I wake with a start, out of breath, disoriented. I'm grabbed around the middle and a hand presses against my mouth, my nose, and I can't breathe, I can't move, I can't do anything.
I'm lost, confused, all over the place. The only thing I register is the smell, and the scratchy voice that whispers in my ear.
"Looks like I got meself a pretty little slut." For a male, the voice is high pitched. His breath hits my neck and reaches my nostrils in no time; it's repulsive, and I know he's even more so without having to look at him. I can sense it; just like I can from the three other males that stand before me in a semi-circle, watching, hungry, ready to eat me alive.
The man pulls me to my feet, his hand still over my mouth and part of my nose. Nate's nowhere to be seen, neither is Dog; but his pack is still here, as is mine. His rifle's missing.
"Search her stuff," Scratchy Voice says, and he presses into me, copping a quick feel of my body through my clothes. I feel sick.
One of his sidekicks moves beyond us to where I'd been sleeping, and I can hear him rummaging through my stuff.
I take a deep breath and will myself not to close my eyes – as much as I don't want to be here, or see what's in front of me, as soon as I shut my eyes it's almost like an open invitation for defeat. They'll pounce if they see any sign of weakness or vulnerability.
Scratchy here cops another feel as he pats me down, searching for any concealed weapons. He finds my handgun, which he promptly tosses to one of his cohorts, who's nothing short of wrapped up in what's going on. His eyes never leave me, like he can see straight through my clothes and to the bare skin beneath.
"Okay boys – what do we do first? Play with our food then eat, or just kill the dumb bitch?"
I was joking when I said they looked hungry. I thought they were just hungry for a bit of side action, not them wanting to actually eat me. I'm in much deeper shit than I first thought.
"Why don't we put it to a vote?" one of the others asks. "Majority rules."
They're all haggard and dirty with broken and missing teeth. Their clothing are different shades of brown – like they've never been washed in seven years. They're covered head-to-toe in mud, their clothes have holes and rips, their hair is lank and long; open sores cover every inch of skin visible.
"I say we have some fun with her first," Scratchy Voice says, and he inhales deeply, his fingers in my hair, his face right by my own. "See if her body is as pretty as her face–"
I reach behind me and grab him by the balls – and squeeze as hard as I can. He howls with pain as he releases me, so I elbow him in the face while he's preoccupied.
He collapses like a sack of potatoes, blood streaming from his face, and like a deer caught in headlights, the three other men stare at me, unmoving, like they can't believe what just happened.
I bolt through the trees, heading for the highway. The little light streaming through the trees indicates it's early morning, but it's enough to guide me over the uneven ground and through the underbrush.
There's shouting from behind me, followed by a gunshot. They've got my rifle and handgun. I don't dare look over my shoulder; I keep my eyes fixed ahead and on the ground so I don't trip and fall over.
That happens anyway, because I'm tackled to the ground. The air gets knocked from my lungs as I fall on my side, and hands scrabble to get some kind of purchase on me. I flail and kick and punch, and soon I'm free. I push to my feet and don't look back.
I continue to head for the highway, pushing myself to outrun those men. I can hear the guy chasing me, and his huffs and pants are loud – too close. So when I finally make it to the highway and burst out onto the road through the trees, I run towards the nearest car, my footsteps light and sure on the tarmac.
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."
Then I hear him run off. I don't move my head, not to look at the sky, not to watch it slowly turn to a brilliant blue, or to see the sun ascend to reach its peak high above. No, I keep my eyes on the body I can just make out between the underside of the car and the road. I know he's dead. I know blood pools around his body. I can picture a hole in his head, right between the eyes. I can picture a huge hole in his chest, where his heart used to be. I can imagine his brain splattered all over the road, attracting flies and other insects.
There's shouting in the distance, there are multiple gunshots. I still don't move. I let the gentle breeze caress my exposed skin, I let it skim and dance and kiss, to blow away all of what nearly happened to me. I let the sun rain down on me, let my skin soak up its warmth.
Gravel digs into my cheek and my palms, but I stay frozen, like a mannequin, as I try to let my body recover. I still ache, and the back of my skull throbs, as does my cheek where I was slapped, but with enough time I'll have the energy to move again.
I guess now's a good time to think about mortality. How many close calls have I had? Is my time finally starting to run out?
I've been reckless, careless, stupid. As much as I want sleep, and as much as I need sleep, I need to go back to sleeping spontaneously and when I can – I can't have myself sleeping for long periods of time like a normal, pre-end of the world girl could. No, I can only have short bouts here and there. Otherwise there'll be a repeat of this morning – or right now, I should say. The only reason I'm here now, breathing, alive, is because of luck. Sheer dumb luck.
I don't want to die. As much as I want to see my family again, I don't want to just yet. I want to live. As shitty as this world is now, I want to live in it. When my time is up, I will accept it. But I will go down fighting, and I will not go down easily. I will kick, scream, punch, claw. I will rip someone's eyes out if I have to.
The concrete hurts my head, more than my actual skull does. So I sit up, very slowly, to keep my head from spinning. But my vision blurs, black spots clouding the corners of my eyes. The pain's not so bad now; it lingers, but it's dulled.
I groan as I slide myself sideways, my body protesting the movement. I grit my teeth, wanting to spit out every single profanity I know. I don't. I don't want to speak. I want to listen – even if the only sounds are my grunts and groans.
The world is silent. There's no more shouting, no more gunshots. There's nothing but the singing crickets, a constant barrage of sound in the middle of summer. I can already feel the temperature rising. If Nate's not back in five minutes, I'm going exploring.
He doesn't come back in my allotted timeframe. I take a deep, steadying breath, count to three, before I use the car as leverage to help me get to my feet. My head still spins, but every other ache and pain and throb has nullified. Thank you sweet Jesus.
The car is a steady anchor as I search the area I've ended up in. Hand above my eyes to shield my gaze from the sun, I can't see anything that might pose as a threat. I see and hear nothing. It's just me. On my own. Again.
Nate bursts from the trees just as I think this. He has Dog with him, thank god, the puppy happy to be on a leash because that means he gets to explore. But Nate tugs him along as he approaches me, closing the distance between us within seconds.
I watch him, unsure how to proceed. He just left me here, without an explanation. He had no idea if I was hurt, or dying. He left me alone and allowed me to get ambushed.
All this anger I didn't realise I'd been holding in explodes to the surface; it's a surprise my skin doesn't glow or turn red. So when he shrugs off his rifle and pack, takes off his jacket and strips off his shirt to give to me, I push him back.
"Don't touch me!" I snap.
Nate has the nerve to look wary, like he's approaching an injured animal. "Charli, let me help you–"
"I don't need your help!"
"At least put my shirt on."
"Oh, so now you want to help me?"
I will bring the sarcasm whenever the opportunity arises. I will fight tooth and nail and have sarcasm as my back up.
"Where do you think I've been?" Nate demands.
"Oh, I don't know, wandering the woods and being totally oblivious like you always are?"
"I was in those woods–" He gestures behind him, in the direction of where he'd come from, where I'd come from– "I was in those woods killing those fucking pricks that wanted to cut you up into little pieces. I made sure they wouldn't come after you."
"And while you were doing that you just left me out in the middle of the road, possibly bleeding out!"
"I knew you weren't dead," Nate says. "I touched your shoulder. I could feel–"
I slap him. "Fuck you."
An overwhelming sense to cry hits me like a freight train, right in the gut. I'm surprised I'm not keeling over from the sensation. Tears form at the corners of my eyes, and my throat contracts, making it hard to breathe and swallow.
Nate watches me. "Charli."
I slap him again. "Do not – don't touch me," I say, and I hate that my voice trembles, that I now breathe huge, rattling breaths. I slowly back away from him as he starts to blur around the edges. "Do not come near me."
He does approach, and though I beat him back, though I push and shove and punch, he keeps coming. He wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace, and just like that, I crumble. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs escape me, and I tremble, unsteady on my feet.
Nate keeps a tight hold on me, holding me to him, his touch both painful and comforting. We somehow end up on the ground, Nate leaning against the side of the car, me in his arms, face pressed to his chest. He just holds me, silent, and I'm thankful for that. I'm glad he doesn't try to soothe me with stupid, meaningless jargon.
And he holds me, a strong and steady anchor, his arm helping to nestle me against him, like I'm too fragile for this world. This is what I need. A warm body to hold me. A warm body to comfort me when I need it. A warm body to borrow strength from, when I have none.
Nate runs calloused but gentle fingers through my hair. Then he leans forward until his lips are right by my ear and whispers, "I've got you."
And I've never been so sure of something in my life.