Rowan Steele - The Dying Light

She was certain she didn’t portray quite the same look as he did, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that they had momentarily slowed what could be a very bad situation.

“Do you know what’s happening?” Cassandra asked.

The younger man, who had been looking at Jack, shifted his gaze to her. He seemed surprised by her question, not what she had intended but something that she would take advantage of.

“No, do you?” he asked.

“Have you seen those…things?” she asked.

The younger man looked pained, agony crossing his face. “Mama—”

The younger man cut off when the older looked at him and then to Cassandra.

“Enough conversation. Give us your shit,” he said, his voice taking on an edge that was simultaneously bored and menacing.

From the almost bewildered-sounding nonresponse, Cassandra sensed he wasn’t taking Mama’s demise as hard as his brother.

“We don’t have anything,” she said, repeating what Jack had said earlier.

“You have something, honey,” he said.

Cassandra didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know what he meant, and to her surprise, rather than scaring her—scaring her more than his tone of voice—his leer pissed her off.

Probably not the best thing, but Cassandra wouldn’t kowtow to bullies. Even when it was a good idea.

“We told you we don’t have anything,” she said, keeping her voice firm. “And now that I can see that you’re not hurt, we will be on our way.”

The one with the gun looked at her, took a step closer.

“You will?” he asked.

“Yes, we—”

“Down, Cassandra!”

She wasn’t even sure that she had consciously processed Jack’s words. Instead, she moved, flinging her body against the hard ground and then quickly scrambling out of the path of the shotgun.

Jack had moved with almost preternatural speed. One moment he had been three feet away from her, and the next he had launched.

By the time Cassandra looked back, she watched as Jack drove the man the older man with the shotgun into the ground, his shoulder buried in the other man’s chest as he gripped the barrel of the gun.

“Get him!” the older man yelled at his companion.

Cassandra had almost forgotten he was there, and then watched as he ran toward Jack, a wicked-looking club in his hand.

Cassandra again found herself moving on instinct, this time springing up as quickly as she could and intercepting the attacker.

He attempted to swing, but Cassandra crashing into his arm changed his trajectory.

Rather than hitting Jack as he had intended, the man’s blow struck his companion.

It was exactly what they needed.

Due to the shock of the blow and his own surprise, the man’s fingers loosened, and the gun fell out of his hand.

Jack held the barrel, the weapon facing toward him with the trigger still toward the man.

The first shot was loud, breaking the silence and surface serenity of the day.

Cassandra was busy grappling with the younger man, a battle she was swiftly losing, but she couldn’t help but watch in horror as the older man again reached for the trigger.

She almost cheered when Jack pulled the weapon out of his reach and then tossed it aside.

Her mind was moving so fast, she could hardly process what was happening, but she guessed it wouldn’t be too hard to completely wrangle control, so Jack was taking the weapon out of the equation.

The stinging blow against her head reminded her exactly what that equation consisted of.

Her hearing was muffled in one ear, the ringing that was a result of the blow crowding out everything else.

She turned and froze for just a moment as dizziness threatened to overtake her.

But when she had pushed it back, she focused on the younger man.

He had her in a tight hold, one hand clamped around her neck, the other holding her fist.

Unless you counted a sixth-grade gym class fight, Cassandra had never been in a physical fight before.

Her mind was racing—the fear, anger, all of it, threatening to make her sick.

Still, she was able to pull from something primal, that inborn instinct for self-preservation, and went for the vulnerable spots.

She clawed at the man’s face, could feel his skin and flesh giving way as she dug and pulled.

“You bitch!”

That he screamed told her she was doing something right. That he still had the concentration to make words told her she needed to work harder. So, she dug more, shifting her hand until she hit the thin skin of his eyelid, and the firm orb underneath.

Cassandra pushed and thought she would vomit when she felt that orb give way.

But she didn’t stop.

No, she kept clawing, scratching, ignored his high-pitched screams, ignored nauseating feel of his blood on her fingers.

When she heard the soft pop , felt a rush of fluid, she knew she had won this battle.

He had been holding her tight, one hand locked around her throat. He screamed in pain again, but this time he let go.

Cassandra took the opportunity to scurry away but didn’t make it too far. She was on her back, and when she looked at him she saw the blood rushing from the scratches and mixing with the fluid leaking out of his wounded eye.

He was still screaming, but rather than backing away, he charged toward her.

He landed on her, his heavy weight pushing her into the road as her breath expelled from her chest.

Cassandra had been triumphant, but that triumph was short-lived.

Still holding his injured eye, the younger man reached toward her with the other hand. Though he was wounded, he was still strong, driven by rage now.

He clamped his hand around her throat and began to squeeze. Cassandra followed her first instinct and reached for his wrist. She tugged, and had she had the breath, she would have screamed out her frustration. He didn’t budge.

He had his knees holding her lower body in place. And even if she’d had the strength to loosen his hand, she didn’t have the leverage, not in this position.

Her senses were leaving her, as was the air in her lungs as she groped around wildly, reaching for anything that might help her.

She closed her fingers around something solid, didn’t even pause long enough to figure out what it was. Using all the force that she could muster, she swung wildly and crashed the object against his head.

The crack was sickening, the sound of bone breaking something that was both unfamiliar and immediately identifiable.

She didn’t make the same mistake she had before. She didn’t revel in her triumph, didn’t assume that her blow had been sufficient. Instead she swung again, listening for that telltale crack.

Again.

And then again.

The crack was becoming more and more muffled, now more like squishy mush. It reminded her of the sound tomatoes made when she crushed them for sauce.

Some rational part of her knew what that meant, but she swung again.

“It’s done,” Jack said.

At first, she didn’t really process what he’d said and went to swing again but was stopped by his hand on her wrist.

“It’s done,” he repeated, his voice more urgent, but only slightly so, than it had been before. This time, his words penetrated.

She tossed what she now recognized was a rock, threw it away as though it was fire.

She looked at Jack, saw that his breathing was slightly elevated, but he didn’t have any bruises.

Then, she looked beyond him to the older man. He wasn’t moving, and Cassandra knew what that meant.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, she looked down and to her right.

She had scurried away from the younger man, something she didn’t recall doing.

He lay on the ground, still like the other man, and even though she couldn’t quite bring herself to look directly at him, Cassandra could see the blood that pooled around his eye, the concave dent in his skull that was shaped like the rock she had held only moments ago.