Condemned

38 | Jael

Sam's silent treatment ends. I'm no longer the bad guy. Not the worst in her vicinity, that is.

Her suddenly wide-eyed expression tips me off—there's someone behind me.

I whirl around, not a moment too soon. There's a pipe swinging at my head with intent—to turn out the lights. With a direct hit, it could be for good, even for me.

Getting a hand up in the nick of time, it catches my thumb, is thrown slightly off course, and hits my shoulder by the neck. The momentum is cut in half, but it still does some damage. My collarbone cracks. I can feel it. Hear it even.

My satchel was pinned against the barrel by my foot, but I'm forced to step away. It gets snatched by a second accomplice while another swing of the pipe is in motion. I lurch backwards and it just misses my gut.

Once the bag is acquired, the pipe gets dropped and they both run.

"Stay here," I say to Sam and give chase, despite my incapacitated right arm.

The bag has half of our food, most of the remaining cash, the knife—our only weapon—and the sleeping bag is clipped to it. From the godawful stench of them, I can tell they're only human. They're not even in great shape. The big one who took the swing has a gut slowing him down. His sly friend is the opposite—short legs and no great height or bulk.

I follow them to the street, leap over the guardrail, and attempt to cross the four lanes. The thieves had clear passage, but I almost get hit by a speeding car. I dodge the bumper but dent the corner of the old sedan with my hands. Though I mutter, "sorry," the driver swears at me through the open window, pulls to the right haphazardly, and gets out of the car.

He's a bear of a "man"—middle-aged, and more hair on his face than his head—and he's not alone. There's at least one passenger. I miss getting a whiff and don't spare them more than a glance. I make the bag my priority, and forge ahead, but, mere strides away, there's a spike in my blood pressure. Who is this guy and why does he seem so familiar?

The thieves cut across the ramp below the overpass and slip into the wooded area that leads to the higher road. It's in that dark, narrow section that I start closing the gap. The guy with the bag is no more than a body length away from me.

They're in a fuck everything state of being—me, my bitch mother, the formidable slope—scrambling for more distance and kicking at shadows, never quite making contact.

The bag is almost at my fingertips when I hear a scream. It's unmistakable. Sam wouldn't let one fly unless it was life-or-death. And it seems to slip out, probably around hands, trying to subdue and silence her.

As hard as it will be to survive without our supplies, I let the bag—and the thugs who tried to kill me—go without a fight. Even a grunt at them would be time wasted.

On the way back down the hill, I slip and fall, sliding down on my ass. I come to a stop against a rock with a thud.

The new pain, old pain, and my lousy position pile on extra seconds when I have none to spare. With a busted shoulder, it's a struggle to get back on my feet.

Staggering back into the lights of the street, I can just make out Sam on the ground and three people—if I should be so lucky—holding her there, her midriff exposed, indelicately high and low.

"It's her," one of them shrieks, curling a thumb into her side—the healing "devil's mark." They're blocking her next scream, but her body recoils. I can hear her attempt to cry out around the suffocating hand.

"Hey!" I call out from the far side of the road. To get their hands to stop roaming. To make me their person of interest.

It doesn't even work all that well. Only the driver rises from his crouch. He turns around and gives me a sneer, more holes than teeth. The two others carry on, mumbling about ten grand and how pretty she is.