INK: Red (INK Trilogy Book 1) Read Free

give for something to eat though, I can't go on like this.
    The sweatshirt was a simple green thing, but the hood would be good against the rain and cold once he was back outside. Miraculously it fit — a little snug but it was better than nothing. His dark denim jeans would just have to stay on; it would take too long to even try to get them off.
    A few mis-matched sneakers and more sturdy footwear littered the floor, and there were still quite a few kids shoes littered about the place. He scanned it quickly as he moved through the store, finding a left Adidas in his size.
    He quickly unlaced his ruined Converse and put the new sneaker on. No time to search for the other one, it could be here or not, but at least he had something on his feet. The looser fit of the skater-style trainer was a welcome relief after the Converse he had luckily found only hours after he made his escape. They were the worst choice in footwear possible for someone that had just had their feet tattooed, but they didn't hurt as much when he first put them on as they did now — two days later.
    Scabs had started to form, then got ripped off repeatedly — it was a never-ending nightmare of pain, running, thirst, hunger, downright dread, and worst of all not knowing if Kathy was safe. Alive.
    His foot stank. The soaking sock was thick with lumps of dead skin. Uncovered, the sight of his foot and The Ink going up his leg almost made him cry. Almost. He didn't think he had any tears left now — he'd cried them all on the gurney as they ruined his body, branding him as belonging to everything he hated in the world.
    What was wrong with these people?
    With no better solution, he turned the sock inside out and was about to put it back on when he spotted a few pairs weirdly still on an upright rack. A bizarre slice of normality where all was chaos. He grabbed a pair, stuffing one in his pocket and putting the other on then quickly tying up the sneaker.
    Aah. Bliss .
    Rails clattered behind him and he heard the voices of The Eventuals talking to each other; they were spreading out to cover the room as best they could. All three of them.
    Damn. Time to go.
    Edsel got to his feet and crouched low, moving fast to the back. These places always had a rear exit, they had to by law. He just prayed it was unlocked. He got behind the counter without being seen and crawled back into the rear of the building, hands and knees screaming at the pressure. There were people in the canteen, obviously still able to show up for work at one point — The Lethargy gripping them and letting them gradually die from starvation where they sat around a dirty off-white Formica table.
    There was a microwave, fridge and coffee machine in the corner, mocking Edsel with their familiarity — a reminder of a once normal life. Well, it wasn't normal anymore; or it was, but it wasn't good. He supposed whatever happened made it the norm, it was simply a reality that was more like a nightmare was all. It said a lot about the people: they obviously had nowhere else to go.
    Slowly he got up off all fours, the industrial grade carpet feeling like someone was rubbing sandpaper into his palms. His knees were already bleeding again. He went through a door and found himself in a stockroom, boxes strewn everywhere, the place a total wreck. Nothing much was left in terms of clothing, but there were all manner of other things: loads of exercise equipment, balls for various sports, gym equipment and any number of weights plates, kettlebells, rackets and...
    Is that a baseball bat?
    The weight felt good, the old fashioned wooden bat surprisingly warm and comfortable in his hand, the pain not as bad as he thought it would be. He took a practice swing. His torso burst into flame at the movement, skin chafing badly in the tight sweatshirt. Best to save the batting for when he had heads to aim at.
    A door banged behind him and he knew they would be through into the stockroom after him soon. He had to go. Even