What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

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.