Chapter Text
Mickey’s arms screamed with pain, begging her to stop but she kept shoveling. The sides of the hole towered over her. It was a little more than five feet at this point. How much longer was he going to make her dig?
Every scrape of her shovel was another second she was alive. Would the next one be the last? Or the next one? Or the next one?
Mickey grunted, hefting the shovel over her head. The muscles in her back pulled. Her arms wobbled, her legs trembled, and down she went for another scoop.
She’d been digging for hours, or so she guessed based on the shifting of the stars. The bright one overhead she’d been watching just touched the lip of her hole. Every now and then Brett’s head would block it out as he peered down at her, sometimes with a scowl and sometimes with that smug smirk she saw in her nightmares.
“You know you still look good from this angle,” he called down to her when she bent to complete the torturous cycle. Her shoveling stilled and she gave him a look, turning the shovel around in her hands. “If you weren’t already so dirty, we could make use of this privacy.” He laughed. “Actually, you being dirty isn’t too far off already.” He laughed again.
Stabbing the tip of her shovel into the bottom of her hole, Mickey stomped on it. No matter what she said to him may wind up with a bullet in her back. She couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t done it yet. He’d made a big show of making off the spot he wanted her to dig by drawing a large X in the dirt with his shoe, wagging the gun around when he demanded she get started.
Keeping her mouth shut was the only thing she could do; Zero had the right idea. She hoped those two were okay. At least one of them needed to make it out of there. Stanley and Zero had a better chance, being able to lean on one another for support. If Stanley was able to find him, anyway.
She mentally chided herself. He found Zero. He found Zero and they’re both okay. And they both made it out and they’re being reunited with their families at that very moment. And maybe they’d find a way to get the camp shut down too.
It didn’t hurt to dream.
Dreaming kept her mind busy, almost in a meditative state. It kept her focused. As long as she shoveled dirt, she was still alive.
The clouds gathered. The dirt melted into the darkness. It was so dark, she couldn't see the end of her shovel.
It became harder to lift the dirt up and out. Maybe she could prolong things by making the hole wider. It’d make her upcoming dirt nap more comfortable. Who’d want to go to the big eternal sleep in an uncomfortable upright position?
She paused. Would she go to Hell for that? Then she shook her head and let out a dry laugh. She couldn’t go down any further. She continued digging. She brought the shovel down the side of the hole, shaving off a slice of the dirt wall.
Rolling her shoulders, she grimaced at the pain in her back and turned, lifted the shovel to strike at the wall, only to stop when she almost struck a woman’s face.
Mickey stifled a scream, her shovel falling to the ground as weight to her arms gave way.
The woman stared back at her, or so Mickey thought. Her face was hidden in deep shadows thanks to the old-style derby hat on her head. Her long pale hair hung around her face in scraggly strands except for the long braid trailing down her back, flowing with the beaten and tattered vest and white ruffled dress she wore. It appeared to be dotted with a pattern, like polka dots or flowers.
Chest heaving, Mickey struggled to lift the shovel she’d dropped. Who was this woman? Where’d she come from? How come she didn’t hear her? What did she want? Did Brett see her?
“No.” The woman’s hand grasped her chin, bringing Mickey’s attention back down. Her hand was cool, skin smooth. A light scent of peaches and some spice wafted off her. “That family doesn’t deserve more attention than they’ve already demanded from us.”
Even more questions rocketed through her mind, colliding with one another as the next one came in. The world started to tilt. Sparks popped at her fingertips and a sour wave pitched in her stomach and what the hell was that ringing noise? She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the high-pitched ringing grating against her bones.
“Who…who…?” Mickey’s lips trembled. She cleared her throat, tried to speak, and cleared her throat again. “Who are you?” she finally managed to push out.
“…A family friend.” The woman’s jaw tightened. Her accent, once light and lilting, turned sharp as she continued, “The Walkers will never win. They are a greedy family, but they will never take our power.”
First the black man in the closet now this.
She had to be dying and these were her last moments.
According to her mother, her grandmother had passed after claiming she saw her mother sitting in the corner of her room. (She also chided her brother who’d passed before her for still owing her money.) At least she got to see family; Mickey instead got to hallucinate two strangers while being captive in jail.
Something told her that market for greeting cards was untapped.
“Do you hear me?” The woman grabbed her shoulders. “He will never win. You need to fight back.”
“How?” Mickey didn’t mean to sound so defeated but everything she’d tried at that point failed, over and over again. What else could she do other than prolong the inevitable?
“You use this.” The woman patted her cheek. The stroke of the woman’s thumb against her cheek was soft. Tears sprang to Mickey’s eyes. Her grandfather used to touch her cheek the same way. He always used to say he had the world in his hands.
“But more importantly, you use this.” The woman tapped Mickey’s temple. “You have everything you need. They’ve already sullied your past. Don’t ever let these men take control of your future.”
Mickeys breathing stalled and a weight settled on her chest. It sank, slipping through the spaces between her ribs and then ignited. Fury spread through her bloodstream and boiled in her stomach.
She was right. If this was going to be how everything came to an end, why would she leave it to Brett Walker to decide that for her?
“Hey!”
Mickey flinched, stumbling backwards against the edge of the hole. Loose trails of dirt streamed down and coated her shoulders at the collision.
“Did I tell you to stop?” Brett loomed over the hole, his face twisted into a scowl.
Mickey glanced back down. The woman was gone. The smell of peaches and spice hung on, mixing just slightly with something that smelled like onions before dissipating.
It was now or never.
“Hey, so…” She pressed her lips together, peeled them apart, and swallowed down the lump rising in her throat. She had to get a grip. She had to do this. “I think…I think we’re both wasting our time.”
Brett laughed. “Trust me. I’m getting a lot out of your predicament.”
“I’m just sayin’…our time could be better used for somethin’ else. Somethin’ more…fun. And worthwhile.” She tried to put an effect on her voice she’d heard Alexis use when she was flirting; words soft and slow as if they were dipped in honey but pointed with intention. The words didn’t fit, like they were bigger than her mouth and heavier than her tongue.
Brett’s eyes narrowed. His finger stroked the trigger on the gun he held by his side.
A painful cramp twinged in her stomach and she swallowed down the sour saliva filling her mouth. Turned her grimace to the best attempt at an alluring smile. “Wouldn’t you rather make use of the time doing something that would make us both feel good?”
“That’d be a reward for you, wouldn’t it?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “How good you feel is the least of my concerns.”
He didn’t need to tell her that.
Mickey forced herself to shrug. “You’re the one who keeps sayin’ for me to come to you if I want to have fun. Just figured no better time.”
“What, d’you want a last memory or something?” He lifted the gun and pointed it at her. Her stomach landed with a hard thud. “Why shouldn’t I just finish it all now?”
“Because…” She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to anyone that would hear her to forgive her. “Because then you couldn’t get one over on Alan.”
Brett removed his finger from the trigger. His jaw softened and she spotted that familiar satisfied look in his eye. “You know you’ve always been a catch. Alan has nothing on you. He was just…in the way.” Scoffing, Brett lowered the gun and muttered something.
Sweat beaded on her hairline. Her heart thudded against her chest. She had one more shot…
"If you’re going to kill me anyway, might as well twist the knife. Make sure it sticks. It would really bug him. Besides…” She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “I have nothing else left to lose.”
“Who could pass that up when you’re practically begging?” The spark in his eye ignited to full-blown self-congratulations. “And from a great angle too.”
“You’ll have to get me out of here.”
He eyed her. “…No funny business.” She fought the strong urge to claw at his arm when he reached down and grasped her forearm. Her eyes stayed on the gun in his free hand as she scrabbled to find purchase with her feet.
Finally, she managed to catch the tips of her boots in the wall, gaining enough traction to be pulled up. She lay her shovel by the edge of the hole and lifted herself out with her knees.
He was all over her by the time she staggered to her feet. Hands wandering, grabbing, tugging. His mouth, hungry and gaping, smeared against her cheek, her chin, her neck. Revulsion crawled over her skin and his touches burned through the jumpsuit.
Arms trapped between their chests where he held her tight, she squirmed, twisting this way and that, keeping her face free every time he tried to go in for her face. “What? You’ll give the rest of it away but you won’t even go for a kiss? Or do those lips only belong to Alan?”
Yes. She wanted to spit it in his face, but the cold metal of the gun seeped through her jumpsuit to her bones. She shouldn’t have been thinking of him, but the way Squid held her, gentle and patient and intentional, left marks on her Brett couldn’t claw past no matter how eager he seemed to be. He may be able to touch her, but he wouldn’t be able to erase Squid. They’d been tethered since they met; his fingerprints were tattooed on her soul.
“Quit bein’ such a frigid bitch, you wanted this.” Brett grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him. His thumb pressed painfully into her jaw and his hot breath brushed her face. “C’mon, give a kiss.”
His grip moved from her chin to her hair, yanking her head backwards. She whimpered, pain pulsing in her head beneath his tight grip. She wiggled in the space between them, drew her knee back, and drove it inward and upward.
Brett doubled over, his breath coming out him all at once in a low groan, hands dropping to grab where she’d struck him.
Her boots tromped against the ground, thudding heavily as she ran. Wind whistled in her ears. Drag pulled at her clothes. The shovel tilted forward and back in her grip, a counterbalance, but she kept going. It was all she had left.
“You’re gonna regret that!”
Brett’s shout was blanketed by a cloud shifting in front of the moon. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness but not enough. She stumbled over errant dirt piles she’d meant to run around.
A shot cracked the air.
Mickey screamed, falling to the ground. The dry dirt scratched her arms and aggravated her fall.
She scrambled back to her feet, grabbed the shovel. Pain twinged in her ankle, slowing her start but she got back up and kept going. With a slight limp, her pace was slowed. She gritted her teeth and pushed through it. Was this the right way? Would going back to the camp make a difference? Would it be better to brave the desert and take her chance in the elements?
Then she spotted it.
The ramped entrance to the labyrinth of holes. They dug it after X-Ray “found” the lipstick tube when the Warden wanted them to expand the holes nearby. It took days but, in the end, even she was impressed with what they managed to excavate. They’d even spent a few “counseling” session playing hide and seek in them, after somehow convincing Pendanski it would aid in D-Tent’s team building. Zigzag, somehow, always found them when he was it. (Magnet was convinced he could see through the walls.)
There were enough twists and turns and dead ends she could hide or maybe double back. But if she hit a dead end—
"Come out here, you bitch! Don’t make me come find you! When I’m finished with you, you're going to wish you were dead!"
Tightening her grip on the shaft of the shovel, she hurried down the ramp, limping all the way.
It was time she took control of her future.
However much time she had of it left.