No Escape: Chapter 10
by Creedog VanDrey

Category: Glee
Genre: Mystery
Rating: T
Language: English
Summary: Santana's crimes catch up with her.
Spoilers: Through Episode 1x13: "Sectionals"

A/N: I've got to stop reading your reviews. They're breaking my heart, because I've written out the rest of the series, and I know exactly who's going to die and who will survive. And since every single character still alive has been pleaded for, I'm going to have some sad reviewers.

Listen, I've got more stuff in the works. Happy stuff. Stuff that doesn't make me look like the frickin' Grim Reaper, okay?

And in case you were confused: Finn and Rachel? Not dead yet.

Chapter 10: Why It Hurts

Quinn was lying against the frame of the nurse's cot, gasping for air, as Puck walked into the nurse's office. He glanced at Santana, who was watching the scene catatonically.

"What happened?"

Santana didn't answer; she just stared into the middle distance as if she were seeing a ghost.

Puck didn't wait for a response. He ran to Quinn's side. Blood stained the front of her skirt, but he was more focused on the red stain on her blouse, right below her left breast. Frantically, he tore open her blouse. Right below the cup of her white bra was a puncture wound, which blood was pouring out of. He pulled off his button-up shirt and pressed it against injury, seeing blood soak the fabric. Quinn grimaced, looking toward but not quite at him. "Screw this!" He threw down the shirt and grabbed the metal scissors off the ground, paused for a moment to consider what he was about to do, and pulled a lighter from his pocket, which he used to heat up the side of the silver blade. He did this for only as long as he could bear to wait. Taking a calming breath, he pressed the edge of the blade flat against Quinn's wound. She shrieked and lunged forward, but Puck held steady for five excruciatingly long seconds.

After he pulled away, Quinn simply collapses against his shoulder, not moving. Puck checked his handiwork: there was an ugly red mark on Quinn's abdomen, partially blistered but no longer bleeding. He felt around her neck for a pulse; he found a quick but steady one; her breath: shallow but constant.

He turned, picked up Santana by her uniform top and slammed her into the wall. "What the hell happened?"

Santana's eyes didn't meet Puck's; they remained on Quinn. "I-I didn't mean to. The needle just—"

Puck interrupted with a roar. "The needle? You… stabbed her? You did this?"

"She came at me…"

"So you stabbed her?"

"I…"

Puck lowered his voice, out of nothing more than shock. "Wait, so that screaming about you killing Mike…?" He dropped her and backed away. She landed on her feet, awkwardly, and immediately slumped down.

"It wasn't supposed to… I wasn't even trying to…"

Puck flailed around as if the world were turning on its side. "This is insane," he bellowed, kicking a cabinet, causing medications bottles to tumble onto the ground. He shoved the remaining medical supplies off the countertops. "Are you telling me you're a murderer, Lopez?" he accused more than asked.

Santana didn't reply, just sat on the floor unable to form words.

Puck grabbed Santana by the forearms and hoisted her into a standing position, pinning her against the wall. "Defend yourself, dammit! Tell me my friend is not some psychopath."

"It's not like that," she screamed back, finally meeting his eyes, angrily swatting away Puck's arms.

Snorting like a bull, Puck took a hold of Santana and shoved her into the wall again. Undaunted, Santana kneed him in the groin. He crumbled to the ground and she raced out of the nurse's office.

Her respite was brief. Puck recovered after only a moment and began his pursuit of her. His legs were longer than hers and he caught up with her in the next hallway, throwing her hard into the lockers. When he charged again, she kicked him in the stomach. He stumbled backwards, but turned his head to look up at her. "She's pregnant with my child! I supposed to be a father!" He ran forward again, bending low, and slammed the cheerleader against the lockers. He reared back and repeated the action, but Santana elbowed him in the back of the neck and slipped away.

"Puck, you need to listen to me. I'm not doing all this!"

Not even listening, Puck didn't respond; he just ran up to her and started pounding her with such fervor that she couldn't immediately fight back. He pinned her to the ground, his legs crushing hers and one strong hand tightly holding both of her wrists above her head. Santana struggled, but was unable to break free from his hold. With his free hand, he pulled her up by her collar and slammed her head against the tile floor. On his second pull up, Santana, head spinning, did something near-suicidal; she slammed her forehead into Puck's. He recoiled and she pulled herself up and bit him on the shoulder. This was enough to loosen his grip on her wrists and she used her newly freed hands to claw at his right side. He twisted away, giving her the leverage to squeeze her legs out from under him. A hard punch to the kidney had him rolling on the ground. She kicked him hard on the sternum, forcing the air out of his lungs.

Santana was now a mess: her cheeks and forehead covered in bruises, her lip split, both of her wrists sore and red, her knees aching, and her balance almost nonexistent. So, when she heard the familiar sound of Artie's wheelchair, she couldn't react in time to what she didn't see coming. Artie hit her full force with his chair, running over her legs. At least one ankle twisted out of place, and she knew she heard one of her kneecaps crack. Artie reversed his direction for another onslaught, but she was ready this time; she rolled into a ball, preventing him from being able to roll over her. Her plan wasn't perfect; one of the wheel pressed into her side, likely giving her a broken rib.

"I loved her!" Artie screamed, "And I never got a chance to tell her."

"Artie," Santana wearily cried out, "I know what you're going through. But you're making a mistake." She hazarded a look at Puck. He was awake, but still reeling from their fight, watching her struggle against Artie with confusion.

Artie tried to ram forward a third time, but Santana was ready. She spun so that her legs went underneath the wheelchair, and with her good leg, she kicked at the wheel. Artie's chair jerked forward and to the side. Santana yanked her legs back and used her hands to spin the chair's right wheel, turning it away from her. She tried to get up, but her left leg could no longer support her. She used to momentum to push Artie forward, right out of his chair, and caught herself against the lockers.

There was a distinct crunch as Artie fell to the ground. Despite the blood pouring from his nostrils, Artie attempted to get back up. He used his arms to roll his body back over. Santana could see that one of his legs has gotten stuck under the footrest and was now twisted badly, but Artie's were locked on her with a fury she didn't believe the boy had. Distracted by his angry look, she didn't seem him use his weight to push his chair backwards into her. With only one leg to stand on, she toppled backwards. Her landing was less than graceful: she hit her tailbone and tried to catch herself with her injured wrists, which now hurt even more. She kicked forward on the chair, using its weight to her scoot away from Artie; there was another crack.

Artie showed no signs of pain as crawled back into his chair. Santana watched as he spun the chair around again, putting Santana back in the vulnerable position. His right leg was now twisted in a wholly unnatural way. He reared up to charge her again, but only one arm thrust forward and the wheelchair curved out of the way harmlessly.

Panic filled Artie's face. "What's wrong with my arm!" he cried out, his voice a little garbled. Santana scooted her way the best she could to his side. The right side of his body looked like it had melted: his shoulder was sagging, his eyelid was drooping, and the left side of his mouth was curled back.

Santana pulled herself up by his armrest. "It wasn't me," she pressed emphatically; "I didn't do anything to Tina." He looked up at her blankly, gave a slight nod of understanding, and then his right pupil dilated completely and his head fell back. He slipped halfway out of his chair

The color drained from Santana's face as screamed and leapt backwards, falling on the ground when her bad leg gave out. For the second time that night, Santana felt like she was in a horror movie, and she really wanted the nightmare to end.

Someone walked past Santana. At first, she was afraid it was Puck, but the jock was still where Santana left him, now passed out. She looked up; the mysterious visitor had already passed her, so she couldn't get a look at his face, but his figure seemed familiar. He was a tall, wiry youth with short brown hair, in jeans and a plain white tee-shirt. The hooded sweatshirt he was wearing earlier was now missing. He told her, calmly, "That's one mangled leg. You know, I'm not a doctor, but I guess that's what gave him the stroke or whatever happened to him."

"Hank?" Santana asked. He turned around and smiled at her.

A/N: I'm going to give Artie a more prominent role in my next fic. I lost track of him in the planning stage, so I just wrote his absence into the narrative. I wanted to do a little bit more with his character, but I arrived at his chapter and realized I hadn't given myself the opportunity to flesh him out. Oh, well, next time.