David Dun: Necessary Evil

It was only a few feet, but she went slowly, watching, listening, with the gun pointed. When she knelt a foot from the stalker, she put her fingers to his carotid and found a pulse. Feeling the torso, she found a bulletproof vest under the camouflage coat and in the sheath across the front a dented steel plate. She had struck only a glancing blow.

She pulled off his helmet, keeping the gun at his temple. "If you can hear me, asshole, don't even twitch or I'll blow your head off."

He did seem to have a large head. Pulling out her penlight, she shined it in his face, then rolled back the eyelid.

As she did it, she leaned over him, pressing the gun to his temple. More quickly than she could have imagined possible, his head jerked up. Automatically, she fired the gun. Missed!

One of his hands buried itself in her hair, yanking her head to the sky while the other grappled with the gun. Two more shots discharged into the night. Now pulling the trigger would do no good because he was stronger-he was aiming the gun.

When she brought her knee slamming up into his ribs, he moaned through gritted teeth. Her head went backward with his hand. Drawn by the fierce pain, her left hand went to the back of her head while the other stayed with the gun. Jessie was fighting a man with the strength of a maniac. He easily wrenched the gun away, and when she rolled, he was on her, clawing at her throat.

Jessie went crazy, kicking and tearing at him and the earth. Like a hungry animal he came after her and after her, bearing down on her until his grip closed on her throat and his grunts turned to satisfaction.

Her head felt heavy. She wanted only air. The hand gave way just a little and she breathed. Still, she was fading. The blood to her brain was being cut off. Like a drunk drowning in a puddle, she was watching herself die.

Her arm flopped. His grip relaxed a little more. She saw only a large round shadow where his face should be. He climbed on top of her, parting her legs around him and moving in tight. God, no. The realization spread like a dread disease. She sensed the sex. He brought the barrel of the gun under her throat.

"Where's the Indian?"

Try to think. The gun would blow her head half off. His hand was already clamping harder again, pinning her in place. She wanted to whimper.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Don't mess with me." The hand suffocated her. Her vision shrank to a tunnel. She could feel herself sinking. It was blacker than the night. Thoughts swirled, but wouldn't stay, everything turning and mixing.

"Talk." He was shaking her.

"I don't know where he is," she choked out when he released the pressure for a breath.

"You're lying." Then she felt the knife on her cheek, down her neck. It was pricking the skin.

"Oh no." God, she didn't want to be cut.

The knife was back at her cheek. "Tell me."

"He left me here." She could feel the sting of the knife cutting. The horror of it consumed her. The words came fast, staccato. "He left, looking for you. Didn't say how."

"He was going to the house, wasn't he?" The knife stopped cutting. "You're not answering me. I don't want to make a mess of you."

"I imagine he started for the house. Where he is now, I haven't the faintest."

"Tell me about the plane."

She spoke, desperate to keep the knife still. She told him about the brilliant light in the sky, the explosion, the trek through the snow, even the angry squirrel.

"What about the plane? Tell me about the plane. Was anybody alive?"

"One guy, covered in blood. He threw a grenade after shooting at us."

"What did he look like?"

"Older than the rest… glasses… But he was covered with blood… you couldn't tell… "

"Was there anyone else? Anyone around the plane?"

"Not that we saw. Only a set of tracks leaving the plane."

"What did Kier tell you about the tracks?"

"Nothing. Just a man… that's it."

"He knows more."

She felt the blade again. "Well, he didn't tell me," she almost shouted.

"What did you take from the plane?"

"Five bound volumes."

"Did you read them?"

"Not much. We had no time, and they were technical."

"You're lying. He knew a lot. Where is the sixth manual? Were there six of them?"

"There was a spot for a sixth, but there were only five books."

"Don't patronize me." The knife cut her cheek; she gasped at the sting.

"We left the four in the cabin and took one with us. The sixth we never found. Maybe the guy who left the tracks." She felt the knife again. "I'm telling you, I don't know where!"

His hand crushed her throat. "Shut up. You scream like that again and you're dead. Where is the fifth?"

"Kier hid it near a cabin-he didn't show me where."

Now he controlled events. She imagined having a scarred face, death. Her mind fought the obvious conclusions. Think. She had to think, not just cower. He was fumbling with something.

"Rollover."

He turned her easily, like a cougar with a rabbit. She felt the cuffs snap in place. Escape seemed impossible, but she could not let herself surrender. How could she disable him? How could she run?

Now he was unzipping her coat. Then he was pulling it open. As she felt his hands on the buttons of her shirt, her head began to spin. It couldn't be. Not here, on a freezing night in the dirt. Dizziness swept her. He yanked Kier's T-shirt to her neck. She could feel his fingers moving on her belly. He unfastened her jeans. Blackness began to fill her mind-her spirit wanted to crawl to some far-off place.

What lunatic would… her mind snapped back. Her pants were around her thighs, then her ankles. He rose over her, his hands and mouth on her. He rutted like a pig.

"No-"

His large hand knocked her almost unconscious. Her mind swooped to the brink of hysteria. From somewhere, she didn't know where, she remembered a man from training-a rapist- talking about his anger on tape.

"Did your mother or father fill you with this much rage? Did the neighbor lady play with you? What?" Her tones to her own ear sounded amazingly matter-of-fact.

His breathing grew more rapid. He crawled on her, his powerful knees forcing hers farther apart. Her mind staggered around like a drunk in a busy street-the wet earth, twigs and brush grinding into her bare buttocks-the odor of his breath.

"You never told me about Mom-this sickness you seem to have

… "

A slap stung her face, smearing blood, sharpening her mind. With a start, it occurred to her that he wasn't entering her. That something wasn't… he was flaccid. "God, after all this you can't get it up?"

The words just came. Then a giant sneer took over her mind. This pig couldn't do it. With all his rutting he couldn't pull it off. Raucous, crazy laughter escaped her lips.

"You poor bastard. You want to rape me. No, you want to hurt me, subjugate me to your sick fantasy. And you can't get it up."

The slap distorted her face, probably broke something, but didn't stop her. "Or was it the mommy talk?" Her jaw cracked with the thud of his heavy fist, but still she couldn't stop. Now his bloodied hand was thrust between them; he was working himself.

"When it's this bad you try playing with yourself, do you? Maybe if you undid the cuffs… damn it, with my bloody lips I can't even say it… if you undid me, maybe I could-"

She began to laugh her crazy laugh and couldn't stop until she coughed on the blood. "Maybe I could give you a hand." Her laughter pierced the night.

A minute passed while she felt the rhythm of his hand and then his frustration. Faster and faster he moved, as if he were jerking on a soft, seasoned rope. Her lips felt like balloons- she couldn't absorb another punch. Still, like a moth drawn to the flame she couldn't resist speaking again. "My ass is freezing, why don't you call it a night? This is no way to get even with whoever screwed you over."