Cherreads

Chapter 60 - Chapter 60: The Chase

Sammy clutched the Historia Plantarum to her chest, its weight a comforting, familiar presence. The genuine smile Beth's kindness and the book's discovery had brought to her face still lingered. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, her thoughts weren't a storm of fear and worry, but a quiet hum of intellectual curiosity. She pictured herself poring over the delicate illustrations, translating the Latin names, imagining a world where these plants thrived unthreatened. This small, precious piece of the old world felt like a lifeline, a promise that knowledge and beauty still existed, even here. Her steps were lighter, almost a skip, as she made her way back through the sparse corridors of the base towards her room, the drone of the generator and the distant shouts of patrols fading into background noise.

But her brief reprieve from reality was about to shatter. As she rounded a corner, just a few doors down from her own, a jarring, repetitive thudding echoed through the hallway. It wasn't the rhythmic hammering of construction or the distant sound of zombies; this was erratic, violent. Her cheerfulness instantly evaporated, replaced by a prickle of unease that crawled up her spine.

Then she saw him. Andrew. Cobra's son.

He was a hulking presence, even in the dim light of the corridor, his broad shoulders hunched, a bottle clutched in one hand. He was drunk, swaying precariously, his movements sloppy and aggressive. And he was kicking on the door to the room opposite to her's, each heavy boot-strike rattling the flimsy wood in its frame. His face, usually a mask of sullen indifference, was flushed and contorted with a frightening rage, a guttural growl rumbling in his chest.

A cold wave of dread washed over Sammy. Tara's warning, whispered weeks ago during a rare moment of privacy, flashed vividly in her mind: "Stay away from Andrew, Sammy. He's got a temper, and Cobra lets him get away with anything. He's trouble." Tara's words, usually a practical caution, now felt like a dire prophecy. He hadn't just been trouble; he had been a force of pure, unpredictable malice.

Sammy froze, shrinking back against the wall, trying to become invisible. The Historia Plantarum, once a source of comfort, now felt like a heavy, vulnerable weight in her arms. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, echoing the violent kicks Andrew delivered to the door. This was the person Tara had warned her about, the unchecked fury in human form. And he was standing directly in her path.

Sammy froze, shrinking back against the wall, trying to become invisible. The Historia Plantarum, once a source of comfort, now felt like a heavy, vulnerable weight in her arms. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, echoing the violent kicks Andrew delivered to the door. This was the person Tara had warned her about, the unchecked fury in human form. And he was standing directly in her path.

Andrew continued his assault on the door, his grunts punctuated by slurred, vicious shouts. "Maggie! Oepn tHe dOor Ye bitcH! I wOn't sTop bAngIng on this doOr unLess I bang you tonIghT sO opEn it aT tHIs MoMent!" His words, thick with menace and alcohol, twisted into an ugly slur. Each syllable was laced with a chilling mix of frustrated desire and aggressive entitlement.

Sammy heard everything. Her blood ran cold. She knew with terrifying certainty that nobody named Maggie was staying in that room. The room opposite hers was typically used for supplies, or sometimes, a temporary lodging for a new, anonymous recruit before they were assigned permanent quarters. If Andrew was this drunk, so completely disoriented that he couldn't even remember where this 'Maggie' lived, then his perception was clearly warped. The horrifying thought solidified in her mind: he might take her to be Maggie in his drunken stupor and start to run after her. Her blood pounded in her ears, a frantic drumbeat of pure panic.

She had to get away, silently, without drawing his attention. Slowly, meticulously, Sammy started taking steps back, her eyes fixed on Andrew's swaying form, her feet feeling for solid ground behind her. One step, then another, trying to melt back into the shadows she'd emerged from moments ago. Her breath hitched in her throat, a desperate prayer forming in her mind for silence.

But fate, once again, seemed to mock her. Her heel caught on something, unseen in her desperate rearward shuffle. There was a sickening scrape, followed by the clatter of wood. She had bumped into a stack of brooms leaning against the wall, just out of her peripheral vision. They tumbled to the floor with a loud, unavoidable crash that echoed loudly in the confined hallway.

The cacophony instantly alerted Andrew to her presence. His hammering stopped abruptly. The drunken fury on his face twisted into something else—a slow, predatory recognition. His head swiveled, his bloodshot eyes, now narrowing, locking onto Sammy's terrified figure. The silence that followed the clatter was deafening, charged with a terrifying anticipation. Sammy felt a primal scream build in her chest, trapped and suffocated by terror.

Sammy's blood ran cold. The clatter of the brooms had sealed her fate. "Maggie!!!" Andrew bellowed, his voice a distorted, enraged roar that echoed through the otherwise silent hallway. "You trying to run from me?"

Terror, sharp and visceral, seized Sammy. Without a second thought, she turned and bolted. Her only instinct was to escape, to put as much distance as possible between herself and the drunken, volatile man now fixed on her. Her sneakers squeaked against the cold concrete floor as she sprinted through the dimly lit corridors, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The Historia Plantarum, still clutched tightly, felt like a lead weight in her arms.

She shouted, a desperate, raw cry for help that tore at her throat. "Help! Anyone! Please!" Her voice, thin and reedy, ricocheted off the concrete walls, swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the base. She knew her shouts would alert guards, but at this moment, any attention was better than Andrew's.

But no one came. The doors along the hallway remained shut, silent, indifferent. It was as if the entire base had gone deaf. Behind her, she could hear Andrew's heavy, thudding footsteps, gaining on her with alarming speed. Her own desperate sprint was nothing compared to the ground the tall, muscular beast was covering. He was faster than she could have imagined, fueled by alcohol and rage. The gap between them was closing. She glanced back quickly, fear twisting her gut. His face was a mask of distorted fury, his arm outstretched, ready to grab her. There was nowhere left to run.

He caught her just as she reached a dead end, a locked supply closet. The force of his tackle sent her sprawling to the ground, the precious Historia Plantarum flying from her grasp and skittering across the floor. Pain shot through her shoulder as she hit the unforgiving concrete. Andrew was on her in an instant, pinning her down with his full weight. His breath, hot and reeking of stale alcohol, assaulted her face as he snarled.

"You thought you could get away, bitch?!" he slurred, his words thick with venom. He didn't care that she was Maggie or not, his drunken rage had simply latched onto the nearest target. He began to spout the most horrible slurs, his voice a gravelly stream of misogynistic filth that made Sammy's skin crawl. Her mind reeled, struggling to process the terror, the sheer violation of the moment. She thrashed beneath him, kicking, trying to dislodge his oppressive weight, but he was too heavy, too strong.

Then, his hand moved, clumsy but deliberate, and reached towards her clothes, his fingers fumbling for the hem of her shirt, his intent sickeningly clear. A wave of ice-cold dread washed over her, replacing the initial shock with pure, unadulterated terror. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself, her body tensing for the inevitable. The small knife Tara had given her felt miles away, useless against this monstrous assault.

More Chapters