Page 277 of Immune

The man holding my arm says, “What the hell?”

I look at his hand.

Then at his face.

And I’m suddenly not in the hallway anymore.

I’m in my body, but I’m not driving it the way I usually do.

Something else takes the wheel and grips it with both hands.

Efficient.

Quiet.

Horrible.

I break his wrist, too.

More small bones giving up.

More screams.

The scream doesn’t matter.

Threat.

Remove.

I take the baton from him before he can drop it and drive it into the throat of the man behind me.

Not hard enough to shock.

Hard enough to crush.

He folds around the ruin of his breath and drops.

The first man swings with his good hand.

Too slow.

I put the baton through his knee.

He goes down squealing.

The sound scratches at the far edge of me, but I can’t get it.

Nothing can.

The hallway sharpens until every detail becomes useful.

Distance.

Pulse.

Weapon.

Exit.