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There were grunts and hisses as her foot met stomach, ribs, groin, then silence when she pulled back, and with every bit of force in her body - which, at the moment, was a lot - she slammed it forward into his face.
Once.
Twice.
"Chris," I said, reaching out with my free hand to touch her arm. "Chris, he's out. He's out," I tried again as she kicked two more times. "There will be other guys to beat up," I added, and, somehow, that snapped her out of her daze.
Her gaze shifted to me, focusing, nodding. "Garage?" she asked, jerking her chin up toward the stairs.
"I think that is the best bet," I agreed, holding out the toilet tank top toward her, knowing I would need both hands to swing it, but I had to hold the gun. "Both hands. And HAAM like you just went on him," I told her, watching her look down at his prone body, his mouth and nose bleeding alarmingly, doing so with glacial indifference.
"Got it," she agreed with a firm nod, closing both her hands around it, following me as we made our way to the stairs, both spreading our legs wide to step only on the outsides of the planks where they were stapled down, where they were least likely to creak.
Getting to the top, my stomach swirling, my pulse pounding, I pushed the door open, steeling myself for any possible encounter as I poked out my head.
But there was no one.
Not even the sounds of anyone.
And, well, why would there be?
They were probably all figuring their comrade had it under control, gearing up for the "fun" they were supposed to be having with Chris.
I looked back, giving her a small smile, not quite victorious because we were nowhere near freedom yet, but letting her know that we had won a small battle in the war.
I moved out a foot only to feel my arm snagged in a surprisingly strong grip. Turning, Chris pointed toward the far end of the hall. Likely because it was quieter. And since she had a lot more experience with this place than I did, I moved across the hall with her barely two feet behind, sneaking like curious kids through the halls on Christmas Eve night.
The thoughts moved through my mind, unbidden, as I was worried even thinking them might jinx us, as we rounded a corner that I knew from counting my steps that first night would lead to the garage.
This is too easy.
But why would they feel the need to station guards all around when they kept us chained in a basement behind a locked door?
My breath was stuck in my lungs as my hand grabbed the doorknob, feeling it turn easily in my hand, opening without a sound.
Unable to help it, I shot Chris an incredulous look over my shoulder before moving into the dark space. Unable to see, I felt Chris brush against me as she came in.
I closed the door with a quiet click as Chris's hand felt around the wall, found a switch, flicked on a fluttering bulb overhead.
I cringed at it, wondering if the light might draw attention, but it was pitch. We needed to be able to make out our surroundings.
The car that had been my very temporary prison was gone, leaving nothing but a drip spot darkening the concrete of the floor.
Long, weather-worn workbenches lined one wall, tools of every form, for every task, hung and lay there, some new and shiny, others dusty, connected to one another by long filmy strips of old cobwebs.
It smelled like a garage too - all dirt and oil and airlessness.
"There's a door," Chris declared, waving a hand out to the side of the electric garage door - something that would make too much noise, but would have been the only option otherwise.
I nodded at her, eyes moving across the workbenches for anything of use. "Do you see a flashlight? It's nighttime," I added since it was easy to lose track of day cycles in a darkened basement. "I don't know if we are escaping into the woods or what, but a flashlight would be handy."
And a lighter.
Something weatherproof.
But I wasn't hoping for miracles.
We would make do.
"There," I whispered, seeing the telltale silver of a Maglite butted up on a shelf near the door.
We moved in that direction, Chris instinctively taking my six, letting me lead, trusting me.
Trusting me.
When I was as young as she was.
But, I reminded myself, squashing down the insecurity that had been bubbling up, I had led a very different life, had very distinct skills that she likely lacked. She probably picked up on that, decided I was better equipped to take the lead.
My hand reached for the flashlight, closing over the reassuring weight, knowing it could easily break a nose or eye-socket. Or front tooth. Like what happened to Malc a few months back, giving everyone nightmares about it for weeks while he got a nice crown and acted like it was no big deal.
