by Aborn, A. L.
My arm kicks back as I pull the trigger. The gun is unfamiliar and almost comes free of my hand. The force of the bullet in his chest makes him step back as he fires his gun. Thankfully, it goes wide of Shay.
Meekah is barking again, but it’s muffled through the ringing in my ears from the gun blast. Steadying my arm, I pan the gun to aim at Broken Nose who is still fumbling for his own. The bullet takes him in the shoulder. He falls to the ground. His torch is thrown wide from his injured arm. I don’t wait to see where it lands.
Shay is holding her own against the last man. Holding my ribs with my left hand, I crawl to my feet. Limping over to them, I put my forearm on my friend’s shoulder, the gun pointed straight down at his face. The fight goes out of him at the sight of the barrel.
She rolls off him, wincing. Looking around, she nods in thanks. “Joann?”
I can only shake my head. The words won’t form.
“Please.” The man on the ground pleads up at me. “I didn’t know what they were going to do. I barely even know them! Please!”
Strange what you notice in these moments. A thin scar under one eye mars an otherwise handsome man in his thirties. The thought comes from far off; I don’t want to examine this and allow this animal to become a man.
My bullet shatters his face.
Shay has pulled herself up into a sitting position, her back against Joann’s stump. She’s facing the shelter, her face blank.
Moving through the snow, I reach Broken Nose first. One hand is pressed tightly against the wound in his shoulder. Raising the gun, my bullet ruins another face.
The leader is lying motionless, but a bullet in the head is the only way I’ll be sure that he’s gone.
Good riddance, asshole.
I feel no guilt, only pain and rage. Suddenly exhausted, I slump onto my knees in front of Shay. “Are you hurt?” I manage.
“Nothing serious. How are the ribs?”
“Sore, but I’ll live.”
Taking her hands in mine, we are quiet for a moment. I want to cry for Joann, but I think I’m in shock. How did this happen? How did it happen so fast?
A gunshot sounds at the same time as pain rips through my right arm.
Whipping around, I see the figure of the man I had clubbed coming toward us. My left-hand cups my injury, hot blood running through my fingers. “You’re going to pay for this!” he shouts.
I expect Shay to come rocketing off the ground in attack. Turning, I see a dribble of blood drip from her mouth. Both of her hands are pressed to her chest. I shrink back in horror. “Shay! Oh my God! Shay!”
A rattle echoes out through her open mouth in response. Growing tense for a moment, she relaxes, her eyes locked on mine in death.
“NO!”
Turning back, the man is almost upon me.
To my left is the firepit and the pile of weapons taken from us. The firelight glints off something metal. Diving for it, the fingers of my left hand find the handle of Shay’s huge hunting knife. He fires another shot, but it misses me. Another one. He’s still coming at me when he pulls the trigger again, but this time, the click of an empty magazine is all that’s left.
Screaming my anger, our bodies collide as I stand to meet his attack. Stabbing as hard as I can with my weaker, left hand, the knife sinks into his neck. Falling to the ground, I yank the knife back to stab him again, but my hand is slick with blood, leaving the knife wedged in bone and muscle. He gurgles a last breath and lies still.
Rolling onto my back, Meekah frantically presses her head into my neck. “It’s okay,” I say. But then, as my adrenaline subsides, the ache in my ribs and the fire in my arm remind me that things are not okay. A sob tears through my chest. Holding my right arm with my left hand, I close my eyes and wail my sorrow through the night.
***
Eventually, cold flakes of snow rouse me from the ground. My face is sticky with tears.
To my horror, I see that the thrown torch landed close enough to the wall to ignite the limbs and undergrowth surrounding it. By the time that I notice it, flames are licking the wall behind the shelter. Moving as quickly as I can, tossing everything in reach out into the snow. All of our backpacks, my medical bag, containers of dried fish and venison, jars of broth and vegetables, weapons, blankets, and pillows.
Picking around Joann’s body, I finally face her head on. The tears are slipping down my cheeks again.
The canvas wall at the back of the shelter is starting to smolder. When I’ve taken as much as I can, it’s time to move Shay. With only my left hand, I grasp one arm and painstakingly drag her to our home. The roof is melting in places by the time I get her inside.
The trees on the far side of the camp are on fire by this time; the clearing brightly illuminated in shades of orange and yellow. Pulling my belongings far enough away to keep them safe, but close enough that I can feel the heat, I settle in the camp chair. My medical bag at my feet, I strip my jacket and shirt off. The gunshot that killed Shay only grazed my outer arm. It still hurts like hell, but most of the bleeding has stopped. Suturing with my left hand is difficult, but not impossible. I’ll have a nasty scar, but somehow, having a physical memory of this night seems right.
With my ribs wrapped and my clothing replaced, Meekah and I watch our home become a funeral pyre for our two friends. They deserve better, but it’s the best that I can do.
Is it fate that I should keep winding back up at square one? That my dog and I are alone again with nothing but what we can carry? It feels cruel, but I suppose dying would be worse.
Wrapping us in a blanket, I await the new day. I’m not sure where we’ll go, but we can’t stay here.
It feels like the rest of the night lasts days. When the first light breaches the clearing through the trees, a rough plan has formed. Time to pack everything up and get the hell out of here.
End of Book II
About the Author
. Nurse by day and writer by night, A.L. Aborn uses every spare moment to turn her experiences, dreams, and ideas into stories. She holds a Bachelor of Science in Nursing from Southern New Hampshire University and uses her knowledge of personal dynamics and medical technology in her works. A.L. Aborn lives in southern New Hampshire with her dog, Meekah, and her family. For more information, go to aaborn85.wixsite.com/author
