SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

I passed out. Anya did, for sure. But then I woke up and she and I were alone.

So I picked her up then and I pick her up now. I walked her out of my room then, and I walk her out of this closet now. I hid her then, but now… I reveal my plan.

“What are you doing, Cort?” That’s Rainer. And he’s asking that question in a reasonable way. But when I don’t answer and just keep walking, his tone changes. “What the fuck are you doing, Cort?”

“Is she… dead?” That’s Evard. He’s panicked. He doesn’t understand what I’m doing.

And neither do I.

Not really.

But I’m gonna do it anyway.

“Cort.” That’s Maart. “Cort, you have one more camp on the Rock and then we’re done, brother. Do not fuck it up now. Do you hear me? Cort!”

I ignore him. I carry Anya’s unconscious body in my arms, trying to find my way back up to the deck.

And I do find my way.

I always find my way.

Then the helicopter is there and I’m carrying my new limp, unconscious prize towards it. My father is standing in front of the door, shaking his head. I don’t have any idea how much time has passed since I beat the living fuck out of Lazar, but it’s been a while, because the sun is rising.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t hear Udulf’s words. The spinning rotors are far too loud. But I can read lips like a fucking champ.

Still, I don’t answer him.

“Cort. What the hell? Lazar is already pissed off enough about how things ended last night. You can’t have her. I need her.” He reaches for me—for Anya, actually—one arm extended to bar my entrance to the helicopter. “Cort! I’m talking to you! Put her down!” I check him with my shoulder, climb in, drop Anya onto the seat, point at the pilot and shoot him a look that says, You had better take off now, motherfucker. Or I will kill you and make a scene you will remember well into your next ten lives.

We lift off the ground. Udulf is still reaching for me when I kick him back with one flat foot to the chest and he slams into the concrete.

The same concrete where I killed Pavo to the song of pounding tribal drums just a few hours ago.

And I salute that fucker.

Good game, that salute says.

Good game, asshole.

But it’s over now.

And I have declared myself the winner.

CHAPTER SEVEN - ANYA

 

 

My dreams are blue.

They are always blue on the Lectra. But the blue is nothing more than a day on repeat.

That’s how I dream on the drink. Everything repeats.

I am profoundly thirsty when I’m startled awake by a deep keening noise, followed by a series of sounds that could be whistles or some kind of alarm.

What fresh fucking hell is this?

I push my ratty hair out of my face and open one eye to find a water-stained concrete ceiling. Then I close it again and just lie there, not even wondering where the hell I’m at, or what the fuck that noise is, because the whole thing is blue Lectra and that’s just the way of dreams when I’m in the blue…

Mmm. No. Wait.

I open both eyes and squint at the ceiling again.

Then I’m awake. Fully awake and sitting upright staring at… what the hell am I looking at here?

It’s a bird. For sure. It has wings. Large, long wings that—holy fucking shit. I scramble backwards when it attacks, a massive curved beak snapping at me. It calls out. That low keening is the call of this… thing.

And this thing sounds eerily human in my hazy, post-blue Lectra state.

I get to my feet and start kicking at it, wanting to yell, forcing myself not to. I pick up a wrinkled and weathered magazine and throw it at the giant albatross. It flaps and flutters. This room is far too small for it to stretch out its wings, which must span at least a dozen feet.

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariner's hollo!

Huh. I study it for a moment, Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s verse lingering in my head as it cranes its neck upwards, opens its beak, and calls out.

Something answers back.

Oh, shit. I whirl around. There are more.

I pick up another discarded magazine, roll it up, and this time I thrust it, like a fencing sword. The massive sea bird wants to put up a fight. And then there’s another noise and I see why.

There’s a chick resting on a pile of old clothes in the corner. I use the term ‘chick’ loosely, because when I think chick, I see a tiny newly-hatched chicken in my mind’s eyes. And that baby chicken and this baby albatross have absolutely no shared characteristics aside from the wings and the beak.

This baby is as big as Bexxie’s blond cocker spaniel back home. It is fluffy, and white, and takes up a good portion of the available space in… OK. I push the hair out of my eyes one more time and take stock. Where the hell am I?

A small dirty room made entirely out of concrete blocks. I look around, one hand still thrusting forward to ward off the angry albatross’s parental instincts, and get a glimpse of a door that says ‘generator room’ in Portuguese on one side, and another door mostly blocked by the bird. But there is a view of the ocean behind it. And… I’m swaying.

Am I still on the ship?

No. I don’t feel like I’m on a ship at all, but the view outside is confusing me.

I stab at the bird with my magazine. The massive wings open, spanning the entire width of the room. The tips actually push up against the walls on either side, because there’s not enough space.

It doesn’t give up its position in front of my escape route, so I do that another dozen times until finally it