by Isla Jones
My fingers clenched and balled my hands up. I breathed in deeply; a long inhale that I suppose I’d thought would give me courage. It hadn’t. I took a few cautious steps back, careful not to step within grabbing-range of the undead flanking me.
“Hurry!” barked the solder. “Jump, now!”
I cursed under my breath and glanced up at the fire escape. The two other soldiers were still there, crouched down, their machine guns aimed at the undead. If one of the dead got hold of me, the soldiers would shoot. But if they shot too late, and I was dragged down into the mob, they wouldn’t waste their ammo saving me. And then what would become of Cleo?
“You’ll be all right!” It was the soldier. He still shouted, but he had gone for a gentler tone this time. “We’ve got you. Jump!”
My fingers splayed and I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans.
“Ok,” I whispered to myself. “You can do this. It’s just a jump … a tiny, little jump.” I met the patient green eyes of the soldier. “Catch me,” I said. “You better catch me.”
“I will.” His firm voice was calm over the loud screeches of the rotters.
My eyelids began to droop, but I kept them open and stared straight ahead at my target. And then I ran.
The soles of my boots smacked against the bricks as I raced across the short distance. When I reached the edge, my knees bent and I jumped.
At the time, and in memory, that jump went in slow-motion for me. My screams and the anxious yaps of Cleo still haunt me. But at the time, I didn’t hear those sounds. I only heard the dead roaring as I soared above them. I’d like to think I resembled a soaring dove; graceful and majestic. But I know myself—I suspect I looked like a flapping pigeon with a broken wing.
He reached out as my hands begged to touch his. I cried in relief when his fingers wrapped around my forearms and hauled me closer to him. My cry of relief turned into one of winded agony as I collided with his body, and my forehead smacked off his chin. But he had me. His hands clutched onto my arms. He released me, then handed Cleo over. She whimpered as I bundled her into my arms.
The soldier turned and led me down the brick wall. The other rotters—the ones who hadn’t been shot—followed, but they couldn’t get to us. The soldier helped me up onto the fire escape, but it has all become a daze to me now. A fuzzy memory. Adrenaline—whether consumed by it or coming down from the high it gives—does that to memories, I’ve learned.
When we reached the other soldiers, the blond one opened a window. He lifted it up and it scraped against the metal frame. He climbed in first, followed by the second soldier—a brunette woman with cropped hair and cat-like eyes. I’d thought then that she resembled a pixie playing solider—I’d learn later that she wasn’t playing, and she was far from a pixie; she was a badass warrior, and one of the best soldiers in the group.
The dark-haired soldier gestured for me to go next. I did. But I hadn’t expected to see what I did. I hadn’t expected to clumsily climb through the window and be greeted by something I’d thought long gone in this world.
I’d seen hope.
End of Sample.
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