A World Together

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Stella

The crashing thunder of a door being kicked in is what brings me back to consciousness. For a disorienting moment, I can't place where I am or how I got here. My head is hanging over a white slope that curves into a bowl. Only when I lift myself up and realize that it's a toilet do I remember everything. My fight with Peter. Him releasing the infected. The sound of a thousand footsteps echoing all around me.

I strain to listen now, but instead of hearing a thousand set of footsteps, I can only make out the light tread of one. They're in the bathroom. Of course they are, the sound of the door being thrown open is what woke me. Is the door to my stall shut? I lift myself up to check and that's when a wave of nausea washes over me. I can barely hold myself up long enough to confirm that the door is shut and locked before I'm slumped over the toilet again.

The inside of the toilet bowl is pristine. Looking into it is like looking down a perfectly formed valley of snow. There's no sign of vomit. I haven't been sick since I came in here. This is good, except, for all I know, I might have only been in here for five minutes. My head is aching like it's been split in two, and maybe it has. I reach a hand back and run it through my hair, over my scalp. Jagged lumps of dried blood crumble beneath my fingertips. None of it feels wet though. I register this as also being a good thing. If the wound has stopped bleeding it can't be too deep. The one along my forehead has scabbed over with dried blood as well.   

So besides the nausea, for the most part, I'm alright. Even my vision, while opposed to the bright ceiling lights, isn't blurry anymore. I don't dare to think what could be going on internally though. My self-examination is cut short by the crashing of nearby stall doors being thrown open.

"Little girl, little girl," the soft echo of his voice makes my blood run cold.  "Which stall are you in?"

There's silence, and then the sound of Peter's footsteps as he moves to the next stall. Another door is flung open, slamming against the wall and making me jump. How many are there until he reaches mine? Fighting the nausea, I hoist myself up and twist around so that I'm sitting on the toilet. I can't hold my head up for long though and soon it's between my knees. But at least this way I'm facing the door.

"Little girl, little girl," he coos again.

There's no doubt that he's doing this for the sole purpose of torturing me. All he would have to do to find me is look under the stall doors, see my feet and know exactly where I am. I wouldn't be standing on the toilet even if I could. He would find me eventually anyway.

And find me he does. A soft thud on my stall door tells me his hand is against it, and when it doesn't swing open under his touch, there's the rumble of a laugh. "Little girl, little girl! Let me come in!"

My hand slides down my leg, into my boot where I hope to find my switchblade. But it isn't there.

"Or I'll huff!"

Where is it?

"And I'll puff!"

Then I remember I buried it in his eye socket.

"And I'll bash your head in!"

The door shudders violently, a long crack splitting down its middle. He must have thrown his whole body against it to generate so much power. Another hit or two and he'll be inside. I'm debating my options, but I must be concussed or something because my thoughts come to me far slower than they should. I have no weapons, I'm too sick to lift my head and my thoughts are delayed.

I may as well be dead already.

Just as that thought comes to me, Peter throws himself against the door again and it splits down the middle completely. The two halves cave in on top of me, along with a spray of tiny splinters. My head is still between my knees and one half of the door slams down hitting the top of my skull. I don't have the chance to push it away before it's being pulled off me and hands grip at my shoulders like talons, hauling me up and out of the stall.