Page 66 of 72 Hours

Then my limbs seemed to lose control like the strings had been cut on them. I sank to the floor amongst a jumble of bodies and furniture and angry exclamations. I saw Greg’s legs take him in a stumbling path to the door; I saw Sheri lying on the floor on the other side of the room, sobbing.

“Fuck!” It was Niall’s voice, I’d never been so glad to hear him cursing in my life. It meant he was alive, didn’t it? “He’s getting away!”

The trailer door burst open, letting in a gust of cold air and a hissing wave of rain. And then the silhouette of Greg’s body hurtled outward into the night.

NIALL SHOUTED SOMETHING incoherent.

I hadn’t passed out. When this was over, I thought crazily, I’d wonder whether I was pleased about that, or whether it would have been a blessed relief, because everything hurt like fuck all over again. But not now. Not now.

The coil of rope that Greg had used on Sheri was lying on the floor, within my reach. I grabbed it, and I slung it as hard as I could at his retreating feet. It was a poor throw, though he was moving erratically, like his own legs weren’t responding well. I think I caught at his ankles because I heard him grunt. But I knew it wasn’t enough to stop him. I knew we’d lost him. I was aware of Niall’s body over by the couch, but he wasn’t moving much, and I really didn’t want to think about why that might be.

I had to get up somehow, even though nothing on or in my body seemed to be working properly. I had to stop Greg. Our guns were outside, under the trailers. He’d be armed again in seconds, while we were still grovelling about on the floor and Sheri was still vulnerable—

Then suddenly he vanished from view. It was really odd. He gave a cry of furious surprise and his whole body sank beneath the doorway. Had he dropped down for some reason? Had he fallen? All I could hear was the rain and the wheezing of my own breath. I lay on my belly, fighting down waves of pain and nausea, and then I dragged myself—far too slowly—over to the open doorway and peered out through the rain and darkness.

Amazing things were happening outside in the previously deserted trailer park. There were way more shapes than Greg’s, swirling in and out of the shadows. I heard the sound of running and some loud, shouted orders in a woman’s voice. I couldn’t really compute that one. My vision was still blurred, and my brain felt as if it had been hit by a baseball bat, then folded into the size of the ball and squashed into a plastic souvenir cup.

I thought I saw a silhouette that couldn’t have been anyone but Junk, and then I definitely saw Greg’s blond head rear back up. Everything was lit eerily by the dim lamp light that was spilling out from inside my trailer, and then distorted by the rain. I couldn’t judge the distances. I tried to raise myself on an arm that felt increasingly like it was made of marshmallow to shout out a warning to the big guy.

Seems I didn’t need to.

In a whirl of shadowy limbs, a slim figure leaped up and shot a straight leg out at Greg, connecting decisively with his gut. Greg doubled up, grunting with pain. I saw his knife flash, but it spun out of his hand and away, flying in a glittering arc in the wet darkness. I heard a muted cheer, but that may have just been a symptom of my delirium. The shadowy figure straightened, then dropped onto Greg’s hunched figure again, and I didn’t mistake the loud scream of pain from him that time.

I heard only one coherent word from him—“Bitch!”—and then he collapsed completely onto the rough ground with a thud, like a sack of wet sand.

Someone turned on some lights in another nearby trailer—it may even have been Junk’s own place—and the area outside my door was suddenly brightly illuminated.

I could see Greg lying face down in the dirt, one of his legs twisted awkwardly under him. Several other figures stood by him. I recognised Phil and Zac and a couple of Junk’s older sons. Junk himself hovered by his trailer, his face turned towards my door, obviously looking for Sheri. For a second, all the participants seemed cast in grey stone, their silhouettes frozen around the prone body.

Then Greg made the smallest of movements. Every single person whirled around to look down at him. A woman stepped out from behind Junk; she’d been unintentionally hidden from my view. She moved with both grace and determination, and was clothed in tight-fitting black shirt and trousers. Her hair was soaked and clinging to the shape of her head, but I knew it would be blonde when dry. Her breath was steady, and she took up a fighting stance as if she were born to it.

Her appearance was accompanied by a snap of Junk’s fingers and the slick crunch of guns being cocked, all at once. Several other figures stepped forward, and I heard the snap of many switchblades. Greg had every inch of his body covered by assorted weaponry. There were guys in a circle around him that I’d never seen before on the site; guys who had tattooed muscles where I still had puppy fat; guys that’d make me re-think my life insurance many times over before I disagreed with them.

Dylan trotted slowly forward, his tongue hanging out, and he placed his front paw on Greg’s neck. His coat was shining and dripping with the rain, but his eyes were as bright as usual. He growled, and the body fell very still.

Judith—for of course it was she—turned to look at me. Her smile was very grim, but unmistakably full of triumph.

And then I passed out.

​​​Chapter 24 – Thursday 01:50

I felt a great lassitude in my limbs. I didn’t really want to wake up. Did I?

Sheri’s voice rattled in my ear, demanding attention. I recognised the tone. It had the soft lightness of a young woman, but the vocabulary of the family she lived with.

“Mac, are you okay? Mac! Tanner! Whatever your name is. Speak to me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Watch your language, girl.” That was too low a pitch for her, unless she’d been taking testosterone for recreational purposes. Must’ve been Junk.

Sheri snapped back, but her voice sounded shaky. “I’ll fucking watch my language when he answers me.”

My eyelids felt as heavy as if the statue of Nelson in Trafalgar Square and his damn horse were perched on top of them, but I slowly dragged them open. I was still in my trailer, now laid back in a half-slumped, half-sitting position on my less than comfortable couch. I doubted I’d be keeping this crappy piece of furniture much longer, despite whatever sentimental value it might have gained over the last few days. It had seen too much action, of a variety of kinds.

“Sheri?” I grunted. “You okay?”

“Shit, Mac.” Her face swam into view, her dark red hair drawn back scrappily from a pale, blotched face. She didn’t look quite as carefully groomed as usual. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she didn’t seem to notice them. There was a small cut on her lip, and she nursed her hand to her chest. It was wrapped in a very efficient bandage.

“You look good.” I smiled.