When one loses his grip on a corner, everyone freezes.
For a few heartbeats, they all stare at the man who lost his grip. I can almost smell their fear.
They all exchange glances as if confirming that they’re all still here. Then they continue their sideways crab-walking toward the truck.
I guess the things stored in that room had more bang than venison and guns.
I try to go talk to Obi, but a camouflaged chest blocks my way. When I look up, the guard who caught us last night, Boden, glares down at me.
“Get back to your washing, woman.”
“Are you kidding me? What century are you from?”
“This century. This is the new reality, sweet cheeks. Accept it before I cram it down your throat.” His eyes drop meaningfully to my mouth. “Deep and hard.”
I can practically smell the lust and violence on him.
A needle of fear spikes in my chest. “I need to talk to Obi.”
“Yeah, you and every other chick in camp. I got your Obi right here.” He grabs himself between his legs and sort of shakes it up and down like he is shaking hands with his dick. Then he leans his face down close to mine and wiggles his tongue in an obscene gesture so close to me that that I can feel his spittle.
That needle of fear punctures my lungs and all the air seems to go out of me. But the anger that swamps it is a tsunami taking over every cell in my body.
Here is the embodiment of the very thing that had me crawling from car to car, hiding and freezing at the slightest sound, scampering in the shadows like an animal, desperate with worry that someone like him will catch me, my sister, my mother. Here is the bigger, stronger attitude that had the nerve to steal my sister, a helpless, sweet little girl. Here is the thing literally blocking me from rescuing her.
“What did you just say to me?” The girl who used to be civilized and polite just had to give him a second chance.
“I said—.”
I slam the heel of my hand into his nose. I don’t just do it with my arm. The force comes all the way from my hips as I launch my whole body into the strike.
I feel the nose smash under my onslaught. Even better, he’d started to do that obscene gesture with his tongue again and it smashes between his teeth as his head whiplashes back, spraying blood from his bit tongue.
Sure, I’m pissed off. But my actions are not entirely without thought. I might regularly open my mouth without thinking, but I never start a fight without consulting my brain. For this one, I figured I’d won as soon as I made the first move. Intimidation tactics like his are common among bullies. The smaller, weaker opponent is supposed to cringe and back off.
My quick calculation went something like this: he’s a foot taller and wider than me, a trained soldier, and I’m a girl. If I had been a man, people might let us fight it out. But people tend to believe that when a girl hits a big guy with a gun looming over her, it must be in self-defense. With all these macho men milling about, I give it about ten seconds before someone breaks up our fight.
So without much harm, I’d win the battle because: one, I’d get Obi’s attention, which was what I was trying to do in the first place; two, I’d humiliate Knuckle Brain by showing everybody what kind of a girl-intimidating bully he is; and three, I’d make my point that I’m not easy pickin’s.
What I don’t count on is how much damage Boden can do in ten seconds.
He spends a few seconds staring at me in shock and gathering his fury.
Then he slams an SUV of a punch across my jaw.
Then he hurls his body into me.
I land on my back, trying desperately to catch my breath through the talons of pain gripping my lungs and face. By the time he sits on top of me, I figure I have about two seconds left. Maybe a really fast, chivalrous soldier out there would beat my estimate. Maybe Raffe is already leaping to get this gorilla off me.
Boden grabs the neck of my sweatshirt with one fist and cocks the other for another smash. Okay, I just need to survive this punch, then someone is bound to reach us.
I grab the pinkie of the hand on my sweatshirt and give it the hardest twist I can, flipping it all the way over.
It’s a little known fact that where the pinkie goes, so goes the hand, wrist, arm, and body. Otherwise, something breaks along the way. He jerks with it, gritting his teeth and twisting his body to follow the pinkie.
That’s when I catch a glimpse of the people around us.
I was beginning to think this camp had the slowest soldiers in history. But I was wrong. A surprising number of people made it to the fight in record time. The only problem is that they’re acting like kids in a schoolyard—running to watch the fight rather than to break it up.
My surprise costs me. Boden jams his elbow into my right breast.