Free The Dark and Hollow Places by Carrie Ryan Page B

him, afraid that he’ll be too late. He starts to jog, arms up against the biting wind, fighting to cover the distance between us and leaving the dead to stumble after.
    My hand’s curled tight around the sharp edge of the metal door guarding the stairway. One side of it’s scarred and dented while the other’s still smooth and shiny. As I turn to the darkness I catch my reflection: wide eyes, blood smeared around my mouth. I grip the machete tighter, instinct screaming that it’s an Unconsecrated staring back at me.
    I can’t catch my breath, startled terror zinging through my body. What if I am one of them? I relive the pinch of the Unconsecrated biting my arm, the feel of the edge of his teeth against my ear.
    Catcher finally makes it to the entrance, grasping his arm where the shaft of the bolt still protrudes. Blood trickles overhis fingers as he gently nudges me to the stairs and closes the doors, throwing us back into the pitch-black. Cutting the vision of myself as one of the dead away.
    “Annah,” he says. I feel his hand wave through the air, seeking me, but I ignore it. Instead I race down the steps, gripping the railing to find my way back to the fire and the light.
    Catcher calls after me but I don’t slow. My heart’s roaring in my chest, my thighs aching, but none of that matters.
    Back on the platform the fire’s nothing but embers, and I blow shaky breaths over them until one of the half-burned bits of wood catches and sparks.
    My fingers shake as I fumble with the buttons of my coat, ripping it from my body and then yanking off my sweater and the shirt and tank beneath until there’s nothing covering my torso.
    “Annah, what’s going on?” Catcher shouts as he jumps the last few stairs and runs into the weak ring of light.
    As soon as he sees my nakedness he jerks away from me, throwing his good arm up over his eyes and twisting his head away from my pale bare skin. “Annah?” Concern threads through his voice. It’s clear he thinks I’ve gone insane.
    Frantically I run my hands over my arms, prodding and poking at the flesh as I twist to get a better look. I don’t feel any breaks in the skin but I can’t be sure. I run to Catcher and thrust my arm in front of him.
    “Is there a bite?” I demand, breathless.
    “Annah, what’s—”
    “Is. There. A. Bite!”
    His eyes go wide and then he takes my arm lightly in his scalding fingers, running them along the contours of my muscles as goose bumps spring to life in the path of his touch.
    “No, not that I see,” he says gently.
    “What about here?” I ask, tilting my head so that my ear and neck are under his gaze. I feel each exhale of his breath as his touch flutters up along my hairline, tracing the curve of my ear, slowly. Methodically.
    “No.” It’s a whisper, his lips almost—but not quite—pressed against the base of my skull the way I thrust myself at him.
    I stand there a moment longer, the heat of him pulsing around me in the dim cold underground air. I turn, just slightly. Inch closer to the warmth. When he inhales, his chest brushes against my shoulder, his coat scratching my bare chest.
    “You weren’t bitten,” he adds softly, breaking the silent tension between us.
    Relief soars through me. I collapse, wrapping my arms around myself and rocking, my fingers clutching my naked shoulders. Tears course down my cheeks and drip, rosy red after trailing through blood, from my jaw to the cracked concrete of the platform.
    I was dead. I was so sure of it. I’d felt the sear of Unconsecrated teeth. How is it possible I’m not infected?
    I’m sobbing and shaking from the release of the terror that froze me deep within. Catcher kneels, pulling me to him, and I bury my face in his chest and let the sweet solace of life course through me.
    “I’m not infected,” I say, still incredulous.
    He runs his fingers over my hair, cupping my head so easily in his hand.
    “I don’t understand.” I try to gather my emotions