Gray (Book 1) (7 page)

She tried to pull her head away but it was held fast. “Hey!” she yelled.

Something punched into the back of her right knee, collapsing that leg. She was spun around as she fell. Before she had time to think, she was down on both knees, off balance, still held by her hair. She turned her head, saw a rifle aimed her way, and went motionless.

A bearded white man held the rifle, his face too distorted with rage and filth for her to tell age or anything else but that he was pale-skinned and dark-haired. A few inches taller than her, he was thin, emaciated. He looked mean and hungry. His clothes were tattered. Down the front of his shirt there was a yellowish stain—she suspected dried vomit.

Slowly, she raised her hands in the air, as if he were a cop arresting her. “It’s okay,” she said.

“Give me your weapon!”

Coral kept her voice as calm as she could—not easy, considering how afraid she was. “I don’t have a weapon.” She thought of her hatchet, lashed tightly to the pack. Even if it were free, it would do her little good against a rifle.

“Don’t try anything,” he said, backing up a step, wild-eyed.

Coral had no idea what she might try. She wanted to calm the man, show him she was friendly. “I’m no threat to you,” she said.

He gave her a look of disgust. “Where are your men?”

Coral opened her mouth to answer that she was alone, then thought better of it. “I don’t know,” she said. “Somewhere in town. Looking for supplies, like I am. We split up to cover more ground.”

His eyes narrowed. She worried he could tell she was lying. She didn’t lie often, so there was a good chance she was being obvious about it. He backed up another step and said, “Get up and drop that pack.”

She got to her feet. Her right knee stung where she had fallen on it. Her scalp burned where he had yanked her by the hair, but she was okay. So far, at least. Slowly, she shrugged the pack off, her mind skittering around, searching for a way out of this. She kept her voice quiet and calm. “I’m not—”

“Shut up,” he said.

Coral got the pack off and stood, waiting silently.

“Back off.”

She backed up two steps.

The man reached down and lifted the pack by a strap, struggling with its weight. As he did, the rifle in his other hand dipped a few inches.

She thought about running while he was distracted, but what was the point? By the time she got ten steps away, he’d have dropped the pack and had the rifle aimed at her again. The fire hadn’t left a lot of places to hide. And the ash would offer him clear footprints to follow.

He got a pack strap over one of his shoulders and motioned with the rifle down the side street, back toward the center of town. “Get going. I’m right behind you.”

She hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was go with this crazy man anywhere.

“Now!” His voice held an edge of hysteria.

She began walking, not wanting to go with him but even less wanting to do anything to make him pull the trigger.

He guided her in shaky words down the street. They made two turns, the last one into an alleyway with a concrete block wall along one stretch. “Stop,” he said. “Stay behind this wall. Sit.”

She did as she was told while he peered around the wall. Looking for those imaginary men that were with her, maybe, if he had believed that. Or were there other people in town he knew about or was running with? For a second, she thought about calling out for help. But in her heart, she believed there wasn’t anyone to rescue her. There was no one to help but herself.

The man moved up to a scorched metal trash can. With the toe of his boot, he pushed aside a scorched lump of stone, then the trash can. “Get in there.”

“What? In where?”

“The hole, you stupid bitch. Crawl in there.” He pointed with the rifle at where the stone had rested. Fallen bricks and chunks of debris littered the alley .

She looked where he pointed and realized that there was a hole, and a tunnel that slanted down into darkness. Maybe there was a living space inside there—a basement. Like she was going to crawl into some hole in the ground with this guy.

“Move your ass,” he said.

She leapt at him. Straight at his chest she flew, her shoulder pushing the rifle up. The gunshot came, deafening her. But she was inside the rifle’s barrel by then and the shot went over her shoulder. She raised both hands and grasped the rifle, shoving it upward further.

The weight of her pack had him unbalanced. He dropped it and struggled for the rifle, snarling like a madman.

He
was
a madman. And he had stronger arms than she. Coral felt the gun being pulled from her grasp. She got her balance and kicked hard at his knee, slamming her hiking boot against it. Something cracked audibly. She kicked again, harder, and felt the knee give.

He screamed with pain and anger and crumpled to the ground. As he did, the rifle was pulled from her hands.

She fell on him, her hands going for his face. She clawed for his eyes, found a socket, gouged. Revulsion swept over her, but she pushed anyway, felt something warm and damp give under her fingertip, then a slimy fluid coated her thumb.

His hands flew up to protect his eyes. He had dropped the rifle.

She clutched blindly to the side for it, but before she could find it, he rolled her over, snagging her legs with his, landing on top of her.

She tried to bring her knee up into his crotch, but he shifted aside, pinning her legs with his. He grabbed for her hands. Before he could trap them, she reached them around the back of his neck, feeling grit, smelling his sour, unwashed, pukey smell. She linked her fingers and yanked his head down, into her face. She bit his nose, hard. She held on and bore down, biting so hard her whole head shook.

A crack on her skull stunned her and her jaws let go. Her eyes fighting for focus, she saw him rear back, a chunk of brick in his hand. It came at her head again. She wrenched her head to the side but he still hit her, a glancing blow across her left temple.

If he got another blow in, she knew she was dead. Maybe raped and tortured first, but death would come after that.

As his arm drew back again, his legs shifted. She bent her knees and planted her feet close to her hips. Using all the thigh power that the days of hiking had given her, she drove up sharply with her hips, lifting his weight. He spilled off her, tumbling over her head, falling to the ground.

She spun to her knees, facing him. A wave of nausea nearly blinded her. The world went blurry, then it swam back into focus. She saw him rolling away from her.

The rifle, where was the rifle?

Coral got to her feet, unsteady, but brought back her leg, kicking him in the back of the head as hard as she could. It was plenty hard. She staggered and kicked again. And again. And again, putting all the anger and hatred into the kicks she could. After the fourth kick, he quit moving.

Then she collapsed, half over him. She saw the rifle, inches away. She grabbed it and rolled away from him, clutching it.

He didn’t move. She watched him, panting. He didn’t move. She forced herself to sit up, a wave of nausea rolling back over her. She leaned forward and vomited, spraying one thigh with bile and the morning’s spare breakfast.

She struggled to her feet again, swaying. She raised the rifle, having no idea how to shoot it beyond finding and pulling the trigger. Was there a safety on it? She had no idea. She aimed it at him and her finger found the trigger.

But there, she stopped. She couldn’t do it. No matter who this man was, or what he had been planning to do to her, no matter how bad he was, he was a man. The first she had seen. It wasn’t her place to kill him, not when there were so few people left.

Or had she killed him already? Keeping the rifle aimed at his head, she walked closer. He was breathing but looked to be unconscious. She wasn’t going to drop the rifle to see if he was faking it. His left eye, the one she had gouged, was damp. A smear of blood spread from his eye over his cheekbone, and more blood ran from his nose. The sight unnerved her. She had done that. Her gaze dropped to his knee she had kicked. It looked deformed. She didn’t think he could follow her with that knee—or she hoped he couldn’t.

If he had another rifle stashed somewhere, or a handgun, she might in trouble. If he had friends nearby, she might be hunted down and killed. But if she could get a couple blocks away, there was no way he could follow her alone.

She had to get away from here, now.

Coral turned around, trying to remember which direction the town square lay. Her ears were ringing. Nausea still came at her in waves. Her head pounded both places where he had hit it. She glanced back at him, but the man never moved.

She found her pack and heaved it on. She nearly collapsed under the weight of it. How was she going to run away in this condition?

She was going to do it because she had to. Catching hold of a thought was hard. Catching one long enough to follow it into a whole plan was impossible. Coral tried to concentrate.

No one could follow her if she didn’t leave tracks, right? The river— she’d seen that in a movie. No, that had been about fooling bloodhounds, but the idea was still good. She’d walk in the shallow verge and leave no footprints in the ash.

Carrying the man’s rifle, Coral made her way back toward the bridge she’d seen, spinning around every few steps to look behind her. She kept fearing that she heard someone following, but when she stopped, there was no one, no sound at all beyond her own harsh breath. At the edge of the bridge she spun around and saw figures emerging out of the ashy air. She jerked the rifle up to aim it at them, but they disappeared like magic. It had only been her imagination, putting form to her fears.

The deck to the bridge seemed solid. Coral walked onto it then looked behind, checking to see if her tracks were clear enough to follow. They were. No matter. She had to keep going.

It seemed to take forever to get across the bridge. The world drifted in and out of focus. Every few steps, she looked back, fearing to see pursuit, but she was alone. She and the crazy man might be the only two people alive in Idaho, for all she knew. But she couldn’t make decisions based on that hope—or that fear. She looked over the rail of the bridge. Muddy water rushed beneath her, deep and swift. When she got to the other side, she waited until the shoreline had risen to meet the bridge supports, then she crawled over a retaining wall and eased herself down.

She landed on the bank with a thump that rattled her jaw. The world went black for an instant. When it swam back into focus, she felt another wave of nausea. She fought it back. She was on her knees again, in ground muddy from the recent rain.

Struggling up, she walked downhill, following the edge of the stream, stepping in. Icy cold water seeped into her boots. She moved ahead as fast as she could. The speed cost her a fall, then another. The second time she fell, she stayed there on her knees, gasping for air, the world still whirling, cold water rushing past her thighs.

She forced herself up and on. When she next turned around, the bridge was beginning to fade into the thick, ashy air. A hundred more steps, she told herself, then I can stop for a minute. Counting her steps helped keep her focused and less dizzy. When she came to the hundredth step, she stopped and looked behind. She could see the shape of the bridge, but only vaguely. Details were lost in the thick air. That was good—it meant no one who stood on the bridge could see her, either. They could track her to the river, but without tracks to follow from there, no one could know which way she had gone.

Carefully, she swung her pack off and onto dry land, leaning the rifle against it. She scooped water into her mouth, rinsing and spitting out the muddy stuff.

A dark spot at the left of her t-shirt drew her eye. She turned her head and saw blood had dripped over her shoulder and down over her left breast. Her blood? Raising her hand to her head, she touched her scalp. A flash of white light and burning pain came with the touch. When she put the sticky fingers in front of her eyes, she could see she was bleeding where the man had first slammed the brick into her head. It was hard to tell how much blood she was losing, but her shirt wasn’t soaked through, so not enough to kill her, she thought.

Tending to the wound would have to wait. After a short rest, she picked up her gear again and kept going downstream. Her feet grew more and more numb from the cold and her boots stiffened up. She felt she was walking on wooden clubs rather than her own legs. She turned around once more and looked back at the bridge. She couldn’t see it at all.

Good. She stepped out of the stream and onto the bank. How far could she walk? In this condition, she was afraid she couldn’t walk much further. Her head pounded and the nausea would not let go of its grip on her stomach. The energy that had come with the rush of adrenaline from the fight was starting to fade. Looking up and down the river, she decided to leave the river here and cut directly away from it. She could see rocks upslope. If she stuck to those, she’d still be hard to track.

At first, she made rapid headway. But when she climbed onto the rocks, the going got tough. Maybe without the head injury, she could have skipped along. But finding her balance was a challenge she was finding nearly impossible to meet.