Clumsy with panic, I trip over a rock in my path, only this time I can’t catch myself. I land hard on my hip. Grit flies into my mouth and eyes as my jaw skids roughly along the cold sand.
I bite back a shriek, bracing myself for a knife’s blade to bear down on the stretch of exposed skin where my sweatshirt has ridden up.
I hear that same male voice from behind me again, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Who the fuck is it? I struggle to my hands and knees, still clinging to the handle of my water bottle, and blink away the sand in my eyes. That’s the moment a Chaco-clad foot lands inches from mine.
There’s no escape now. I know that. But I lunge at the leg anyway, slamming my water bottle against the shin as hard as I can.
It makes a pathetic, plasticthwack.
And all I can think is,This is it. This is how I die.
15
I don’t die, though.
And I don’t feel a blade slice into me, either.
Instead, the leg I just whacked with my water bottle darts backward half a step.
I seize my chance and clamber to my feet in time to see a second shadow spring toward me—and collide with the first.
The two figures crash onto the sand, rolling toward the brush near the tents, locked together in a scuffle.
Above the grunting and shoving, I hear a male voice shout, “Go! Get on the rafts!” Is that Bryan? With the horrifying chorus of noises, I still can’t tell.
I obey that voice, picking up my feet and running, trying to make sense of the panicked figures darting around on shore, scrambling to escape.
Then, from behind me, someone calls, “Hold on! I’ve got him pinned.”
My hope surges. This time, I’m positive the baritone voice is Bryan’s.
I whirl to see, but I can’t make out much among the shifting shadows and the brush.
Then Josh’s voice rises up in a roar. “Fuck you, I will end you—”
Then more strangled, gurgling noises. The chaos near shore lulls just long enough for me to hear the sick sound of a blade puncturing skin, then a scream of pain.
“Help me! I’ve got him, but I need help!” It’s Bryan’s anguished voice again, begging.
Through a nauseated haze, I understand what’s happening. Bryan is fighting for his life. After likely saving my life.
I picture him,Flip Flop, red-faced and terrified in that oversized swim shirt, desperately trying to hold onto Josh while being stabbed.
Which means that if I don’t do something to help Bryan, Josh will, once again, be coming after the rest of us in seconds.
My gut rolls. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I don’t have a weapon aside from this stupid water bottle. Despite my terror, I whirl around, screaming over my shoulder, “You guys, help me! Bryan has Josh pinned!”
There’s no time to wait for the others, though. And I can’t just stand here while Bryan fights for his life. I can’t.
If you don’t do something, he’s going to die any second,comes a solemn voice from the back of my mind. It’s the same thought I had when Parker and I said our goodbyes through that microphone.
So I turn back toward the brush, even though I have no idea how I’m going to help.
Squinting in the dark, I can barely make out the shadowy figures through the brush, one man hunched over the other. But I stop short as the man on the ground lets out a sharp, guttural cry and then stops moving. I can hardly see anything. I can’t tell who is who. There’s another flurry of wet, slick-sounding thuds. In one stark, horrifying second, I see an arm rise up over the brush before slamming down on the body below.
Dark droplets spray onto the pale sand near my feet. Blood. More blood.
Then the man on top lets out a shuddering sigh and slowly rises up onto his knees.
