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He’s on the ground, but still fighting them off, one thug wrestling him, while others send kicks aimlessly—the beasts don’t even care if they hurt each other.
I grab one by the hair, press the gun to his back, and pull the trigger, but a hollow sound follows.
“Fuck!” I toss the gun aside and throw him at another guy.
Someone grabs me from behind, strangling me, lifting me off the ground. I hold on to his arms around my neck and kick with both feet at another one who rushes toward me.
There is no end to them. More are coming. I’m thrown onto the ground. A kick in my gut leaves me breathless for a moment. Another one makes me dizzy, then another when I try to get up but fall down.
We lost.
The two of us.
I kick back in a last attempt to get back on my feet.
“Archer,” I cry, knowing that he lost too, that he can’t get back up, but wanting one more time to hear his voice.
56
ARCHER
Through the mudand the slush and the kicks and the punches—I’m on the ground, wrestling and fighting in reflex by now, just trying to keep going—I suddenly hear Kat’s voice, my name.
She didn’t leave! She’s somewhere near, and by the sound of it, in pain.
I snap back to life, kicking someone’s leg from under them. I roar and start punching away, pushing up, then surging forward through a mass of bodies, my fists slippery from pouring rain and blood as I punch into flesh.
Gunfire erupts only twenty or so feet away, and the thugs duck and halt, their circle around me loosening.
“Everyone freeze!” someone commands.
Another round of shots go off.
I raise my head, wobbling on my feet. About a dozen shadows in uniforms and night vision goggles are approaching like a wall, and I frantically search for Kat.
The thugs start retreating slowly, crouching away, and I find her sitting on the ground and run to her.
“We’re fine, fine,” I murmur, checking her face and helping her get up.
Her hair is wet, she’s a mess, the side of her face bloodied, but she grabs my head and kisses me on the lips, salty wetness mixing with my blood gushing through my cut lip.
There are more of us to fight off the fucking Savages, but a sudden shot pierces the air, and one of the guards goes down.
The mercenaries have seen every shade of brutality in war zones. But they rarely see a riot of fucked-up drunk and high nothing-to-lose low-lives who crave blood and violence. That’s why riots are unstoppable. You never understand why the rioters hurt their own, but it’s simple—an animalistic reflex, driven by adrenalin. Violence is contagious and tends to turn off the most basic human instincts—reason and self-preservation. Biological reflexes are the strongest in humans. We are, in essence, animals. Throw in intoxication, and we become killing machines.
A deafening bang and a bright orange explosion assault my eardrums and eyes. Dirt showers us head to toe, sending us all crouching. It’s not a bomb but a gas tank or something, lighting up the Ashlands with a hellish glare and sending a heat wave in our direction.
Several guards are on the ground. The others start shooting point-blank at the figures now clearly visible against the giant orange glow.
The tents catch on fire.
Wails echo through the dark.
More shadows come as bullets start whining all around us.
My feet are raw from stepping on trash and stones, but I hiss through pain and hold Kat tight next to me as I yell, “We gotta start moving!”
The loudspeakers on the Western side of the Ashlands go off. An army of guards is closing in from the West, pushing all the thugs in our direction. Some thugs might surrender, but the ones running—fuck—are running toward us…
