Stay Close
Page 70
Do not let her get the knife back.
No, time still hadn’t slowed down. Only a second, maybe two, had passed since Megan first caught sight of the knife heading toward her. Again, working purely on instinct, with the blade deeply embedded in her muscle tissue, Megan did something that would normally be unthinkable. She used her free hand to cover the knife, slapping her palm against her own forearm—trapping the razor-sharp blade in her own flesh.
She didn’t think about this—about how she was actually trying to keep a knife in her arm. She only knew that whatever happened, whatever hell or fury was about to rain down on her, there was no way she could let this woman have the knife back.
When the blonde tried to pull the blade free, the blade running against the bone, a searing pain shot through Megan, nearly buckling her knees.
Nearly.
That was the thing with pain. Part of you wants to stop, but if you care about your life—and what person doesn’t?—then that desire can override the network that controls your behavior. It may be something chemical, like adrenaline. It may be something more abstract like will.
But the pain meant nothing to Megan right now.
Survival and rage—they were all that mattered now. Survival, well, that was obvious, but she was also pissed off at everything—at this killer who harmed poor Harry, at Dave for abandoning her, at Ray for giving up on everything. She was furious at whatever deity decided that old people like Agnes should be rewarded at the end of their lives with the torture and indignity of losing their minds. She was livid with herself for not appreciating what she had, for needing to poke at the past, for not understanding that a certain amount of dissatisfaction was part of the human experience—and mostly, she was pissed off that this stupid blond bitch wanted to kill her.
Well, screw that.
Megan let out a scream—an unnerving, primordial, high-pitched shriek. With the blade still trapped in the meat of her forearm, she twisted hard at the waist. The blonde made the mistake of trying to maintain her grip, but Megan’s sudden move knocked her off balance. Just a little.
Just enough to make her stumble forward.
Megan snapped her elbow straight up. The pointy bone landed square on the bottom of the blonde’s nose, jamming it up toward the forehead. There was a cracking sound. Blood spilled down the blonde’s face.
But that didn’t end it.
The blonde, now in pain too, found new strength. She got her balance back and pulled at the blade with all her might. The blade scraped along the bone as though it were whittling it down. Megan still tried to stop it, but the blonde had the momentum now. The blade slid out, popping free from the muscle with an audible, wet sucking sound.
Blood poured from the wound, bubbling out geyserlike.
Megan had always been squeamish. When she was eight, one of her “stepfathers” wanted to see the latest installment of Friday the 13th, and since he couldn’t find a babysitter, he dragged Megan with him. The experience had been scarring. Since then—even now—she had trouble sitting through any R-rated film that contained violence.
None of that mattered now. The sight of blood—both her own and the blonde’s—didn’t make her cringe. In fact, she almost welcomed it.
For a moment, there was no pain in her arm—and then it came in a powerful gush, as though that nerve ending had been blocked like a bend in a garden hose that is suddenly let go.
The pain blinded in a white-hot fury.
With an animal-like snarl, the blonde raised the knife and came at her again.
Again working on instinct, Megan thought, keep the vital organs safe. The throat, the heart, the softest tissue. Megan ducked her chin, closing down access to her neck and chest. She turned her shoulder toward the blow. The point of the blade hit flat on the top of her shoulder bone.
Megan cried out again.
The pain grew, but the knife did little more than penetrate the skin.
Megan unleashed a kick that landed on the blonde’s bent knee, forcing it back the wrong way. The leg bowed and crumbled. The blonde fell and immediately started scrambling to her feet.
For a moment Megan debated running. But no. The blonde wouldn’t stay down. She was, in fact, almost back up on her feet. The blonde was younger and probably stronger and faster, but no matter what—no matter how this was going to end—Megan would be damned if she’d die with a knife in her back while she ran away.
No friggin’ way.
Megan leapt toward her attacker, that one thought back in her head:
Get. The. Knife.
The two women toppled to the pavement. Megan focused on getting the knife. She grabbed the blonde’s wrist with both hands. Blood was everywhere now, coating them both in crimson. In some distant part of her brain, Megan realized that she would have to move fast. She was losing blood, too much of it. If this continued, she would simply bleed out.
Megan pushed down on the wrist, but the blonde would not let go of the knife. Megan angled her fingers so that her nails dug into the thin skin on the inner wrist. The blonde cried out, but her grip didn’t loosen. Megan dug deeper now. She tried to use the end of her nail to scrape the skin off the spot below the thumb where you check for the pulse. Wasn’t that an artery?
The blonde cried out again, leaned her head forward, and then she sank her teeth into Megan’s wounded arm.
Megan howled in pain.
The blonde chomped down through the flesh, her teeth nearly meeting. The bite, too, had drawn blood—the blonde’s pearly white teeth were splattered with it. Megan dug her fingernail into the wrist even deeper.
The knife dropped to the pavement.
And that was when Megan made a mistake.
She was so focused on possessing the knife, in picking it up and stabbing this blonde until there was nothing left of her, that she forgot all the other tools in a human being’s arsenal.
In order to get the knife and make it her own, Megan had to release the wrist. The blonde, realizing exactly that Megan was solely focused on the knife, reacted. First, she finished her bite by tearing back on the flesh, ripping it off, and spitting it out on the ground.
The fresh wave of pain made Megan’s eyes roll back.
With Megan still reaching for the blade, the blonde shifted her weight. Megan tumbled off balance. She fell headfirst to the right, unable to get her hands in a position to break her fall.
The side of her skull banged hard against the bumper of her car.
Stars exploded in her head.
Get. The. Knife.
The blonde scampered closer and threw a stomping kick at Megan’s head. It landed flush, crushing her skull against the bumper again. Megan could feel consciousness slipping away now. For a moment she really didn’t know where she was or when it was or any of that. She didn’t even know about the blonde or feel the next kick. Only that one thought remained.
No, time still hadn’t slowed down. Only a second, maybe two, had passed since Megan first caught sight of the knife heading toward her. Again, working purely on instinct, with the blade deeply embedded in her muscle tissue, Megan did something that would normally be unthinkable. She used her free hand to cover the knife, slapping her palm against her own forearm—trapping the razor-sharp blade in her own flesh.
She didn’t think about this—about how she was actually trying to keep a knife in her arm. She only knew that whatever happened, whatever hell or fury was about to rain down on her, there was no way she could let this woman have the knife back.
When the blonde tried to pull the blade free, the blade running against the bone, a searing pain shot through Megan, nearly buckling her knees.
Nearly.
That was the thing with pain. Part of you wants to stop, but if you care about your life—and what person doesn’t?—then that desire can override the network that controls your behavior. It may be something chemical, like adrenaline. It may be something more abstract like will.
But the pain meant nothing to Megan right now.
Survival and rage—they were all that mattered now. Survival, well, that was obvious, but she was also pissed off at everything—at this killer who harmed poor Harry, at Dave for abandoning her, at Ray for giving up on everything. She was furious at whatever deity decided that old people like Agnes should be rewarded at the end of their lives with the torture and indignity of losing their minds. She was livid with herself for not appreciating what she had, for needing to poke at the past, for not understanding that a certain amount of dissatisfaction was part of the human experience—and mostly, she was pissed off that this stupid blond bitch wanted to kill her.
Well, screw that.
Megan let out a scream—an unnerving, primordial, high-pitched shriek. With the blade still trapped in the meat of her forearm, she twisted hard at the waist. The blonde made the mistake of trying to maintain her grip, but Megan’s sudden move knocked her off balance. Just a little.
Just enough to make her stumble forward.
Megan snapped her elbow straight up. The pointy bone landed square on the bottom of the blonde’s nose, jamming it up toward the forehead. There was a cracking sound. Blood spilled down the blonde’s face.
But that didn’t end it.
The blonde, now in pain too, found new strength. She got her balance back and pulled at the blade with all her might. The blade scraped along the bone as though it were whittling it down. Megan still tried to stop it, but the blonde had the momentum now. The blade slid out, popping free from the muscle with an audible, wet sucking sound.
Blood poured from the wound, bubbling out geyserlike.
Megan had always been squeamish. When she was eight, one of her “stepfathers” wanted to see the latest installment of Friday the 13th, and since he couldn’t find a babysitter, he dragged Megan with him. The experience had been scarring. Since then—even now—she had trouble sitting through any R-rated film that contained violence.
None of that mattered now. The sight of blood—both her own and the blonde’s—didn’t make her cringe. In fact, she almost welcomed it.
For a moment, there was no pain in her arm—and then it came in a powerful gush, as though that nerve ending had been blocked like a bend in a garden hose that is suddenly let go.
The pain blinded in a white-hot fury.
With an animal-like snarl, the blonde raised the knife and came at her again.
Again working on instinct, Megan thought, keep the vital organs safe. The throat, the heart, the softest tissue. Megan ducked her chin, closing down access to her neck and chest. She turned her shoulder toward the blow. The point of the blade hit flat on the top of her shoulder bone.
Megan cried out again.
The pain grew, but the knife did little more than penetrate the skin.
Megan unleashed a kick that landed on the blonde’s bent knee, forcing it back the wrong way. The leg bowed and crumbled. The blonde fell and immediately started scrambling to her feet.
For a moment Megan debated running. But no. The blonde wouldn’t stay down. She was, in fact, almost back up on her feet. The blonde was younger and probably stronger and faster, but no matter what—no matter how this was going to end—Megan would be damned if she’d die with a knife in her back while she ran away.
No friggin’ way.
Megan leapt toward her attacker, that one thought back in her head:
Get. The. Knife.
The two women toppled to the pavement. Megan focused on getting the knife. She grabbed the blonde’s wrist with both hands. Blood was everywhere now, coating them both in crimson. In some distant part of her brain, Megan realized that she would have to move fast. She was losing blood, too much of it. If this continued, she would simply bleed out.
Megan pushed down on the wrist, but the blonde would not let go of the knife. Megan angled her fingers so that her nails dug into the thin skin on the inner wrist. The blonde cried out, but her grip didn’t loosen. Megan dug deeper now. She tried to use the end of her nail to scrape the skin off the spot below the thumb where you check for the pulse. Wasn’t that an artery?
The blonde cried out again, leaned her head forward, and then she sank her teeth into Megan’s wounded arm.
Megan howled in pain.
The blonde chomped down through the flesh, her teeth nearly meeting. The bite, too, had drawn blood—the blonde’s pearly white teeth were splattered with it. Megan dug her fingernail into the wrist even deeper.
The knife dropped to the pavement.
And that was when Megan made a mistake.
She was so focused on possessing the knife, in picking it up and stabbing this blonde until there was nothing left of her, that she forgot all the other tools in a human being’s arsenal.
In order to get the knife and make it her own, Megan had to release the wrist. The blonde, realizing exactly that Megan was solely focused on the knife, reacted. First, she finished her bite by tearing back on the flesh, ripping it off, and spitting it out on the ground.
The fresh wave of pain made Megan’s eyes roll back.
With Megan still reaching for the blade, the blonde shifted her weight. Megan tumbled off balance. She fell headfirst to the right, unable to get her hands in a position to break her fall.
The side of her skull banged hard against the bumper of her car.
Stars exploded in her head.
Get. The. Knife.
The blonde scampered closer and threw a stomping kick at Megan’s head. It landed flush, crushing her skull against the bumper again. Megan could feel consciousness slipping away now. For a moment she really didn’t know where she was or when it was or any of that. She didn’t even know about the blonde or feel the next kick. Only that one thought remained.
