Free The Aftermath by Jen Alexander

still pinging its way through my bones. I squint up at the doorknob and rake my nails over my palms.
    Why hasn’t this ever happened before? I’ve gone in and out of this room plenty of times, and not once have I been shocked.
    But I should have anticipated safeguards built into the game’s system. The prospect of getting out of The Aftermath made me so giddy, I forgot caution. Never again. I get up carefully, trying to pretend I don’t feel the pain or smell the stomach-churning odor of singed hair. Supporting myself against the wall, I look around the room and weigh my options.
    There’s the window. It’s over the bed, but not so high up I won’t be able to reach it. I could put the crate on the bed. Stand on it while I try to pry the window open. And then what?
    I’m skinny, but not so thin I can squeeze through such a tiny space. And even if I could, I’m on the second floor. There’s nothing in here I can use to climb to the ground. Attempting to walk fifty miles with a broken arm or leg is a death wish.
    If I want to leave this building, I’ve no other choice but to use the door. I rip a large piece of cloth from the tattered hem of my jeans and wrap it around my hand before I grab the knob again. It does nothing to help me. The shock is just as horrible as before, but at least I know what to expect. I hurl the door open and stumble through the current and into the hallway, gripping the banister for support.
    Hopefully this was the only surprise, and the front door won’t set me on fire.
    As I pack as many protein bars and bottles of water as I can into my bag, I start breathing heavily—an overwhelming surge of feeling is pulsing through me. Physical pain and anticipation and, most of all, absolute dread.
    “I’m strong,” I whisper, shrugging my arms through my backpack straps. I tighten them and groan at the weight. It has to be at least forty pounds. “I’m strong. I can do this by myself and survive.”
    But before I leave for good, I find myself upstairs, standing across from the electric door and gazing into The Save at the three people I’ve no other choice but to leave behind.
    * * *
    A couple of years ago, during one of our missions to a warehouse that was on the verge of collapsing, I discovered an old compass. It was bright orange, made of a thick, grainy plastic, with a broken lid. I’ve never used it—or rather, Olivia has never made me use it—but I’ve always carried it around in the front pocket of my backpack. Maybe...keeping it on me meant extra points for my gamer.
    Whatever her reasons were, that compass quickly becomes my salvation, and I grip it in my hand as I walk, glancing down at the little arrows every few minutes.
    I can’t afford to make a mistake.
    I am small enough to stay hidden and keep out of the way of other characters, so when daylight breaks and I realize that I’m at least fifteen miles into my trip, I decide to stop. It takes me another mile of stumbling through overgrown weeds and avoiding the holes in the ground—probably purposefully dug just large enough to catch someone’s foot and result in a broken ankle—to find safe refuge. It’s not a building or a house like I hope for but a crumbling underpass, nearly hidden from the world thanks to gutted and rusted cars and honeysuckle vines.
    “Twenty minutes and then I have to leave. No more than that,” I say as I sit next to my bag on the concrete. I take a careful sip of water, wincing at the way it burns my dry throat.
    “What happens in twenty minutes?” a voice asks from the far end of the underpass, and I lose my breath.
    As I scramble to my feet, the bottle of water I was trying to preserve falls over and liquid seeps into the hot, dry ground. I don’t have time to try and save it, so I sling my backpack around my shoulders and prepare to run. But then a second voice—this one coming from the direction I planned to go in—stops me.
    “Where are you going, girl?”
    I dart my gaze between