“I-I don’t belong to you,” I stuttered. “I-I’m supposed to become Rafe’s wife. If you touch me—”
The brute tapped the rounded head of the crowbar he’d used to break the locked door open with, against his camouflaged pants. “You’re to become my wife,” he growled, still coming toward me. “I was next on the list, and I won’t have some pussy soldier like Hunt cutting in front of me in line.”
“But Rafe—”
“Fuck Rafe!” the brute barked.
And then he grabbed me, and my own scream deafened me.
ATTICUS
I had two backpacks—one hung from my shoulder, the other I carried in my hand—full of supplies I’d hidden in various places throughout the city. It was late morning, around three a.m., and I was on my way to see Peter Whitman when while passing down an alley to avoid the patrols, I noticed I was being followed. A mass of shadows all grouped together moved along the wall of the brick building behind me. Voices carried on the air lowly.
I felt my legs swell with energy and I picked up the pace. I swung the other backpack on the opposite shoulder, and then reached behind me, pulling my gun from the back of my pants. Small lights cast by makeshift street lanterns shone out ahead, and just beyond them I could see the building where Peter lived. But when another mass of shadows grew largely against the asphalt in front of me, I knew I wouldn’t make it that far.
“Atticus Hunt,” a voice taunted; a small group of six men replaced the shadows and stepped out from the side of the building.
I turned to place the face with the voice, and I counted five more men blocking the path behind me—fuck.
I straightened my back and rounded my chin to show them I was not to be intimidated, though deep down, I was. Eleven men against one; possibly two bullets in my gun—my chances of making it out of this alive were slim. I had, in fact, killed eighteen men in a single night with my bare hands, but this was different—this was so very different. And yet, all I could think about was helping that girl, making good on my promise, finding absolution for all the fucked-up things I had done. And for failing my mother and sisters.
You’re gonna get yourself shanked in an alley somewhere. Wolf’s words rang true in my head as I looked up at the tall building walls on both sides of me—I was a fish in a barrel.
I removed both bags from my shoulders and set them on the concrete by my boots.
“A bunch of weak cowards,” I said boldly, looking to my left and right as the men advanced from both sides. “Can’t fight me on your own? I guess I can’t say I expected anything else.”
The men were not deterred.
“You’ve worn out your welcome,” the man who had called out my name before said. “And we heard on the grapevine something about you becoming the new Overseer when Rafe’s promoted to General.” He made a tsk-tsk noise with his mouth, and his index finger rocked side to side in a punishing fashion. “Now, I’m sorry but that just ain’t gonna work. Because, we have needs”—he pointed at me—“and you pose a threat to those needs.”
The man, with buzzed blonde hair, stepped right up to me. “What is it with you anyway?” He grinned impishly. “You like men or somethin’? You never take a wife. You’re always up there in that whore’s room at the brothel, always the same whore—I bet you’re not even fuckin’ her, are ya? I bet it’s all just for show.” He raised both hands out at his sides, a big slippery smile stretching his features, and then he dropped his hands and clasped his fingers around the button on his pants. Laughter sounded all around me. “If that’s the kind of thing you like”—he slid his zipper down—“I’d be happy to bend you over by the dumpster over there.”
The butt of my gun rammed into the man’s face and the crowd exploded in retaliation.
Fists were flying at me from all directions; shouts and grunts and curses filled my ears, closing in on me as the men tackled me like football players. Rapid, white-hot pains seared through my head simultaneously, and I felt the gun fall from my hand. Another set of knuckles crashed against one side of my head; black spots sprang in front of my eyes.
Reaching for any body part I could, I held on tight and brought one soldier down with me; my hands were around the man’s throat; choking noises were barely audible in the scuffle over the sound of boots shuffling against the concrete, fists making contact with flesh, and the ringing inside my ears. I somehow pushed several men off me and stood my ground. I swung out, knocking one man down; I swung out again and a tooth went flying through the air; I swung out once more and brought another man to his knees; I kicked outward and heard ribs cracking underneath my boot.
But then the world spun when my feet came out from underneath me. Blood sprang up in my mouth when my face hit the concrete. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I could hear nothing anymore other than the hammering of boots knocking against my ribs and my arms and my legs and my head and my back—thump-thump-thud-thump-thump-thump! The beating seemed to go on forever, the pain unimaginable as I lay curled in a ball on the warm street, trying to cover myself from the blows, my cheek soaking up the heat from the asphalt.
Then everything stopped.
The air around me gradually became cooler as the group backed away. Blood pooled on the concrete around my mouth. My left eye felt swollen like a balloon; the right one stung as if a piece of rock or glass from the street was wedged behind the lid. My lips felt slimy and cracked. My ribs and my back and my tailbone felt like they’d all been singled out and beat upon with a fucking hammer.
The blonde-haired man crouched in front of me; the rancid smell of breath and body odor swirled around me like a fresh pile of shit.
“Courtesy of Private Masters and Private Bell,” he said.
Private Bell, I recalled the rapist—I knew sooner or later I’d pay for letting that girl shoot him.
Spit hit my face and ran down my neck.
Still reeling from the pain in my ribs, I tried desperately to move, to raise myself from the street; my eyes were clenched shut as the pain traveled through every limb. Behind me somewhere I heard the men talking, and what sounded like items from the backpacks being rummaged and thrown on the ground.
“Looks like he was planning on going somewhere, after all,” one man said.
“They were right,” said another.
Clink, clank, thump, crash—everything that had been packed inside the backpacks was tossed.
I finally got to my knees, both arms braced across my midsection, and I raised my eyes just as the group of soldiers slipped around the corner and out of sight.
I was alone. But I was alive.