Limbo (The Last Humans Book 2) by Anna Zaires, Dima Zales
Authors: Anna Zaires, Dima Zales
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machines Phoe turned on inside my body. Naturally, when she returned my memory, she reactivated everything else, including that technology.
That must explain why I’m still okay, but without consulting Phoe, I have no idea how long I’ll last.
I’m not even sure if the Guard is blocking my air supply or the flow of blood to my brain. If it’s the latter, it might be bad. I can go a long time without air, but I’m less sure about having my blood flow restricted. The Respirocytes travel through my bloodstream, so even they can’t save me from blacking out if I stay in this position long enough—however long that is.
I formulate a quick plan.
Acting like someone who’s running out of energy, I lazily tug at the Guard’s forearm.
He keeps his hold on my neck.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in his grip or how much time it would take for a normal person to get so weak they’d stop fighting, but I hope the Guard doesn’t know those statistics either. It’s not something that’s useful in our violence-free society.
I slow my movements.
He doesn’t let go.
I let my body go slack, pretending to pass out.
The Guard keeps his hold on my neck.
My panic reaches new heights. If my bluff doesn’t work, he might stand here long enough to choke me to death—with or without the Respirocytes.
I fight the panic and the need to stiffen my body. I keep my limbs relaxed, the way someone who’s lost consciousness would.
Then I genuinely begin to feel faint, and with that, the panic returns with exponential intensity. In another second, I won’t be able to stand here, slack, pretending to be passed out. I’ll be forced to fight again.
The Guard loosens his grip and lowers me to the ground, careful not to drop me.
Through the slit in my eyelids, I spot the Stun Stick.
If I reach with my right hand, I might get it, but I’d give away my true condition. The problem is, he still has me in that chokehold.
I stall as the Guard lays me on my stomach and lets go of my neck.
Surreptitiously, I take a small inhale.
Though my lungs feel unsatisfyingly empty, I know I can rely on the Respirocyte technology to keep me oxygenated.
The Guard grabs my left arm and pulls it to the right.
I don’t fight him at first, but when I feel something click on my left wrist, I decide not to wait any longer. As swiftly as I can, I push up off the ground and leap for the Stun Stick.
Whatever the Guard snapped around my left wrist tightens painfully, and I realize I’m tethered to the Guard somehow. Reaching out with my free hand, I stretch my fingers to grasp the handle of the Stun Stick.
The Guard pulls on the thing tethering us together.
My left arm threatens to pop out of its socket, but my fingers close around the Stun Stick.
Swallowing a scream, I shove the Stun Stick into the Guard’s thigh and squeeze the button so hard the bones in my thumb crack.
The Guard slumps against me.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I turn around.
The thing on my left arm is some kind of handcuff, though instead of being made of metal, as depicted in ancient media, these are made of the same dull gray material as the Witch Prison’s walls. The Guard was holding on to the second cuff right up until I zapped him. I was lucky he never finished cuffing my right arm, or else I’d be toast.
I fiddle with the handcuff, but it doesn’t yield.
The ghostly Screen shows up in the air and tells me: Gesture for it to open the way you would a door. Then do the same to the Guard’s helmet.
I gesture hysterically at the cuffs.
Both the cuff on my hand and its empty cousin open with a loud click .
Emboldened, I repeat the motion at the Guard’s helmet.
There’s a hollow whoosh sound, and a gap appears between the Guard’s helmet and the neckpiece of his white outfit.
As a precaution, I unload another Stun Stick charge into him. He doesn’t react.
Content with my victim’s passivity, I take off his helmet.
The man’s eyes are closed and his
That must explain why I’m still okay, but without consulting Phoe, I have no idea how long I’ll last.
I’m not even sure if the Guard is blocking my air supply or the flow of blood to my brain. If it’s the latter, it might be bad. I can go a long time without air, but I’m less sure about having my blood flow restricted. The Respirocytes travel through my bloodstream, so even they can’t save me from blacking out if I stay in this position long enough—however long that is.
I formulate a quick plan.
Acting like someone who’s running out of energy, I lazily tug at the Guard’s forearm.
He keeps his hold on my neck.
I have no idea how long I’ve been in his grip or how much time it would take for a normal person to get so weak they’d stop fighting, but I hope the Guard doesn’t know those statistics either. It’s not something that’s useful in our violence-free society.
I slow my movements.
He doesn’t let go.
I let my body go slack, pretending to pass out.
The Guard keeps his hold on my neck.
My panic reaches new heights. If my bluff doesn’t work, he might stand here long enough to choke me to death—with or without the Respirocytes.
I fight the panic and the need to stiffen my body. I keep my limbs relaxed, the way someone who’s lost consciousness would.
Then I genuinely begin to feel faint, and with that, the panic returns with exponential intensity. In another second, I won’t be able to stand here, slack, pretending to be passed out. I’ll be forced to fight again.
The Guard loosens his grip and lowers me to the ground, careful not to drop me.
Through the slit in my eyelids, I spot the Stun Stick.
If I reach with my right hand, I might get it, but I’d give away my true condition. The problem is, he still has me in that chokehold.
I stall as the Guard lays me on my stomach and lets go of my neck.
Surreptitiously, I take a small inhale.
Though my lungs feel unsatisfyingly empty, I know I can rely on the Respirocyte technology to keep me oxygenated.
The Guard grabs my left arm and pulls it to the right.
I don’t fight him at first, but when I feel something click on my left wrist, I decide not to wait any longer. As swiftly as I can, I push up off the ground and leap for the Stun Stick.
Whatever the Guard snapped around my left wrist tightens painfully, and I realize I’m tethered to the Guard somehow. Reaching out with my free hand, I stretch my fingers to grasp the handle of the Stun Stick.
The Guard pulls on the thing tethering us together.
My left arm threatens to pop out of its socket, but my fingers close around the Stun Stick.
Swallowing a scream, I shove the Stun Stick into the Guard’s thigh and squeeze the button so hard the bones in my thumb crack.
The Guard slumps against me.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I turn around.
The thing on my left arm is some kind of handcuff, though instead of being made of metal, as depicted in ancient media, these are made of the same dull gray material as the Witch Prison’s walls. The Guard was holding on to the second cuff right up until I zapped him. I was lucky he never finished cuffing my right arm, or else I’d be toast.
I fiddle with the handcuff, but it doesn’t yield.
The ghostly Screen shows up in the air and tells me: Gesture for it to open the way you would a door. Then do the same to the Guard’s helmet.
I gesture hysterically at the cuffs.
Both the cuff on my hand and its empty cousin open with a loud click .
Emboldened, I repeat the motion at the Guard’s helmet.
There’s a hollow whoosh sound, and a gap appears between the Guard’s helmet and the neckpiece of his white outfit.
As a precaution, I unload another Stun Stick charge into him. He doesn’t react.
Content with my victim’s passivity, I take off his helmet.
The man’s eyes are closed and his
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