Hugh Howey - Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

“Why? Because they’re men,” Cat said. “They don’t prove themselves in groups.”

Before Molly could work on the straps across Cat, one of the workers shoved Pete in the chest, pushing him away from the action. The figure came forward in a boxing stance, his hands high as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“What now?” Molly asked.

“Can you wrestle?”

The man bounced forward and his hand disappeared. Molly felt it crack her cheek, and she saw sparks. She jumped back, but two more swift jabs landed in a flurry, one to her nose and another to her ribs. The man hopped around and showboated with his fists while Molly held her nose, bent over, blood leaking through her fingers.

“Get off your feet!” Cat yelled.

Molly glanced over and saw Cat straining against her restraints, her arms tensed and popping with wiry muscles. She had her head turned to the side to follow the fighting. The man darted forward, his hands coming up in front of him to unleash another blistering combination—

Molly dove at his waist and wrapped her arms around him. She brought one foot behind his heel and kept pressing forward, putting her weight and momentum into his thighs. The boxer waved his arms in the air, but couldn’t keep himself upright. They both went back and crashed into the floor, his head cracking the tiles loudly.

“Elbows!” Cat yelled.

Molly pulled herself up to the guy’s chest while he busied himself clutching the back of his head. She bent her arm in half, keeping her fists up by her shoulders. She twisted back at the waist, then unloaded with an elbow across his chin. The man’s eyes rolled back. She hit him with another, just to be sure, and his arms fell to the side, limp.

“Enough!” Pete yelled.

Molly stood up from her latest victim and turned around. Pete stood behind Cat’s table, a silver blade twinkling against the Callite’s neck.

“Thought I told you to stay put,” Pete said. “Now get your arms behind your head before I spill what’s left of her blood.”

Cat met Molly’s gaze and smiled. One of her eyes scissored shut in a Callite wink. “After he kills me, kick his ass,” Cat said.

“Shut it,” Pete said. His arm tensed, and Molly could see the blade bite into Cat’s neck.

Cat’s smile broadened.

“Attack the joints,” she said. “Concentrate on the wrist with the knife.”

“I said shut it!”

The knife bit deeper and blue leaked out with force.

“And don’t you come closer!” Pete yelled at Molly. “Get your hands behind your head!”

Molly didn’t know who to listen to. She put her hands in the air, not willing to be responsible for Cat’s death. “I’m a sheriff’s deputy, Pete. Think about what you’re doing. Think about the next Pete.”

The man at her feet groaned as he came to. Molly stepped away from him, which made Pete flinch. “Stay where you are,” he told her. “Hey, Mickie, you okay? I need you to check the others.”

The man rolled over and pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “What happened?” he groaned, his hand coming up to the back of his head.

“You got your ass kicked by a chick, that’s what. Now get up and see how Ryan’s doing. He ain’t moved at all.”

“Don’t let him up,” Cat told Molly. “You’ve got the numbers, now. Don’t lose them.”

“Shut it!” Pete yelled. He pulled the knife away and held it over Cat’s chest, vertically. Molly watched as his other hand came up and gripped the hilt, both arms high over his head.

“Do it!” Cat yelled. She screamed, a long, piercing scream that shivered through Molly’s bones.

Molly watched in horror as the knife plunged down, the silver flash of steel disappearing in Cat’s chest up to the hilt. The man on the floor was on all-fours, groping for his senses. Molly threw her flightboot into his chin, making his search a little more difficult. As he collapsed into another silent heap, Molly dashed toward Cat, only she and Pete still standing.

With much effort, Pete wrested the blade out of Cat’s chest, pulling a fountain of blue with it. Molly slid under the gurney, feet-first, and aimed for his knees, impacting with a solid crunch. Pete yelled and tumbled straight down on top of her, his weight forcing her flat. Molly tried to twist her hips out from underneath him, tried to push up on his shoulders, but he wouldn’t budge. He threw a forearm across her neck and leaned into it, squeezing her airway down.

Molly gurgled and pushed at his shoulders. The knife came up, hovering behind Pete’s purple-glazed snarl. Molly’s body tensed in fear as it slid through the air and buried itself in her chest. It hit with a bang, with a sonic explosion, and Molly could smell spent gunpowder in the air.

Pete sagged down, his grotesque body limp with death. Molly tried to push him off, but her one arm was numb and useless. She shoved at him with her other one, grunting with effort, when his weight finally shifted. As Pete’s head rolled away, Molly saw Sheriff Browne’s on the other side, his face busted up, but the barest of smiles showing beneath his bloodstained mustache.

That smile sealed up when he saw the knife sticking out of her chest. Molly opened her mouth to say something, but all she could do was gasp. The pain was like a tunnel of cold air rigged up inside her, a hollow ache that pulled on her senses. Browne knelt by her side and placed one hand on her chest, the knife between the crook of his thumb and finger. He grasped the hilt with his other hand and pulled and pushed at the same time, sliding the weapon out.

Molly grunted from the pain and fought back the blackness swirling around her vision. The knife made a slick, sucking sound and came out coated with a purple mix of bloods. Her head fell back as Browne put pressure on the wound. She watched through heavy, slow-blinking lids as he tugged his bandana from around his neck and tucked it under his palm.

“Can you hold this?” he asked.

Molly nodded weakly, but she wasn’t sure if she could. Browne took both her hands and placed them over the bandage. He disappeared from her vision and staggered toward the tables. Over her throbbing pulse, Molly could hear leather straps flap back and metal buckles click together. She craned her neck to see what he was doing, but everywhere she looked, she saw with the tunnel vision of the half conscious. The world moved on the other side of a pinhole. Sheriff Browne flashed across the other side of that hole, moving from Cat’s gurney to another one further away.

Cat slid from her table to Molly’s side, her face filling Molly’s vision. Cat’s hands wrapped around Molly’s and pulled back the bandage. She put it back and helped apply pressure. “You’re gonna be fine,” she said. Cat looked up and scanned the room with a frown.

“My Wadi,” Molly whispered.

Cat looked over her shoulder. She patted Molly’s arm and moved away. Molly grunted and forced herself to one elbow, then struggled to sit up. She glanced back and wiggled toward one of the gurney’s legs, propping herself up to better see what was going on. She concentrated on pushing the blackness into the corners of her vision.

She regretted her efforts immediately when she saw what Cat was doing.

The Callite crouched over the Wadi with the blood-soaked knife. She had one of the creature’s arms splayed out—the blade resting against it, the palm of her hand flat against the dull side, as if about to apply pressure.

Molly managed a weak “No” as Cat shoved down on the blade, severing the limb. The sight of it nearly finished what her own wound had started—Molly could feel her consciousness try and slip away, could feel the black surge toward the center of her vision. She tried to call out to Cat, but managed just hoarse whispers as the Callite wiped the blade on the animals stump and leg before pressing them back together.