Someone said they couldn't see the chapter, so I republished it. Hopefully this will help. :)
I clutch the Glock in my hands as if it's my lifeline. Oh wait, it is.
He's still coming, slowly but steadily. I take my eyes off him long enough to glance up at Gross-Beard, who doesn't even notice his (I assume) prisoner is escaping.
It's completely dark outside now. Oh, if only there were a window in this bathroom, I could totally get away.
Brad and Greasy are still punching each other, yelling more insults than I knew even existed. Educational.
The prisoner is scooting closer, closer, closer....
"Hey!" Baldy, who was on the far side of the room, looking through boxes, stomps toward us, "He's awake."
The prisoner gets on his hands and knees, keeps moving, scrambles to his feet, starts running toward my door. Gross-Beard lunges forward and socks the guy in the ear, "I don't think so."
The prisoner falls to his knees, blood starting to trickle out of his ear. I cover my mouth with my hand. The prisoner is so close, he could hear me breathe. He's staring right at the crack between door and frame, almost like he can see me.
Brad and Greasy stop fighting. Eye-Patch and Dreads come back into view. Gross-Beard grabs the guy's arms and drags him into the middle of the room, holding a pistol to his head.
"So," Gross-Beard addresses his group, who has gathered in a circle around him and the prisoner, "Should I just shoot this bastard," he presses the gun deeper into the prisoner's temple, the prisoner wincing, trying to free his arms from Gross-Beard's grasp, "Or should we get some information out of him?"
"Information," Dreads says, and the others agree.
Gross-Beard hands his gun to Baldy, then grabs hold of the prisoner's shaggy black hair, and yanks his head up. "Where's your camp?" Shaggy doesn't answer. Gross-Beard thunders the question again, pulling the hair more.
When Shaggy still doesn't answer, Gross-Beard throws him onto the floor and proceeds to hit him in the teeth and kick him in the stomach. Shaggy stands on all fours, wheezing. Blood and saliva leak from his mouth, he's coughing, and I think one of his top teeth is missing. Gross-Beard grabs him by the hair again, yanks him around to face everyone, crouches down beside him and gets in his face. "Where is your camp? Is that what you were doing, going through our stuff? Getting supplies for your camp?"
Shaggy, his teeth pink with blood, laughs. It's not exactly one of those creepy, nut-case laughs from horror movies, but it's not pleasant, either.
Apparently the laughing angers Gross-Beard, because he starts beating Shaggy up again. This continues for who knows how long, Shaggy holding up pretty well, but even I can see he's getting weaker. Finally, they just fling him over by my door. Baldy says they'll finish him in a minute.
Shaggy's lying unconscious right below me. I crouch down to get a closer look at him. His whole face is covered in blood – I'm pretty sure they broke his nose – and he is missing a tooth. But from what I can tell, he's not much older than me.
All of a sudden, his eyes abruptly open, and look right into mine. I back away from the door, gasping. I'm against the far wall when he's pushing the door open and crawling in.
I hear Eye-Patch say something, then Dreads says, "Don't worry, I checked the outside, there ain't no other way outta there."
"We'll just bring him back out later," Baldy says.
Shaggy closes the door behind him. Completely ignoring me, he starts untying his left boot. I stare at him from my place against the wall, the Glock held out in front of me, aimed at his head. I can barely see him in the darkness. He continues to untie his boot, until he pulls a pocket knife from his sock.
My eyes widen, and I grip the Glock tighter. "I will shoot you." I manage to whisper.
He acknowledges me for the first time since entering my hiding place. "There's no need for that," he whispers back, "We both want the same thing."
I don't answer, just keep staring at him, wishing I was back in my shack in the woods.
"We both wanna get outta here alive," he says, opening the pocket knife, "You will shoot them?"
Who is he to think he can just come in here and instantly earn my trust? "I don't know you." Duh. I'm so stupid. He doesn't know me either! But then again, I haven't had a conversation with anyone but myself for eight months, so...saying dumb things is fine, I guess.
"But you do need me," He says, turning back to the door. He reaches up to the knob and cracks the door, just barely.
"There're six 'em," He whispers to me after he closes the door again.
"I know," my reply is barely audible, "So we have no chance. We will die."
He looks at me for a moment before saying, "You're alone, aren't you?"
I tighten my grip further still on the Glock. "So?"
"You may be able to die without any consequences, but I can't. I have to get out of here."
We stare at each other.
"I'm gonna at least try," he says determinedly.
Well, I don't really have anything to lose. Except my life. But I'm going to die eventually anyway, one way or another. But this is not the way I wanted to.
I hear the group's voices rising again, loud footsteps coming toward our door. Shaggy raises his finger to his lips, and slowly he rises to his feet. The doorknob turns, the door opens, the light from the big room spills in, onto me.
"Hey, look a –" Greasy is cut off by a knife to the neck. I gasp as he falls forward, into the bathroom, blood spewing from the wound. Shaggy yells at me to get up, and I run over to him, the Glock still clutched in my hands.
"Start shooting," he says, daring to peer around the door. I peep around and see Gross-Beard holding his pistol high, the rest of the scum standing around, their guns aimed at us as well.
"But I...." I desperately think of an excuse, "I'm a terrible shot."
Shaggy takes the Glock from me and shoves the knife into my hands, "Fine."
He pulls the magazine out of the grip, "How many bullets?"
"Four," I say, now ashamed at how many I wasted on dead things that were trapped and couldn't have attacked anyone.
"Damn," he mutters as he pushes the magazine back in. He pulls back the slide, and I hear the bullet click into place. "Look, I'll keep 'em occupied, and you run. Stab if necessary."
I nod, fear gnawing at me. I could die. He could die. The last live human on earth could die, and the world would just belong to the dead things. Maybe I'll be reincarnated as a dragonfly. Or a cat.
Without another word, he steps into the light, aims, and shoots once. Three bullets left. The scum all yell and duck, and while they're not shooting, I run for the door, to freedom. Eye-Patch lays on the ground, his head in a puddle of blood. Shaggy shoots again. Two bullets. I'm almost outside.
Lots of gunshots ring out. I scream and fling myself closer to the door. Shaggy's probably dead. The goons will be after me in no time. Someone grabs my shoulder. They pull me around. Baldy is practically drooling in my face. I stab his hand, and he yells. I run. And keep running until I reach the woods on the other side of the road.
And there I wait, listening to the gunshots, my face buried in my hands, not knowing why I don't just run some more. But I guess a part of me has to know if Shaggy gets out alive. And he also has my gun, so if he is alive, I kind of need it back.
+++++
Shaggy comes crashing into the woods, right toward me, screaming at me to run. I jump up from my knees and run, further into the woods with no idea of where I'm going. I can hear Shaggy running behind me. His breaths are coming fast and shallow. I'm crying, branches are slapping my face, scratching my cheeks, narrowly missing my eyes. Why am I crying? Well, I was almost killed, so...yeah.
Eventually I have to stop. It isn't until I do that I realize Shaggy isn't right behind me anymore. Oh God, have the foul-mouthed scum-suckers caught up with us? Did they kill him? Will I die after all?
I hear running, am prepared to stab whoever is coming after me. I don't breathe. Shaggy appears, panting. I let my arm drop to my side. But what if Shaggy is crazy, too? I hold the knife tightly, and stay ready to stab if necessary. He was probably just using me for his own benefit, and now he'll try to kill me and take my supplies.
He sinks down onto a stump, breathing heavily. He's coughing, covering his mouth with the inside of his elbow. He's still got my Glock. Before I even have to ask for it back, he holds it out toward me in the palm of his hand. I quickly snatch it from him and shove it in the waistband of my jeans.
"No....bullets...." he tells me, still coughing, trying to catch his breath.
Great. Now I have to go try to find some more. I've already had to a few times, of course. He stops coughing and spits on the ground, starts wiping his mouth vigorously. He spits again.
Finally he looks at me. I'm still holding his knife. I fold the blade back in. Should I give it to him? Or will he be insane and try to stab me with it? I stare at it as it rests in the blood-covered palm of my hand.
"Got food?" He asks me, standing.
Should I answer? He's probably going to kill me now and take all my stuff. Great.
"Could you spare some?" He comes and takes his knife out of my hand. Oh God, please don't kill me! But he just slides it into the back pocket of his jeans.
"My sister needs it," He says, while I stare at his arm, which is covered in blood. I don't know if it's his blood, or one of the scum's.
"Just enough for her?" he pleads. Look man, I barely have enough for myself, let alone your sister!
"No," I say, though I feel awful.
"She's starving."
"Well so am I," I snap, "And what's so special about your sister, anyway?"
He runs a hand through his hair, "She's only ten years old. And she's sick."
I feel like a monster now. But he's probably lying, and I have to remember that.
"So can you please just – "
I shake my head. "No, I'm sorry. Goodbye." I start to walk away. And he doesn't stop me. I keep walking. And I don't look back, though guilt is practically eating me alive.