overhead flickered, casting them in a pulsing strobe. Noa fought to ignore the stabbing pain in her chest, and the ball of panic right alongside it.