What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

My attacker's close, so I leap onto the first car I arrive at, and his fingers graze my ankle. I turn to confront him, ready to have a gun aimed at me, but he's unarmed. The other three must be following behind with my weapons. He's the attack dog, the one who stalks and attacks the victim until help arrives.

He reaches for me again, trying to knock my feet out from under me. I step back and avoid him. We play this dangerous game for what feels like hours, his fingers narrowly missing my ankle, me trying to move away and not get caught. Or fall off.

When he tries again for what feels like the hundredth time, he mistimes his lunge completely, and I take the opportunity to get him back. I kick his hand as hard as I can, and the toe of my boot connects with the middle of his open palm. He screeches with pain as something cracks, and his hand – now that I get a good look at it – sticks out at an odd angle.

But my small victory doesn't last long. Broken Hand lunges forward with his still-useful hand, and he knocks my feet out from under me. I land heavily on my back on the roof of the car. I can't breathe. My shoulders and back ache. I can't mo–

With his good hand, Broken Hand grabs me and yanks me off the roof of the car, and I land on the road with a sickening thud. My skull slams into the tarmac. I can't move. Stars dance across my vision. There's not a single part of me that doesn't ache. I think I'm broken.

I can't even fight back as Broken Hand pounces on me, keeping me still with all his sixty kilo body weight. He sits right on my stomach, making it difficult to pull in deep breaths. My limbs are like jelly; I swat at Broken Hand, my attempts nothing more than an annoyance. I have no strength, nothing, and he easily knocks my hands away. Black spots crowd the corners of my vision each time I move, only to be chased away by pain.

Broken Hand tears at my clothes, incapacitated as he is. He scratches me with his dirty nails, and he grunts with the effort to rip off my jacket. He says nothing. He's entirely focussed on the task at hand, made the more difficult with his hand not working properly.

I feel sick and light-headed. I'm in so much pain it's as though there's nothing else but pain – like I've never felt love or happiness or anger or grief.

He's having no luck with my jacket. So he just shoves it open, out of the way, and attacks my shirt. My sweater is still in my pack.

I spit in his face. He slaps me across the face. I see stars again.

His hand touches my skin. It hurts to move my head in any direction, but I force myself to move. He's ripped my shirt all the way down the front, and all that protects me from him is my bra.

Broken Hand is literally drooling. Maybe I can use that to my advantage. Maybe I can somehow distract him, take his mind off–

Broken Hand is lifted off me, and as I take one large gulp of fresh air, oxygen filling my lungs in a painful movement which is the most glorious thing I've ever experienced, I watch as he's thrown over the car like a ragdoll – like he weighs nothing.

Nate stands over me, rifle in hand, Dog – where's Dog? He's not snuggled up inside his jacket.

He doesn't help me. No, Nate's gaze is riveted on something on the other side of the car. Then, he lifts his rifle, takes aim, and pulls the trigger. The lone gunshot echoes like a shout into a canyon, the sound resonating and then fading over what feels like an eternity.

I turn my head, as painful as it is, and look under the car. I can just make out, in the distance, Broken Hand's body. He doesn't move.

"Don't move," Nate says to me. His voice is very close, and I feel his hand on my shoulder, a gentle squeeze. "Pretend you're dead."