She ripped apart her pack until she found the first-aid kit Xander had packed. His was a bit more sophisticated than the average bear’s, and was full of trauma items necessary to save a man’s life. She assessed the wound in the moonlight, listening to the man’s breaths shorten. She didn’t have much time.
She ripped a wound-seal kit from the pack. She yanked it open, pulled out the clear thick shield and slapped it over the wounds. It molded to his skin, and the horrible sucking sound from the air moving through the holes stopped. She ripped open the brown packaging of an Olaes bandage, hurriedly wrapped his chest, effectively putting a second sealed compression dressing on the open wounds. There was also a catheter and scalpel in the kit. She threw on some gloves and doused the side of Crawford’s chest in alcohol, then made a deep cut into the flesh, ignoring his high grunt of pain, and stuck her fingers in behind the scalpel to get to the right spot. Confident now, she inserted the tube into the fifth intercostal space. Blood poured from the catheter and Crawford took a huge, deep breath as his lung began to inflate.
It was a temporary fix—he needed real medical treatment, immediately, or her efforts would be in vain. She stood and looked for Xander and Roth, saw only silvery blackness. The shouts and gunshots were gone, and it was just her and Crawford—Crawford lying on the ground, going into shock, trying to stay alive.
A cloud passed across the moon and it was suddenly pitch-black. She shut her eyes for a moment then opened them, knowing they’d adjust in a few seconds.
He came out of nowhere. She didn’t hear the footsteps, just a sudden weight against her, forcing her back against a tree, his forearm to her throat. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, and started to kick, clawing at his arm with her hands. When that did nothing, she reached out for his eyes, his face, anything she could get a grip on. She connected with something, heard him gasp, then snarl, “Fucking bitch.”
His hand replaced his forearm, choking her, pressing down hard on her windpipe. She started to see stars, the edges of her vision blackening. She could see his outline now, and smell the coppery tang of fresh blood. It was Carter. At least one of Xander’s bullets had found its mark; Carter stank of blood and fear. She struggled against him but he was too strong, too big, and she was losing strength, losing her balance, her will. The bark scraped painfully against her spine, tearing the flesh, and she knew she was close to passing out.
Go limp.
It was her best friend Taylor’s voice in her head.
Go limp, and the second he shifts, jam your hand into his throat, that spot I showed you, and run like hell.
Sam sagged back against the tree, let her arms drop to her sides, deadweight against him. The sudden lack of activity made him shift his hand to get a better grip, and she lashed out like a cobra, hit him square in the windpipe with her stiff fingers. He let go, stumbled backward coughing, and she took off. She could hear him behind her, running, cursing, coughing. She veered off onto the main track. Where the hell was Xander?
She was afraid to call out, she didn’t want Carter to know where she was. She ducked under a fallen tree and froze there, a spiderweb brushing her face. She imagined small things climbing up her arms, and it was all she could do to stay planted, to stay hidden. She heard him coming, crashing through the brush, and prayed he couldn’t see her.
He stopped, growing quiet, the noises of the forest dead, too, the silence so pervasive she thought maybe he’d succeeded; maybe she was lifeless, lying at the base of that tree, and her flight was just a dream.
Then she heard him start again, slowly, carefully. Stalking her. Hunting her.
Her heart took off. She bit her teeth together so she wouldn’t cry out. She should have taken the gun Xander wanted her to carry. Stupid not to carry it on her, like he wanted. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She’d thought she was safe with him and Roth to guard her. She didn’t think Carter would come after her.
His voice was soft, cajoling, and no more than ten feet away. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Something was definitely crawling on her now, along her neck. She tried not to shudder and hoped to God whatever it was wasn’t poisonous.
“You’re a pretty little thing. You and I could have a lot to talk about. Do you believe in God, pretty thing? Have you ever given much thought to your great Creator? He made you for me, from my rib. You are imperfect. You are sin. But you can be cleansed. I can show you the way. I know things. About how the earth moves, and the stars spin. How he made them, and how we can honor him.”