Read Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode for Free Online Page B

changed her, but what they did to her brains before they released her into the kennels … that’s what broke her.
    I want to cling to her and cry, have her comfort me the way she did when I was little. The way she still does for Opal when she has a tantrum. Instead, I curl up next to her and listen to her tuneless, singsong hum of random lullabies until she drifts into sleep.
    Downstairs in the kitchen, I fill a glass with cool water and sip it slowly. The longer I’m still, the stiffer I get. Moving helps. Looking out the window over the sink, I see movement in the trees. We don’t have much of a backyard: just a deck that meets the slope of a hill into the woods. My dad had built a set of pretty wooden stairs, painted red, from the deck and up the hill to a flatter patch where we’d put a fire ring and a hammock, both gone now. Squirrels and chipmunks like to run up and down those stairs, which are splintery and faded. They don’t run in the dark, though.
    Slowly, I put down my glass on the counter with a clink that sounds very loud. Slowly, slowly, I turn and find the wooden block that holds the knives. They’re all very sharp. My dad bought them for my mom one year for her birthday; I thought it was a dumb present, but she’d kissed him and said it was perfect.
    I pull out the longest, biggest knife. They’re supposed to be weighted just right, balanced to make chopping and slicing easier, and I let it almost dangle from my fingertips as I go to what used to be a sliding glass door before our next-door neighbor Craig slammed his head into it over and over again a few years ago. Dillon and I added hinges tothe plywood covering the broken space so that we can use it as a door. It was one of the first projects we did once he moved in. The hinges squeak when I push open the wood, and I tense—without being able to see through any glass, I could be opening the door to anything.
    The deck is mossy and slick under my bare toes. Ivy that’s supposed to landscape the slope has grown up in a lot of the cracks between the boards, but that’s better than the insistent creep of the raspberry bushes, which are slowly overtaking the entire yard. I love raspberries, but hate the spiny, prickly vines. I step on one now and hop, cursing while I bite my tongue. There are prickers still stuck in the sole of my foot, but it’s too dark to get them out now.
    Limping, I hold the knife a little tighter. I could’ve grabbed a flashlight from the drawer—we use it sparingly, careful with the batteries. Like with everything else, we have to be aware of using things up and not being able to replace them. Besides, there’s a half-moon tonight, and my eyes have adjusted.
    In the dark, a Connie will stumble and trip and be made at least a little more helpless than I will be.
    More movement catches the corner of my eye. Something jerks and twitches in the trees just beyond the steps. The woods are full of deer, turkeys, raccoons. Opal swore she saw a coyote once, but I’m sure it was one of the mangy dogs that now run in packs. We have feral cats by the dozen. But animals are silent and know how to move through thewoods without making a commotion. Even deer slip quietly along their regular paths, running and crashing through the trees only when they’re startled. Humans are the ones who don’t know how to be quiet in the woods. We haven’t had any Connies since we moved back here, but I’m always ready.
    Knife in hand, I go up the steps, wishing I’d taken the time to put on some shoes. Even a pair of flip-flops would be better than this—my foot already hurts from the prickers, and now a splinter from the steps digs deep in the meat of my sole.
    My foot crunches on leaves and sticks, the sound like a gunshot in the otherwise silent night. I freeze. Ahead of me in the low-slung bushes that have sprung up around an old rabbit hutch, something is rustling. I tense. My fingers sweat. The knife slips. With a raspy growl, I lunge