What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

I keep my pace slow and fast at the same time – if that's even possible – as I weave my way through the tall grass, sweat trickling down my back and neck. There are few trees here, so I duck down, keeping my sore back hunched, so I don't stand out too much – just in case someone might be watching.

Staying hunched over is as awkward as it is to look at. My shoulder is a constant ache, as is my back, and they throb in time to the crickets who stop singing when I get too close. And it's also ridiculously hard to tromp through the tall grass when I'm hunched over and trying to lift my knees as high as possible so I can navigate easier. I keep almost kneeing myself in the chin, like any good person would do when they're trying to get through a sea of tall grass while at the same time trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Well-planned, you idiot.

The streets of the town are wide and full of debris and broken-down cars, each hollowed-out, missing bits and pieces. Rubbish is strewn everywhere, and amongst it all, lying by overturned bins and abandoned tyres and roadblock signs, are the bodies. Some are covered in blankets, some only partially, but most are uncovered, left to the elements. All I can smell is death and decay, of things gone off and bad.

Nate's shirt provides little help in blocking the smells. I gag as I duck into a nearby building, sleeve to mouth and nose, hoping to find some refuge away from the heat and the stench.

I climb the dark stairs, hoping the higher I go, the more likely I'll be able to escape it. No such luck. There are corpses piled in a corner of the one giant room of this floor, and above, there's a huge hole where the ceiling used to be. The sun pours in, ready to melt the skin off my bones.

Sweat pours down me as if I've decided to shower in it. I can't find a release, not in the horrible, cloying stench of the dead bodies or the constant heat that's like a relentless barrage.

Only when I step further into the room do I realise something's wrong – besides what I already know. My foot catches on something, I think a wire, and rips it from its place at the top of the stairs. I wait for it, for the moment my legs are blown off, but it doesn't happen. Instead, there's a distant rumble from down below, and the entire building shakes.

I rush to the nearest, now non-existent window. Grey smoke billows from down below, and in the distance, approaching from the settlement, are three men, all wielding semi-automatics. I need to get out of here.

Their voices catch on the lone breeze that floats this way, and I know they know that something bigger than a mere animal has set off their trap. They know there's a human up here.

So I do what any good, cornered person would do in this situation: I note the distance between this building and the one next to it, climb out the window, take a deep breath, and leap.

My fingers grasp the window ledge just as my body collides with the bricks. My shoulder screams, and my back throbs in agony from the impact and the movement, and for a split second, I think it might be easier to just let go so the pain will go away.

But I don't. I haul myself up, ignoring my extensive list of injuries, and I awkwardly scramble through the window and into the building. I collapse beneath it, back pressed against the cool bricks, my breathing ragged, my body sore. I spare a glance at my shoulder, which is nothing but a giant spot of blood against the blue material of Nate's shirt. I also wedge a hand between my back and the wall, and massage the spot underneath my pack.

I can hear the footsteps pounding up the stairs in the building next door. I can hear the thrum of voices, all male, as they talk amongst themselves and wonder what or who set off their trap. And then–

Jumping up from my spot against the wall right below the window, I turn and focus on the fingers that now grip the windowsill in the exact same manner I had moments before.

One of the men in the building next door spots me, but oddly, doesn't raise his gun. He shouts, maybe a warning, maybe instructions, I don't know; my blood pounds in my ears as I pull my knife from my boot and slash superficial wounds into the knuckles of the man who's trying to gain entry to this building through the window.

Gunshots pepper the back wall, the windowsill, the bricks; the only sound that breaks up the constant barrage of pop pop pop pop are the shouts of the man who I'd slashed as he loses his grip and falls. I reclaim my former position beneath the window and wait, to see what their next move will be. I put my knife back in my boot.

The gunfire finally stops.

"Surround her!" someone shouts. "Do not go through that window!"

I can hear the footsteps pounding the stairs again, but they move further away as they move downwards. Whichever way they look at it, I have the advantage. And I do just that by moving out of the room, past all the trash and debris and bodies and spoiled food to the top of the staircase, where I wait for the first man to enter. I remove my handgun from my waistband.

It takes a while for him to come into view, his head slowly appearing through the window by the front door. Judging by the height of the window, he must be crouching down. It doesn't matter. I take the shot, which reverberates through the narrow space like an explosion. It misses the man by inches, the bullet hitting the windowsill right in front of his face. But it doesn't matter.

A hand grabs my throat and another wraps around my chest from behind, dragging me backwards and away from the stairs.

The man below was simply a decoy. And I played right into it. But I'm not going to play this game right through to the end. Actually, no, I am going to play, but by my rules.

He keeps pulling me backwards, and I realise quickly that this is to accommodate his colleague, who I know will come bounding up the stairs any second. So I help the man dragging me backward drag me backward by pushing off from the ground with my boots. This puts him slightly off balance, which is more than enough time for me to act.

I drive my elbow into his gut, which loosens his hold on both my throat and chest. I slip free from his grip and move to stand behind him, just as the guy from downstairs reaches the top. His finger's already on the trigger, despite him having the split second to realise that his friend stands between me and him.

The man who initially grabbed me takes the brunt of the bullets, five rounds fired into his chest and stomach. It takes me all but five seconds to slip my arm under his, through the gap below his armpit, to fire a single shot that hits my attacker low in the gut.

They both collapse within seconds of one another, blood rapidly pooling on the floor between them.

The guy I hit in the gut groans from his position on the floor, blood spilling past his fingers as he tries to contain it. I put him out of his misery, because there's nothing worse than delaying the inevitable.

Then I remember the other guy, the one who fell from the window. I dash over to the other side of the room and peer over the edge, but he's long gone. If the fall hasn't broken his back, it would've at least broken his legs – which means he's crawling his way back to the settlement. Either way, I need to get the hell out of here.

I dash down the stairs, careful not to trip anymore wires. Then I dash across the wide street, where I'm out in the open for much longer than I'd necessarily like.

I don't see the man that fell from the window. He's gone, most likely back to the settlement to report that I'm coming.