Chapter 7
Eve's POV
As soon as Lafayette finished speaking, the impact slammed into my ribs like a sledgehammer. Cold water engulfs me, stinging my eyes and filling my nose, and for a wild second, darkness, panic, the taste of metal.
Then my survival instinct kicks in, sharp and feral. I thrash upward, breaking the surface with a gasp, my lungs burning.
“Fuck!” I sputter, wiping water from my face. The pool is massive, stretching as far as I can see under harsh overhead lights. Around me, people are flailing, screaming, coughing, struggling to stay afloat. Some can’t swim; they claw at anyone within reach, dragging others down in their panic. A woman’s scream cuts off abruptly, and I glimpse bubbles rising where she went under.
I twist around, scanning the chaos for Vicky. The ceiling above the pool is a maze of chains, each holding a one, their ankles weighted with heavy metal cuffs.
My breath catches when I spot her: Vicky, hanging ten feet away, her eyes wide as she stares down at me. The chain creaks, and she swings slightly, her sneakers kicking in the air.
She also saw me. Her mouth was sealed, but I knew she had been calling me "Mom" all the time!
“I see you!” I shout, my voice hoarse. “Hold on!”
A splash beside me makes me jump. Luke surfaces, his glasses gone, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“Stay calm,” he barks, pushing a flailing man away from us. “Panic gets us killed.” He nods toward the ceiling. “They’re going to drop them. Any second.”
Before I can respond, Lafayette’s voice booms through hidden speakers, echoing off the pool walls.
“Oops! Forgot the rules. How careless of me!” His tone is mock-cheerful like he’s announcing a game show prize.
“Your loved ones? They’re wearing weighted cuffs. Drop them into the water, and they’ll sink. Two minutes underwater? Die!"
"Save them, or watch them drown. Simple, yes? Now—BEGIN!”
The chains above us rattle. With a chorus of metallic clangs, the locks release. A hundred men plummet into the pool, creating tidal waves that rock me sideways.
Vicky’s scream is lost in the cacophony as she hits the water, the weight around her ankle yanking her downward in a flurry of bubbles.
“VICKY!” I scream, diving forward.
Someone slams into my back—one of the falling loved ones, a teenage boy with a football jersey—and I go under.
Water fills my mouth as I fight to the surface, kicking him off. When I break through, gasping, I see the boy thrashing, his ankle cuff dragging him down. His father, 101, swam over with an overwhelming force, swimming toward him, screaming his name.
I don’t stop. I can’t.
I spot Vicky’s dark hair vanishing beneath the surface, ten feet ahead. I launch into a freestyle, my arms slicing through the water, legs churning. My shoulder screams in pain from the fall, but I ignore it. Every second counts.
A hand grabs my ankle. I look down to see a woman—one of the gamblers—her face purple, eyes wide. “Help me!” she gurgles. “I can’t swim!”
“I’m sorry!” I yell, kicking free. The guilt stabs me, but I can’t save her. Not if I want to save Vicky.
Another splash. Mr. Marcus surfaces beside me, his wife’s hand clamped in his.
“Eve!” he shouts. “Aurora can't swim—” A wave from a struggling swimmer knocks him sideways, and Mrs Marcus’s grip slips. She goes under the thrashing. Mr. Marcus dives after her, disappearing into the murk.
I keep going. The water is dirty with splashes and bodies, but I fix my gaze on the spot where Vicky sank. My lungs burn; I need to breathe, but I push harder. Then I see her: Vicky, lying on the pool floor, her arms reaching upward, her lips blue. The weight around her ankle is a black metal cuff, chained to a concrete block.
I take a deep breath and dive.
The water is colder below, pressing against my ears. I swim down, my muscles screaming. Vicky’s eyes flutter when she sees me, and she tries to push upward, but the weight holds her.
I grab her wrists, pulling her toward me. Her skin is ice-cold. I press my mouth to hers, forcing air into her lungs. She gasps, her eyes widening.
I fumble with the cuff around her ankle, my fingers slipping on the wet metal. It’s a thick lock, no key!
I yank at it, but it won’t budge. My lungs burn—how long can I hold my breath? Thirty seconds? A minute?
Vicky tugs at my arm, pointing upward. I look up. The chain above her is glowing red, a digital countdown flickering on the link: 00:45.
Forty-five seconds.
I meet her eyes, and she shakes her head, tears mixing with the pool water. Don’t let go, she mouths.
My lungs are screaming, a white-hot ache that burns through my ribs. I can’t hold it anymore. I press a hand to Vicky’s cheek, then make a quick motion—fingers tapping my chest, then pointing upward, repeating. I’ll be right back.
She nods, her eyes wide but trusting, and I push off, kicking toward the surface.
The water rushes past, and when I break through, I gasp so hard I choke, sucking in air like it’s liquid gold. My vision swims; the chaos around me blurs—screams, splashes, a man’s body floating face-down a few feet away. I don’t look. I just breathe, deep and ragged, filling my lungs until they hurt.
Three breaths. That’s all I allow myself. Then I dive again, arms slicing straight down.
Vicky’s still there, her hand stretched upward like she’s reaching for a lifeline. I wrap my arms around her, pressing her to my chest, and kiss her again, forcing every last bit of air into her lungs. Her fingers curl into my shirt, clinging.
I let go, but only to grab her ankle, both hands wrapping around the metal cuff. It’s ice-cold, unyielding. I pull, yank, twist—every muscle in my arms and shoulders straining, my back screaming in protest. The cuff doesn’t even budge. It’s welded shut, solid as a tombstone.
Vicky tugs at my arm, pointing up. The countdown glows brighter now: 00:30.
30 seconds.