theresa
he fence was high enough to be a real obstacle. I’d never climbed a fence, but what I lacked in skill, I made up for in not giving a shit. I was careful, because the chain link was wet from the rain. I got through a gap in the barbed wire right over the entrance hinge while staring into the camera because honestly, I wouldn’t trick myself into thinking I knew how to get in without anyone knowing.
I dropped onto the mud and took the gun out of my back waistband. I had no idea how many bullets I had in it. It was heavy, so I knew it wasn’t empty, but beyond that, I was at a loss. Yet another place where my instincts highlighted the gaps in my knowledge. If we lived, we were going to laugh about this.
Respira.
The rain had stopped, leaving clear air and good visibility, as little as there was. I took a deep breath and ran. It was dark as hell, and I lifted my feet to clear the mud and tree roots. I was sure I was running in the right direction. I had no cause to be sure, but I was. So I ran faster, and when I saw a dim light ahead, I knew I had been right.
Run. Run like this is the last hour of your life. Run as if there will be nothing left to run to tomorrow. Crush the ground. Pull it off its moorings. Make your mark in this world because it is your last chance. You are about to die. Take off. Fly.
My forward momentum came to an abrupt halt and my thoughts spun on their axis as I hit an obstacle full-on. A yielding obstacle that grunted. A man. I scrambled to a crouch and turned around. Unmoored, I had no idea which direction he was in. I held out my gun as if I could aim at anything but the world at large with my senses scrambled.
My legs went out from under me again, and light and dark went upside down, or right side up, and the ground hit me hard enough to push the air from my lungs.
On my back, I pointed the gun at the cloud-diffused light of the moon.
A form blocked out the light, and I heard a hammer cock.
I squeaked because it was too soon, because I had things I still had to do and I had a tiny bit of air left in my lungs with which to do them. My vocal cords engaged that last breath, and my squeak was audible.
That saved my life.
The form shifted a little, and I kept my gun on him. His face was in shadow, but I didn’t need to see the details to shoot him.
He moved his gun away from me, putting up his hands.
“Don’t shoot,” he croaked. “They’ll hear it.”
I breathed. It was a hitched inhale made with the very tops of my lungs, but I lived to breathe again. “Antonio?” I kept the gun on him, because I wasn’t sure, and the feeling of peril saturated my consciousness.
“Breathe,” he said, still struggling to speak.
I scrabbled to my feet without using my gun hand, because I didn’t trust that it was him. I didn’t trust that the sky was up and the mud was down. My finger was outside the trigger guide. I wouldn’t accidentally shoot him, but my brain had short-circuited and I wasn’t convinced I shouldn’t.
“Prove it,” I said.
I expected whoever he was to either kill me or start talking, but he didn’t. He pushed my hand out of the way and laid his lips on mine. I tasted him, the sting of burned pine and blood. The arm with the gun went around his shoulders as he owned me with his kiss. Alive. He was alive. In my arms. If we died in the next ten minutes, we would be together. My chest expanded and contracted with relief, and my breaths became short and deep while my eyes fogged with tears.
“Stop,” he said.
“How?” I took him in. No shirt. Wet skin against freezing cold. The side of his face was too dark. “What did they do to you?”
“They had no idea how fast I could run. Come on.”
He pulled me toward the gate. Behind him, voices. Yelling. Whistling.
“We’re going to run?” I said.
“We have to.”
I yanked him toward me. “Again?”
“They’ll kill you.”
“How many bullets are in this gun?”