Trees surrounded and towered over me. I was searching for something but I’d already forgotten what it was. I was freezing, and the snow I stomped through wasn’t helping. With each step, I forced myself to keep moving. As I continued, the snow kept getting higher and was it my imagination or were there less stars in the sky than just a moment ago? The night definitely seemed darker as I got deeper into the woods. I had to find respite from the cold. Ahead, a warm light flickered from a gap in the trees. The glow of a campfire danced across bark. Was that what I was looking for?

An unbearable pain brought me back to jail. I’d passed out and was on my knees, but I couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a moment. I wanted to fight against the assault on my senses, but I could barely form a coherent thought. The sheer volume of agony overrode everything as if it was all I’d ever known.

You know when something hurts so badly that you just want to cut it off? Of course, your brain immediately tells you that that’s a stupid idea, and you agree with it. The pain I felt was so great that my brain told me it wasn’t a stupid idea, and I agreed. I looked down and saw that I was still clutching the plastic chef’s knife. With a grimace, I rallied my strength. My body shook with the effort of lifting the blade.

I stabbed into my forearm and the knife broke. My bones cracked, but it wasn’t enough. I hit the spot again and more of the knife clattered to the floor. I used the now blunted instrument to chop at my arm again and again like a lumberjack using a hammer to split wood.

The pain subsided and relief washed over me as soon as I made it all the way through. The act of cutting off my own hand had been a minor annoyance compared to the nerve searing pressure that had assaulted my sanity. The man holding my severed hand disagreed. He stared at me with his mouth agape.

I didn’t have time to dawdle. The footsteps of the other three were about to round the corner. With a fit of rage that would have made Al proud, I stabbed the broken bones jutting from the stub at the end of my arm into Pain’s neck. He fell back in surprise, clutching his throat. I ran.

Holding my bloody stump against my chest, I sped down the hallway, thinking furiously. I’d punctured the guy’s windpipe and sliced through his carotid. Unless they had another me to heal him, he was dead. That was one down, four to go. I still had energy to burn, but if I kept receiving damage, I was going to lose.

If Al were here, she’d use brute force, as she did every other situation and emerge victorious, but I wasn’t Al. I didn’t have the sort of power she did. Her help would come in handy about now. I smacked myself in the forehead or tried to anyway. Instead, I almost took out an eye and splattered blood all over my face. I really needed to fix that, but at least, I had a plan. I had to find the phones.

Al would be annoyed to hear from me, but she’d get over it quickly when I told her about the demons. If nothing else, she’d understand if I broke out of jail. I could worry about taking out the other four after planning and recuperating in the comfort of my own home. With a course of action in mind, I went to work on my arm as I ran.

I’d only been in jail a few hours, so I had no idea where the phones were. I searched for someone to ask but hadn’t seen anyone. I severely hoped that they weren’t all still in the cafeteria. The guards hadn’t been there, maybe I’d stumble across one of them. My footsteps halted and I looked down at my arm. I’d never grown a limb back before.

I consulted the diagram I’d constructed in my head. My anxiety reached a new high. To my dismay, the body I pictured, with all the bones, muscles, and veins, had changed. I couldn’t imagine it the same way I had before. My left hand up to the middle of my forearm was missing from the picture. I took a deep breath and exhaled to calm myself.

It was fine. I could just use the other side as reference—or so I thought. It was like doing long division right side up while hanging upside down. I managed to form the stump to my wrist but in my current predicament, growing a hand was beyond me. My stomach also had enough.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

There weren’t enough nutrients in my body to construct a hand using the little energy I had. Apparently, the materials for regrowing the limb had to come from somewhere. An alternative solution emerged in my mind.

“Mud hand!” I shouted with glee as a hand of mud formed at the end of my arm. At first, I thought to merely replace my hand, then I thought, maybe I could improve the design. Enlarging its mass and lengthening the fingers into sharp points, it formed into that of a monster chasing teens through the woods on a dark rainy night. It may have been made of mud, but it looked pretty cool. Content with its shape, I continued forth.

I sprinted through the halls until I finally came across a couple guys that were headed who knows where. They were chatting as if they hadn’t a care in the world, until they saw me and my impressive mud appendage. They stared at it apprehensively.

“Hey guys, can you point me in the direction of the phones?” I asked. They did so speechlessly and I was off. I ran into two more small groups that had the same reaction and finally, I made it to a hefty door with a window, manned by a guard. I waved my mud hand in greeting, but something must have gotten lost in translation because I ended up on the floor, covered in mud, clutching my stomach from the beanbag round he’d shot me with. I gave him a scathing look. The hit was nothing compared to my brush with Pain, so I was able to recover quickly.

“What the death was that for?” I asked, getting to my feet. “Look what you’ve done.” I pointed at the muddy pile I stood in, with a mixed expression of mourning and annoyance.

“W-what are you?” he asked with a quiver in his voice. “And what do you want?”

“I’m Ghost, and you didn’t have to shoot me,” I complained, finally warming to the nickname.

“If you’re a ghost, why didn’t the round go through you?” he asked.

“I’m not a ghost. My name is Ghost,” I explained with consternation. With a sigh, I donned a polite expression and tone. “And I would like to make my phone call please.”

“Uhh… I’m not supposed to let—” he started.

I spoke over him impatiently. “Look, man, I’ve been having a real day of the dead here and I’m in no mood to argue with you. You’re either in my way or you’re not. Which is it going to be?” Mud formed at the end of my stump to make a slightly longer stump, like a club. I wasn’t sure what I was going for there, but it worked, and he let me through.

I was glad that Al hadn’t changed her number after all these years. Everyone else was just a contact in the cellphone I didn’t have. I dialed her digits and the phone started ringing. It took a bit, since it had to go through the whole, ‘this is a call from an inmate at whatever correctional facility’ thing.

“What do you want?” Al answered angrily. There was a lot of noise in the background. “I’m a little busy.” She grunted.

“I have a situation here, and I need your help.”

“You’re in jail, deal with it,” she spat.

“No, you don’t understand.” I tried.

“Fuck!” she yelled and then I heard the crash of glass in the background.

“Language.”

“Shut up, Jesse. I’m in the middle of battle and I can only use one arm because I’m on the phone with you. Now, my only arm just got stabbed with a kitchen knife because you fucking called me.” I winced at the curse, but I understood what it felt like to get stabbed by a kitchen knife.

“I—Wait, why are you in combat?” I asked. She cursed again and I heard more crashes.

“Because you wouldn’t let me kill that demon bitch!” she shouted. “I got back from our little discussion and as soon as I got off the elevator, I got attacked. When I got to your apartment, guess who wasn’t there.”

I slammed my head into the wall. “Cara,” I said.

“Congratulations,” she said sarcastically. “You’re not a complete idiot.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“How the hell should I know?” she shot back.

“Okay then, I need to break out of jail,” I told her.

“No, you will not. Stay the fuck there. I don’t want to have to clean up another mess after I deal with this bullshit.” I tensed further with every swear she spoke. I could understand that she was frustrated, but there was no need for that language.

“Al, you don’t understand! I need—” I said hurriedly, but it wasn’t quick enough.

“You don’t need to do shit. Stay the fuck in jail,” she commanded. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shut your vulgar mouth and listen!” I immediately regretted my choice in words. A loud explosion rang over the phone, then silence.

“What did you just say to me?” Al said, in a low, threatening tone.

“Wait—I didn’t mean it like that.”

The phone went dead after a brief crunching sound. I tried to call back several times, but knew it was futile. Well, now what was I going to do?

Even though I told her I had to break out, I didn’t actually think I could. The demons would most likely catch me before I got near the exit and there was no way I had enough energy to make my own. I needed her help, but now I had no way to contact her. I didn’t know anyone else’s number—wait, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one other number I knew by heart, so I dialed it and it went through.

“Pietro’s Pizza Palace. Sorry, but we can’t deliver food to the jail,” the man on the other end said, but a wide grin spread across my face.