The Hand and the Hatchet

Chapter 8

His head was ringing. His lips were thick, but wet. He was on his back, on something soft, possibly a bunk. There was nothing covering his face, but he kept his eyes closed, as he could hear movement, very close. Possibly in the same room as him. He could feel a small knot appearing on his forehead, where he'd been hit. In his whole boxing career, before the world had ended, he'd never been knocked down, never mind knocked out. He cursed himself for losing. Now him and Ant were likely both dead, unless he could use his early waking to his advantage. He cracked his eyes the tiniest sliver, the world around him appearing as blobs of light. He widened them as much as he could without overtly opening them, which wasn't much. But enough that he could see a room, with a table next to him, a small one, and his legs, tangled in the covers. There was someone facing away from him by a window, on the wall parallel to the one his bed was pushed up against. It seemed to be a woman but he couldn't be sure. They looked to be fiddling with something on the sill. He sat up, silently, and slowly removed the covers. He swung his legs over the side, the bed squeaking. He winced.

"Stop moving around, kid, you're banged up as it is" The person said, quite obviously a man's voice. He had long hair, which is why Bell had thought he was a she.

He stepped off of the bed, his feet sinking a centimetre into the cheap carpet. He moved like a wraith, stood up straight, and wrapped his left arm around the mans throat. As he looked over the mans shoulder, he saw that he'd been cutting some gauze, the scissors still in his hand. He grabbed the mans hand, clutching it tightly, keeping the twin blades locked in his grip. Slowly, he wrench them closer, until the tip was only an inch from the mans throat, despite them being in his hand. He whispered in his ear.

"Shout"

"What?" The man said, breathing hard.

"Shout to your friends"

"Uh...ok.. Help!"

Bell waited in silence, holding his hostage with the scissor blades at his throat, the mans captive arm twisted painfully, their backs to the window, the door on the wall to the left of them, facing into the foot of the bed he'd been lying in. Rushed footsteps approached, and the door was thrown open. The metal handle reflected the bright sunlight from the window straight into his left eye. It seemed like there was a whole crowd in the doorway, but thy were frozen at the sight of him.

"Calm down, don't do anything stupid" A man said.

"I'm going to walk out of here. You're going to let me, or this guy is going to die. When I get far enough, I'll knock him out, and you can come and find him" Bell said, his voice hoarse. He decided to push his luck.

"And you're going to give me my stuff back. Pack, boots, everything"

Someone was coming down the hall, his ears told him, moving people out of the way. Whoever it was pushed to door open wider, and the glare disappeared, allowing him to see again. Ant stood in the doorway, in a clean shirt and jeans, his beard clipped. Two men and a woman were behind him.

"It's alright mate. Let 'im go"

Bell narrowed his eyes, not relinquishing his grip. The man he was holding exhaled deeply, and old trick in situations like this: the release of breath moved your throat away from the blade, allowing you more room to wriggle and, if necessary, fight. But Bell had seen it before. He shook the man, and then dug the scissor blade into his neck, not deep enough to hurt him, but deep enough to leave a red line across his throat.

"What the hell's going on?" He practically growled. His head was still foggy, and he was finding it difficult to focus.

"It was a misunderstandin', they didn't realise who we were"