Burn Like An Angel (Harrowdean Manor #2)

4. Ripley

CHAPTER 4

RIPLEY

YOU’VE CREATED A MONSTER – BOHNES

Harrowdean Manor is in pandemonium.

Hellish, uncontrolled, fatal fucking mayhem .

In my haste to get some space, I failed to consider what danger I’d be running headfirst into. After all, this place is my home. My kingdom. Nothing can surprise me, right?

Wrong.

All bets are off now.

Corridors littered with ripped antique paintings, scattered belongings and all manner of detritus stretch before me as I speed walk into the unknown.

I don’t care where I’m headed. As long as it’s away from them. My weakened body protests with each footstep, but I ignore it. The throbbing aches, mind-numbing pains and infection in my searing wrists aren’t going to slow me down.

Morning light illuminates the carnage that’s unfolded. Clearly, we’ve been holed up for long enough to allow our familiar surroundings to transform. The opulent hallways no longer represent the extravagance and corruption I’ve come to hate.

My footsteps slow as I turn a corner, the sound of pleasured grunting quickly reaching my ears. I’m close to the reception where two patients are taking full advantage of the chance to indulge.

“You like that, baby?”

“Yes… Fuck… More!”

Her pasty ass on full display, a new girl I vaguely recognise from the sixth floor is bent over with her clothing wrapped around her ankles. Eyes screwed shut, she fails to notice me watching.

I’m shocked to recognise one of my regulars behind her—Luka. I’ve been selling him laxatives for months. He’s ploughing into her like a man possessed. Damn. A twisted part of me wants to clap him on the back.

I race past them, keeping my eyes averted.

Light also reveals the dank mess and water damage. The flood that preceded the violence engulfing the institute trashed this area.

Adding to the destruction, patients have gone to town, smashing every available piece of furniture. I have to stop for a second to take in the sheer devastation. It gives me a sick thrill.

Windows shattered. Paperwork discarded. Computers broken. What looks like some kind of condiment from the cafeteria has been used to scrawl on the walls.

Chilled gooseflesh rises on my skin as my eyes follow the letters, spiky and rushed, seemingly written by any means necessary. An artefact left behind in the devastation for the world to read.

THE SYSTEM HAS FAILED US.

Staring at the words, the script screams the hard truth that nobody has ever dared to acknowledge. I want to trash anything left untouched in this false paradise. The emotion flooding my system isn’t anger. It’s pure rage, born of total powerlessness.

My attention strays to the entrance doors—somehow still intact but swinging in the spring breeze that comes from outside. The sound of voices and activity are carried in.

I look back at the words. Feel the rage. The defencelessness. Every debilitating second caught in this state-funded trap, protected by an uncaring world’s wealth and indifference. And I don’t want to fucking hide.

They can hate me.

But we share a common enemy.

Fists clenched, I slip between the swinging doors into the new dawn. The entrance to Harrowdean Manor is usually heavily guarded by security, but it currently stands unprotected.

I can still remember being frogmarched past the gates and up the winding, cobbled driveway to the manor. The view looking out to the surrounding woodland has drastically changed since then.

On all sides, the same imposing cloak of juniper and birch trees remain as silent sentries. I can see the wrought-iron gates in the distance, embellished with the institute’s crest.

“Get them in a line!”

Rick’s voice booms over the hum of patients swarming all around me. A crowd has gathered to watch the unfolding circus.

“On your fucking knees!”

One by one, a group of eight or nine guards are being roughly shoved onto their naked knees. Daylight illuminates their exhausted faces, bruised and dirt-streaked, others bloodied.

They’ve all been stripped, mud covering their shivering bodies. I quickly catalogue their terrified expressions, making a mental list of who isn’t here. Apparently, not all the guards were present when the institute fell.

Each one is chained to the next using interconnected handcuffs, forming one linked line of humiliation. Positioned execution-style.

Behind them, Rick prowls up and down, examining his handiwork. Beyond the barricaded entrance, cameras flash on repeat. Reporters are baying for blood behind the iron bars holding them back.

Harrowdean’s gates are bolted shut from our side, keeping their desperation at bay. The chains may as well be flimsy cobwebs for all they matter, though. They won’t keep us safe for long.

The hostages are lined up for their photoshoot, imprisoned like livestock and posed for the country’s media to capture. Riots end fast without leverage, and Rick was quick to secure his. The guards.

“We have a message for the world.” Rick’s voice carries through the suddenly still air. “You don’t know our faces. You don’t know our names. That’s because to you… we don’t exist.”

Microphones are thrust through the bars to capture his shouts. For every beady eye latched on to us, my stomach twists into a tighter knot. They aren’t here out of concern. Our rebellion is nothing more than clickbait for them to utilise.

“And that’s exactly how Incendia Corporation sees us!” Rick shouts angrily. “As commodities. Specimens. Fuel for their sick experiments.”

Reaching out a hand to Patient Three who stands nearby, my heart convulses at the sight of the gun Rick took from Harrison in the Z wing. Raising the weapon, he aims it at the back of the first guard’s head.

“What if we treat you like commodities too?” Rick screams. “What if you’re the specimens this time? Will you remember our names then? Does that grant us the right to exist?”

I watch the guard’s shoulders shake with petrified sobs. It’s hard not to feel a shred of sympathy, but I quickly crush it. His sliced-up, bare chest is on display, a miasma of lurid bruises stark against his flesh.

Humiliated and hurt.

Just like us.

Scanning the crowd watching Rick’s performance, I realise what’s been gnawing at the back of my mind. What’s missing from this picture is the reinforcements. Other guards. Elon. Bancroft. His goons.

The flashing blue lights accompany the sizeable police presence, but looking closely, they aren’t even focused on us. The officers are supervising the crowd of reporters. Keeping them safe. They aren’t here for us.

We’ve overtaken the property, seized their guards, publicly shamed management for all their misdeeds. And still, nobody cares. None of the missing guards or clinicians are here to plead with us. We’re alone.

I heard Raine and Lennox’s whispers as I came to earlier on. Warden Davis is dead. By all accounts, Xander was the one who took his life. Does Sir Bancroft know that? Has he declared Harrowdean a lost cause?

No.

I quickly discount the theory. That snake would never cut and run. He isn’t the kind of man to walk away with his tail tucked between his legs. So this scene must be deliberate, luring us into a false sense of security.

He wants us to feel powerful. Vindicated. That’ll make it all the more satisfying to storm in here and crush the riot with unfettered violence. Any bloodshed will simply be written off as a tragic accident.

“We will not surrender our hostages until Harrowdean’s shut down and everyone is set free!” Rick proclaims, the gun still poised. “Those are our demands.”

The surrounding patients shout and cheer, commending his words. When Rick turns to smile at them, his eyes sweeping over the substantial crowd, he catches sight of me lingering far behind.

We lock gazes.

Rick fucking winks.

He spins around to continue shouting. “If anyone attempts to penetrate the institute, we will begin killing hostages. Report that.”

Pulling the gun back, Rick pauses to scan the baying crowd. I’m not the only one who gasps when he whips the weapon up so it collides with the side of the unsuspecting guard’s head, eliciting a scream.

He slumps over, blood splattering his shoulders and back. Rick gestures for Patient Three and the other silent Z wing patient to step forward. They begin pounding on the fallen guard, kicking him until their target is a bleeding, unconscious lump on the ground.

“We will be heard!” Rick roars.

The panicked shouts of the other guards being tugged by their colleague’s body makes my palms twitch. I want to march over there, take the gun then unload every last bullet in its clip into their heads.

Their little display over, Patient Three and her friend stumble back. They’re both panting and sweaty from doling out the beating.

“Get them back inside,” Rick orders curtly. “Show’s over.”

I look away from the guards being rounded up, their purpose now served, to find Rae’s gaze on me. She looks unkempt, her voluminous, auburn curls frizzy and unbrushed.

My senses are on high alert as she approaches. I trust Rae, but there’s still plenty of anger and tension floating in the air, and I’m not looking to get nearly strangled to death again.

“Rip!” She rushes at me. “Where have you been?”

I gingerly accept her hug, keeping a wary eye on the others. “Um, unconscious.”

“Fuck, doll face. Are you okay?” Rae pulls back to skim her eyes over me. “Stupid question. You look like you had angry sex with a woodchipper.”

“Then I look better than I feel.”

Her dark-brown, almost black eyes catch on my throat. It still feels enflamed and tender after Tania’s attack.

“I guess I’ve made some enemies in here.” I try to force a smile, but it feels alien. “You may not want to be seen with me.”

Lips pursed, she looks around at the crowd dispersing to head back inside. “Rumours are swirling. Rick’s been telling anyone who will listen the truth.”

“Does that include you?” I ask tightly.

She hesitates, letting several people pass us. “I don’t care where you got the contraband from. You didn’t judge what I did to survive each day, so I’m not going to judge you for the same thing.”

Heart sputtering, I can’t swallow her forgiveness. She’s a prime example of all I’ve done here. All the reasons I deserve to be punished for my role in the conspiracy. I enabled Rae, fed her addiction and reaped the rewards.

“How long do you think this can last?” I gesture towards the energised crowd.

“As long as it takes. We won’t stop until we’re treated like actual human beings. We’re going to be set free, Rip!”

Her wide, excited eyes and the grin stretching her lips only intensifies the lead weight settling in my gut. She’s as deluded as the rest of them, running around thinking this is some kind of pre-release party.

“Why do you think there aren’t any reinforcements outside the gates?”

Rae sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly appearing nervous. “Because… they’ve given up, right? We won?”

Gripping her shoulders, I shake her roughly. “Wake up, Rae! They will never give up! This is just the calm before the storm.”

“But we have hostages!”

“You think management cares about a few worthless guards?” I scoff. “They’ll cut their losses just to get their operation back up and running. Guards and patients alike.”

Tears have filled her eyes, sparkling swells hanging on the tips of her eyelashes. She looks from side to side, cataloguing the roar of the nation’s media trying to regain our attention as everyone disperses.

“I thought you wanted to take them down too.”

“I want to walk out of here alive,” I correct. “Do the smart thing, and keep your head down, Rae. Or you’re at risk of losing it when this all ends.”

Releasing her, she takes a big step back, rubbing her arms. We stare at each other as the shouts and hollers amplify, a group of hooligan patients running past with boxes of paperwork they’re emptying out on the lawn.

Two others heave bundles of broken furniture between them, the polished mahogany now splintered into perfectly sized kindling. Adding them to a rapidly building pile, the addition of paperwork reveals their plan.

“Patient 2185,” one reads from the thick file. “They didn’t even give us names.”

“Burn it! Burn it!”

In the distance, cameras are still rolling. I can imagine the madness sweeping over various newsrooms as they rush to report on the latest developments. Not even Incendia can suppress this story.

I recognise one of the instigators, yelling her head off with such gleeful rebellion, you’d think she was a kid on Christmas morning. Taylor hasn’t even stopped to clean herself up, a curtain of dried blood still cascading from her sliced forehead.

Fingers pinched around a lit cigarette, she watches the pile of furniture and discarded paperwork grow. The hysterical crowd is emptying out the reception, adding anything flammable to the stash.

“Here!” someone shouts. “We raided the groundskeeper’s storage.”

I hear Rae curse next to me as a canister of fuel is paraded above their heads like the fucking holy grail. The kind of fuel you’d use to fill a lawnmower, I think.

With the canister emptied all over the broken wood, Taylor flicks her cigarette into the pile of kindling. The patient files scattered throughout quickly crisp and blacken, growing into a fireball.

“Yes!”

“More! More!”

The chorus of celebration fills the smoky air. Heat and acrid fumes pour from the bonfire, growing larger and more vicious by the second as it greedily consumes the destroyed furniture and files.

Smoke rises.

Patients cheer.

Harrowdean is burning.