catches the rebound without taking his eyes off of me.
“They’re raiding the guy three doors down. The fuck is that, mate?” He flinches his body towards me, scary quick. I jerk back, and he barks a laugh. “You got the shittiest luck ever, don’t you? Thought they were coming for you? Why would you think that? No-one knows you’re gone, do they?” He’s mostly convinced, but I can hear just a note of doubt.
It’s time.
I kick/slide the phone towards him, clumsily, and it bounces off his shoes and catches there. For a fraction of a second, he flinches. His eyes widen comically. God, it’s beautiful. At this moment, he is beautiful; a predator caught in a moment of total surprise, hearing the snapping sound the second before the trap closes. His eyes are just fractionally starting to narrow; his head is just starting to rise back to look at my face when my boot collides with his shin.
I put everything I have into it, using my back to push myself forward, forgetting about balance, about pain, about everything except forward momentum in my left foot. I picture in my mind kicking a spot about a foot behind him, so I’m still accelerating, with all the ragged, adrenaline-fuelled fury I have. I deliberately ignore the groaning feeling in my midsection and barely notice the bubbling, guttural roar that is coming from my mouth as I connect with his shin.
There's a gratifying crack. His eyes pop out, and he fully yelps like a wounded dog. It’s a wonderful sound. He also hops backwards, trying frantically not to lose balance, hands on his shin, like a cartoon cowboy kicked by a horse. As I turn towards the door, I see the back of his leg strike the edge of his blue box o’tricks, and he falls backwards. Hope you land on something sharp, fucker, I think, but it’s all about getting the fuck out of Dodge, now.
I slap the edge of the door with my hand as I run past it ; pain fucking explodes up and down my arm, but it does the trick and the door swings. Somehow I manage to move fast enough that it doesn’t catch me on the heels as I pass through the frame, and I hear it slam behind me.
I hear a yell of incoherent, blood curdling rage, and scrambled movement from behind the door. I turn, as quickly as I can. It’s a bolt; that’s all – a good thick one, with just a hole drilled into the door frame to hold it. But it’s big and solid, and the door opens inwards so he can’t just kick it out. Good deal. All this goes through my head in nanoseconds, while I reach out with my right hand to throw the bolt. The pain is horrendous, but the will to live is stronger, and with another damp grunt, another spike of sickening agony, I throw it shut.
My knees start to sag, wobble, and I can feel blood tricking down the back of my throat. I tip my head forward to lean it against the door, and let my knees bend until they touch wood. Just as I do this, a single massive blow strikes the door, hard enough for it to rattle in its frame, and the handle turns but the bolt holds. You ain’t kicking this one down, sunshine. Fuck you.
The world is turning grey again, my breath catches in my throat and, involuntarily, I cough/retch and a fountain of dark fluid hits the door. My stomach explodes with pain, and my eyes blur with tears. I realize that I’m sliding down the door; my legs have given way entirely, and I’m well on the way to passing out again.
I’m on my knees, and everything feels like it’s disappearing down a tunnel. I pant and bleed and sweat and try to come back, to swim for the surface. I know I need to get up. You gotta move, son. Hit the motherfucking road, Jake. Get the fuck out of here, hockey stick stylee. I’m still thinking this and panting when, with an earsplitting whine, the spinning circular saw blade passes through the door.
My chin is resting against the wood, with the rest of my body back on my knees, and that saves my life. The blade comes through the door perpendicular to my throat, close
“They’re raiding the guy three doors down. The fuck is that, mate?” He flinches his body towards me, scary quick. I jerk back, and he barks a laugh. “You got the shittiest luck ever, don’t you? Thought they were coming for you? Why would you think that? No-one knows you’re gone, do they?” He’s mostly convinced, but I can hear just a note of doubt.
It’s time.
I kick/slide the phone towards him, clumsily, and it bounces off his shoes and catches there. For a fraction of a second, he flinches. His eyes widen comically. God, it’s beautiful. At this moment, he is beautiful; a predator caught in a moment of total surprise, hearing the snapping sound the second before the trap closes. His eyes are just fractionally starting to narrow; his head is just starting to rise back to look at my face when my boot collides with his shin.
I put everything I have into it, using my back to push myself forward, forgetting about balance, about pain, about everything except forward momentum in my left foot. I picture in my mind kicking a spot about a foot behind him, so I’m still accelerating, with all the ragged, adrenaline-fuelled fury I have. I deliberately ignore the groaning feeling in my midsection and barely notice the bubbling, guttural roar that is coming from my mouth as I connect with his shin.
There's a gratifying crack. His eyes pop out, and he fully yelps like a wounded dog. It’s a wonderful sound. He also hops backwards, trying frantically not to lose balance, hands on his shin, like a cartoon cowboy kicked by a horse. As I turn towards the door, I see the back of his leg strike the edge of his blue box o’tricks, and he falls backwards. Hope you land on something sharp, fucker, I think, but it’s all about getting the fuck out of Dodge, now.
I slap the edge of the door with my hand as I run past it ; pain fucking explodes up and down my arm, but it does the trick and the door swings. Somehow I manage to move fast enough that it doesn’t catch me on the heels as I pass through the frame, and I hear it slam behind me.
I hear a yell of incoherent, blood curdling rage, and scrambled movement from behind the door. I turn, as quickly as I can. It’s a bolt; that’s all – a good thick one, with just a hole drilled into the door frame to hold it. But it’s big and solid, and the door opens inwards so he can’t just kick it out. Good deal. All this goes through my head in nanoseconds, while I reach out with my right hand to throw the bolt. The pain is horrendous, but the will to live is stronger, and with another damp grunt, another spike of sickening agony, I throw it shut.
My knees start to sag, wobble, and I can feel blood tricking down the back of my throat. I tip my head forward to lean it against the door, and let my knees bend until they touch wood. Just as I do this, a single massive blow strikes the door, hard enough for it to rattle in its frame, and the handle turns but the bolt holds. You ain’t kicking this one down, sunshine. Fuck you.
The world is turning grey again, my breath catches in my throat and, involuntarily, I cough/retch and a fountain of dark fluid hits the door. My stomach explodes with pain, and my eyes blur with tears. I realize that I’m sliding down the door; my legs have given way entirely, and I’m well on the way to passing out again.
I’m on my knees, and everything feels like it’s disappearing down a tunnel. I pant and bleed and sweat and try to come back, to swim for the surface. I know I need to get up. You gotta move, son. Hit the motherfucking road, Jake. Get the fuck out of here, hockey stick stylee. I’m still thinking this and panting when, with an earsplitting whine, the spinning circular saw blade passes through the door.
My chin is resting against the wood, with the rest of my body back on my knees, and that saves my life. The blade comes through the door perpendicular to my throat, close
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