His body seemed to remain standing in the deafening noise of John’s gun.
One man left.
Georgia was about to do the same with her rifle. She was bringing it around.
But before she could, the man threw himself on top of her.
He did it as if he were a track and field athlete, making a crazy jump forward across the finish line, trying desperately to win the race, to break the record, to attain glory for himself despite the imminent threat of physical harm.
Georgia grunted as he fell on top of her.
He was heavy. The sharp parts of his body dug into her flesh. Sharp pain.
The impact of his heavy body knocked the breath right out of her.
She dropped her own gun. Simply let it go. It wasn’t going to do her any good. It was too long.
Georgia didn’t know where his gun had gone. Had he dropped it as he’d jumped on her?
His hands and arms were moving around. He was trying to get them into position.
Georgia’s hands were pinned down underneath him, against her belly.
Her leg was still throbbing and shooting pain. It made her feel weaker.
But even if she’d had her own strength, she didn’t know if it would have been enough.
Georgia tried bringing her knee up, to hit him in the crotch, but he blocked it, tightening his legs together.
With a flourish, he suddenly brought his hands up and out.
The next thing he did was wrap them around her neck.
They were strong hands. Wiry. Long fingers.
He had a good grip.
She used the only weapon she had left. Her teeth.
She lunged forward, chomping down on his neck as hard as she could.
He yelled in pain. A high-pitched wail.
But he didn’t release her.
“John!” screamed Georgia. “Do something!”
She could barely get the words out. And when they came out, they sounded garbled. She didn’t feel like she had much time left.
There wasn’t much air in her lungs.
She was already out of breath. Already feeling like she was suffocating.
The hands weren’t tightening around her neck, because they were already as tight as they could get.
She tried to speak more. She tried to shout. She tried to cry for help.
But no sound came out.
Where was John?
She could hear something. Some kind of scuffle. Some muffled shouts. She couldn’t see what was happening.
As so often had happened in Georgia’s life for one reason or another, it was up to her again.
If she was going to survive, she was going to have to make it happen. And it didn’t matter whether she had pain or whether she was weak.
She’d either find a way to live.
Or she’d die.
She probably had mere seconds left.
Her vision was funny. Black around the edges.
Strange flashes of light in her field of vision, as if she was staring down the end of a flashlight.
The pain in her leg had gone. Vanished. Her body was focusing only on the absolute essentials. With mere seconds left to live, what did it matter if her leg hurt or not?
There wasn’t much point in her leg sending those pain signals.
She didn’t know what she did.
Later, she couldn’t remember.
She couldn’t distinguish between the different parts of her body.
It was as if everything simply acted together. In complete unison.
She threw herself forward.
All her strength. All her power.
She knocked into him.
Hard.
The hands released themselves.
Georgia’s hands were going wild. Looking for something.
For some weapon.
Her knife was on her belt. She went for it.
But something was in the way.
She was gasping for breath. Still felt like she was unable to breathe.
But she couldn’t let that stop her from killing this man.
He needed to die.
Fast.
It was an animalistic struggle.
She barely knew where she was or where he was.
Their bodies were still twined together. Mostly on their sides. Moving constantly. A constant struggle. Impossible to tell exactly what was what, or where it all was.
Her hand found something. Something hard.
Probably a rock. Hopefully a rock
Georgia didn’t waste time wondering about it. She swung.
Swung hard.
It smashed into his skull.
Blood everywhere. The bone caved in, like pieces of shattered peanut brittle.
Brains oozing.
His body went limp, fell away from hers.
Georgia’s eyes darted over to John. Now she could see him, without the body in the way.
There was another man.
Had she miscounted? Had they sent someone else?
The two figures were barely distinguishable. It looked more like a single animal creature that was fighting itself, tearing itself apart, biting itself.
The one part of the “creature” that Georgia could really identify as belonging definitely to John was his broken, busted leg that stuck way out, the bone clearly visible.
He must have been in so much pain.
But it didn’t stop him from fighting.
They were biting each other. Deep bites that drew blood and tore flesh. Not the sort of bites that kids used when they were mad. No, these were animal bites, the type that a wild animal would use when fighting for its life. Human teeth may not have been primarily a weapon, but they worked pretty well. They could do some damage.
Georgia had her options. Her rifle. Her hands. Her knife. The rock.
Each had advantages and disadvantages.
She managed to stand up. Walk forward a little, slowly, limping.
Her leg was going to be a problem on the way back to camp. Better worry about that later. For now, she could manage to stand up. She could grit her teeth through the pain.
If she used the gun, she might kill John.
If she used her knife, she also might kill John. But the chances were lower.
No reason to think about it too much.
Her hand went to her knife. Fingers wrapped around the handle.
She threw herself forward, down onto the man, striking with her knife at the same time, plunging it into the middle of his back.
He let out a noise. A squeak. A squeal of pain.
John grunted.
Georgia’s leg flared with pain and gave out. She tumbled down, falling too heavily to the ground.
22
Max’s leg was killing him.
He and Wilson were both covered in sweat. They’d been walking, or hiking, at a fast pace for the better part of five hours.
They knew that they were being followed.
They knew that the enemy wasn’t that far behind.
Occasionally, a gunshot would echo through the area. Occasionally, a bullet would lodge itself int he ground near them.
But neither had been hit. Not yet.
“How far away are they?” said Max, breathless, panting as he spoke.
His hand was sweaty, and he had to make sure to keep a good grip on his gun as he walked.
Wilson was walking a little bit behind Max. They had been switching positions, and eventually Max had overtaken him.
It wasn’t that Max wanted to expose Wilson to more danger. But it was that without Max pushing them to go faster and faster, Wilson would have lagged behind.
“Half a mile, maybe,” said Wilson. He sounded more out of breath than Max. Much more out of breath.
“You still think it’s Grant himself?”
“No doubt.”
“With the others?”
“The crack squad, yeah.”
“So the first group… they’re…”
“…off in some other direction, most likely.”
“So how many are we dealing with?”