The Last One(81)

He lunges toward me, machete at his side. I dodge backward, falling again and landing propped on my side by my pack, then Cliff is there, yanking me to my feet; my head snaps hard enough to tweak my optic nerves.

Furious energy engulfs me. I fight. I kick, I claw. I bite. I mean to kill this man. I can hear shrieking, and I understand distantly that it’s my voice, then Cliff steps away, recoiling. I can taste blood, mine, his, I don’t know, a coppery drizzle in my mouth. My right hand is throbbing and I can’t unclench my fist.

Cliff is hunched over, his nose bleeding. I don’t need to see to know there is hate in his eyes. Not-Cooper is watching, swinging his machete idly at his side.

“Fuck you, Harry,” says Cliff to him. “What are you just standing there for?”

“She’s crazy,” says Harry. “I’m not getting anywhere near her.”

I don’t see any red on the blade, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I have to get to Brennan, I have to make sure he’s okay. He’s somewhere around the corner. Cliff and Harry are between us.

“What did you do to him?” I ask, stalling.

“The kid’s fine,” says Harry. The machete continues to swing.

Cliff stands fully and raises a hand to his bleeding nose. I see his hand is bleeding too. The expanded meaning of the metallic taste in my mouth makes my stomach twist. I’m disqualified. I must be. Not only did I strike this man, I bit him. Hard enough to draw blood.

Cliff steps toward me. “Look,” he says. “I get it. You’ve been through a lot. We all have.”

Why aren’t they stopping him? Stopping me?

I maintain a watchful crouch as Cliff takes another step. I can tell now that much of the blood in my mouth is coming from a cut on the inside of my lip, which I feel swelling and throbbing.

I broke a rule and nothing’s changed.

Maybe they’re making an exception. A special circumstance, like when Heather hit Randy and the consequences never came? She was provoked and forgiven. I’m being forgiven too. Because conflict makes for good TV and that’s all they care about.

Conflict—and the unexpected.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll go with you.”

Cliff pauses and looks at Harry. It’s clear they don’t buy my sudden acquiescence. They shouldn’t, but I need them to.

“I think my hand’s broken,” I say, and I allow myself to feel my pain. I allow all my frustration to surface. As I start shaking, I think of my husband. How badly I need to be home, how far I’ve come and all that I’ve seen and done. I think of the blue cabin, the message left for me there. I summon one of the simplest tools available to me—tears. I feel them sliding down my face; I taste their salt.

Cliff immediately relaxes. He puts out his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

“I want to see my friend,” I say.

“This way,” says Harry. He heads toward the corner of the building, toward the broken window. The machete swings casually at his side. Cliff takes my arm. I can see the cut on his face, the already swelling skin at the corner of his mouth, the blood running down his palm and wrist. He’s holding me close, but lightly, like I’m not a threat. I’m used to being dismissed as harmless, but that’s because I usually don’t cause any harm. Does he think my fighting him was some last gasp of feminist fury, now dissipated? Is this what he needs to believe?

I can work with that.

I wipe my face with my sleeve as he leads me around the building’s edge.

Brennan is supine upon the pavement, faceup. His zebra-print pack peeks from over his shoulder. I don’t see any blood, but between his red sweatshirt and dark skin, my eyesight could easily smooth away a wound. I pull away from Cliff. Kneeling, I place a hand on Brennan’s chest, feel that he’s still solid, still breathing. Which—of course he is. He’s just pretending. I know how this scene works; he’s going to open his eyes at the most dramatic moment. All I need to do is create that moment.

I see a glimmer of orange and silver under the window.

Harry prods Brennan in the leg with his foot. “He wouldn’t stop,” he says. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m not going anywhere without him,” I say.

Cliff nods at Harry, who tucks his machete into a loop on his belt and hefts Brennan over his shoulder.

“He’s heavy for such a skinny son of a bitch,” says Harry.

I leap away from Cliff and snatch the rusty pipe under the window. Before either man can react, I smash Harry’s left knee. I half expect the pipe to fold like foam, but the contact is solid, rumbling through my arms and shoulders. Harry screams and drops, letting go of Brennan, who against my expectation does nothing to soften his own fall. He’s deadweight.

“Shit,” I say.

Harry yanks the machete out of its loop and I swat it with the pipe. The blade clatters across the pavement. I think I hear Brennan groan, but I’m not sure, and then Cliff is barreling toward me. I jump away—too late. His arms catch my waist and pull me down. I lose the pipe as my chin smacks the pavement; my teeth clatter, my vision sparks. Dizzily, I feel myself pulled around so my back’s to the ground, my pack lumpy beneath me. My vision’s swimming, but I see Cliff above me, scowling. My arms and legs are pinned. His forearm is pressed to my chest, my throat, holding me down.