Entanglement (YA Dystopian Romance) - By Dan Rix Page 0,88

plastic. Cables snapped like roots as he dragged it off the desk and thrust it down on Casler’s head.

The concussion gave a meaty thud, and Casler’s face plowed into jagged stone. The monitor rolled off him, and a deep gouge oozed in its wake, right behind his ear.

Seventy seconds.

“Aaron—behind you!” Amber yelled from the operating table.

The fight was two to one—he’d forgotten.

Aaron glanced up as Clive swung. He jerked his head back, and the serrated end of a rusty pipe grazed his cheek. Clive’s pale eyes gleamed. He swung again. Aaron backed his head into the desk. Nowhere else to go.

The blow deafened him, right on his ear. Slammed his head sideways. The pain made the cavern flicker. He scurried away, but the pipe clipped his shoulder. His left arm buckled, and he crunched into the floor, banged his lip. Salty blood gushed into his mouth.

Sixty-five seconds.

Behind him, Clive coiled his arm back.

“Clive, don’t!” Amber yelled.

He swung again. Aaron heard the whistle and rolled just in time. Where his head had been, the stone floor exploded into shards.

The pipe buzzed from the impact. Clive winced and clutched his wrist to keep from dropping it. He raised the pipe again. Swung.

Sixty seconds.

Aaron curled into a ball, cradled his head. He felt a crack, the sound of a broken rib—just below his heart.

Then another. The pipe stabbed into his lower back, bruised his kidney. And another. Deep into his shoulder.

“Stop it!” Amber shrieked.

“Clive—that’s enough!” yelled Casler from somewhere behind him.

One more. Payback for the night before.

“Clive—” The blows stopped.

Fifty-five seconds.

A shadow loomed above him. The halogen lamps winked out. Casler, his eyes glossy and bloodshot.

Aaron tried to crawl, but the man’s dense fingers sank into his shoulder and yanked him backward, stood him on his feet.

“Aaron, get up.” Casler’s eyes darted across his face, concerned—loving almost, as a reddish-black stain spread on his mask.

“You’re bleeding,” said Aaron.

Casler spun him around, and his thick arm clamped down on Aaron’s throat, choking him. “What you did to me was pointless,” he said.

“Yeah? Cry me a river,” said Aaron.

Fifty seconds.

Aaron jerked his head back, but Casler’s jaw was too high. His skull hit the man’s chest with zero effect.

“Shhh—” Casler squeezed Aaron tighter and stroked his forehead, smoothing back his sweaty hair. “It’s okay,” he said. Then he carried him to Amber’s side.

“She’s going to be fine,” he whispered. “Look—here she is.”

And there she was, in a lake of blonde hair—all strapped in. Her eyes glittered under the halogen lamps, the most dazzling green Aaron had ever seen.

They stared at each other. Too afraid to look away. Amber mouthed, “I love you.” He mouthed it back.

Forty-five seconds.

“The potentate gets to keep the part we take out,” said Casler. “We’ll have Amber present the vial herself, as a gift. The potentate will be so proud of her.”

Aaron tore at Casler’s knuckles, but it was like scratching steel poles.

“Hold her hand,” said Casler, and he yanked Aaron’s wrist down and forced their hands together. Through her palm, Aaron could feel her shivering.

The machine’s whine was quieter now, hypersonic.

“Clive, how much time?” said Casler.

“Forty seconds.”

“Aaron—” Casler breathed into his ear. “Stay with me for forty seconds. Look into her eyes. Imagine how beautiful she’ll be without flaws.”

Amber squeezed his hand, and they never broke eye contact. They couldn’t.

Thirty-five seconds.

He felt Casler’s head turn. “Four degrees, Clive—counter-clockwise.”

“How can you tell? Let me check the laptop.”

“Just do it,” said Casler. “We want a nice clean hole so too much doesn’t leak out. She should be fashionably obedient, not brain dead.”

Thirty seconds.

Then her eyes would wink out. And that would be the last thing Aaron saw before he died.

***

But a lot can happen in thirty seconds.

Clive never made the adjustment he was supposed to—the four degrees bit. Amber glanced in his direction, and her eyes widened. Aaron heard the thump.

He and Casler turned at the same time, as Clive collapsed, unconscious. A purple line of cuts bled above his ear, as if his scalp had been stamped.

Then a figure appeared behind Casler, and suddenly Aaron was free. He landed on solid ground and spun.

But it wasn’t Dominic, and it wasn’t his parents. It wasn’t even Tina.

It was Buff Normandy.

***

All six-four, two hundred and forty pounds of him. The white Pueblo Rugby logo glowed on his sweatshirt as he pried Casler’s arms off Aaron’s throat, his eyes fierce.

“No more bullshit,” he said, then he slammed his fist into Casler’s jaw—brass knuckles and all.

Casler’s head whipped sideways, and his surgical mask snapped free.