Free Countdown by Michelle Rowen

somebody else.
Somebody bad.
For a moment I thought it might just be my imagination. My
overwrought, overworked brain always came up with the worst-case
scenario. My mom said I should be a writer since I always made up
such crazy, overly dramatic stories.
All I knew for sure, as I lay in my bed that night with the sheets
pulled up to my nose, listening to the footsteps outside my door, was
that I had this sense. A sense of impending doom.
Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
I could hear my father’s footsteps as he moved into the hallway to
investigate the noises. I heard shouting.
There were gunshots—two gunshots—and then a heavy thump
as my father’s body hit the floor.
Then I heard the screams as my mother…and then my sister—oh,
God, both of them—as they were confronted by the intruder. More
shots rang out. My whole body shook as I tumbled off the side of my
bed and crawled underneath it, tears streaming down my cheeks. My
whole world narrowed in on that moment. Those three minutes felt
like three years.
When all was silent, when my family was dead, I heard my door
rattle as the murderer tried to get into my room. My door was locked,
but he would have had no problem busting it open.
I’m going to die, was all I could think. And I was afraid. So
afraid.
But suddenly there came the sound of police sirens, and the intruder fled, without another sound, without a word, into the night.
He was never caught.
I hadn’t even said good-night to my family. And then they were
gone forever.
Ever since that night, the inky black of darkness just reminded me of how close to death I’d come. How powerless I was. Darkness, any
darkness, felt like hands clutching at my throat, holding me down. “No… No…please. Not again.”
“Kira, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. Open your eyes.
It’s okay. I’m with you.”
A warm touch brushed away my tears and stroked the hair
back from my face.
My eyes shot open. The first thing that came fully into
focus was Rogan. He sat on the edge of the bed I was lying
in. He looked like hell, still dirty and bloody and a total mess,
but the sight of him managed to chase away the last traces of
my nightmare.
He frowned. “What’s that?”
“What do you mean?” My voice sounded croaky. “That thing on your face.”
I reached up. “What is it?”
“I think it’s…yes, it’s definitely a smile.”
I let out a long breath and rolled my eyes. “Obviously a total
mistake. There’s no reason for me to be smiling right now. Is
my leg still attached?”
He glanced down the length of my body and then looked
back up at me with half a grin on his face.
“For now.” The grin faded. “You were having a bad dream.” “I can’t imagine why I would be. We’ve been having so
much fun.” I tried to look around but didn’t see anything other
than a bland room with a small window that only looked out
to another building. “Where are we now?”
“They brought us to a medical station. I guess you getting
shot wasn’t in the script.”
“There’s a script?”
He shrugged. “Who knows?” His gaze met mine, and I noticed for the first time since I woke up how anguished it
was. “I was worried about you.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Don’t joke.” He brought his hand back up to stroke my
face gently. “Seriously, though. I’m really glad you’re okay.” For a moment, he didn’t move his hand away, and I didn’t
push it away. But then he blinked and dropped his arm to his
side.
I bit my bottom lip. “So, uh, now what?”
“So now we’re waiting for somebody to check your leg
and release us, I guess. They took the bullet out already and
patched you up. They gave you some pain meds, which is
probably the reason you were out so long.”
“How long?”
“Nearly eighteen hours.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Eighteen hours?”
He nodded. I lifted the white sheets to look down at myself. My clothes were gone, and I was now wearing a