A rivulet of blood drips back in my throat, and I cough, which sends a spasm of pain through my ribs and shoulder.
“Mama . . .” Tears mix with the blood on my face.
A shadow appears above me.
I react instinctively, launching myself somehow off the bench and onto the hard floor, landing with a bolt of pain that shoots from my skull down to my toes.
The Nahx dives over the bench after me, but I drag myself backward with my good arm, my other arm pressed into my chest.
“No . . . no . . .”
He’s so large, so tall, like a hideous giant from a fairy tale. The hand that reaches out for me is metallic, segmented and big enough to crush the life out of me. Did he bring me here to kill me in private? That is somehow a million times more terrifying than being beaten to death in the stadium in front of all those corpses.
He kneels on the floor as I slide backward, leaving a trail of blood on the tiles. My shoulder is on fire and doesn’t seem connected to me, like my arm is going to fall off. I stop at the wall, lean back, and clutch myself with my good arm, curling up protectively.
My vision blurs with tears so much that I can barely see him as he crawls after me. He holds his hands up, palms facing me.
“Please . . .” My voice comes out wet with snot and tears and blood. “Please don’t kill me. . . .” I must imagine him shaking his head. One hand reaches forward and presses against my neck. I close my eyes, clutching at his wrist with my one good arm. At least a broken neck is fast, I think.
His hand moves over slightly, until it’s pressing on my useless shoulder. I try to tear it away, but he’s too strong. A nauseating pain shoots from my spine to my fingertips, making me whimper. “No . . . no . . .”
His other hand suddenly grabs my elbow and pulls. The scream of pain that empties my lungs is uncanny, like an army of banshees. It feels like he’s going to tear my arm right off. Just as my eyes start rolling back in my head, I feel a jolt and hear a sickening pop as my arm bone slips back into the shoulder socket. The instant relief is almost hallucinogenic. Streaks of light float behind my eyelids, and I find myself slipping sideways onto the floor.
When I open my eyes, he is sitting back on his heels, watching me. With the golden light from the window illuminating him, I notice something I haven’t before. He has a short arrow protruding out of one shoulder. A crossbow arrow. I recognize it; it’s unmistakably one of Topher’s.
I try to point to it. And my movement seems to draw his attention to it for the first time. He reaches up and pulls on the fletched end. It moves a few inches and then stops. He makes a hissing noise as the arrowhead jams back into his shoulder.
I want to say something, tell him he should cut the fletch off and pull it out from the back, but I can’t seem to get my mouth to work. I watch him stand and move over to the window. Gripping the curtain with one hand, he grabs the arrow with the other and pulls it. The first pull removes it only halfway. With the light coming in from the window, I can see his shape silhouetted in shadow as his shoulders rise and fall quickly. He pulls the arrow again. This time it comes out with a wet ripping noise. A brutal hiss escapes from him and he falls to his knees, pulling the curtain down from the window with him. I watch him as he kneels there, forehead on the glass, looking out into the setting sun for some minutes. If he’s a machine, how can he feel pain? is what goes through my head. Because he looks like a machine. But he’s clearly in pain. He balls up the fabric and holds it on his shoulder. When he pulls it away, I can see it’s stained with something dark, like blood or oil.
Tossing the curtain and arrow away, he rotates his arm, as though testing it. Then he stares out at the setting sun some more, almost as if he’s forgotten I’m here. The light begins to fade, making him harder to see. He’s becoming a shadow in front of my eyes. All I can see of him is that he holds his left hand out, as though reaching for something.
I take stock of my condition. My shoulder is back as it should be, but I’m pretty sure that the forearm is broken. Blood is pooling around my ankle, and my breathing is kind of lopsided; broken ribs, I think. Also the side of my face hurts. Nothing broken there, I don’t think, but I bet it’s not pretty. I’ve had injuries before, from karate or other sports, but never this bad, and never so many all at the same time. I try to sigh, but it comes out as a whimper.
The Nahx turns and looks at me. He stands up and steps in my direction. Somehow, beyond all things plausible, I drag myself to my feet and stumble for the door, ignoring the shooting pain in my ankle and the jangling of my damaged arm. He leaps back over the bench and meets me at the door.
“Let me go, please,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I won’t tell anyone.” I can hardly breathe. My left lung feels like it is being squeezed with a pair of pliers.
He steps out of the way as I pull the door open to a long hallway. Without looking back, I take three steps out and stop, swaying, my head filling with sudden heat. He catches me as I fall.
“Don’t hurt me,” I manage as he eases me down onto the floor and sits back on his heels again. He shakes his head, holding his hands up, palms forward. I didn’t imagine it this time. He really did shake his head.
“Can you understand me?”
He nods, leaning over me.
With my good hand I reach up and press on the hole in his shoulder. His thick blood seeps through my fingers. “The boy, the one who shot you with the arrow? Did you kill him?”
He shakes his head.
“Did he get away?”
He nods.
I close my eyes for a moment, feeling him pull my fingers away from his bloody shoulder. As I open my eyes, he brushes a coil of hair from my forehead. I twitch back, repulsed.
“Are you the one from the trailer? Was that you?”
He nods slowly. And maybe I’m hearing things, but I think he sighs. As he reaches for me, I flinch away again, pulling myself backward, pressing against the wall. He sits back on his heels again, his hands on his thighs.
Has he been following me all these months? My teeth chatter against one another, sending shivers of pain into the side of my head. What does he want from me? I have to get away. I have to run away as fast as I can, find Topher, and get back to the others, back to the base. Then I have to disappear somewhere this thing can’t find me.