Page 97 of Slash

Not to get loose.

But to use the plastic as my own weapon.

I slammed my hands forward, catching him across the throat with the plastic, then wrapping my hands around his neck, holding on as hard as I could as he tried to gasp for air, but couldn’t get any.

There were things I knew thanks to having worked in this crime-ridden town for so long.

Like it only took ten or so seconds of pressure on the carotid to knock someone unconscious.

Not for long, but long enough.

To run.

To get out.

To scream for help.

Someone would come.

I had to believe that.

Because if they didn’t, and he woke back up, I was dead.

Or wishing I were dead.

Chet reared back as his hands grabbed at mine, trying to move away from me.

So I dug my nails in harder, holding on with every bit of strength in me as he reared back, then landed on his ass, his mouth opening and closing like a fish suddenly finding itself on land.

So I pushed harder, sinking the zip tie in deeper, folding him backward until he was the one flat on his back, my knees pinning his hips.

I watched him, those horror-filled, yet familiar eyes, knowing I should have been disgusted at watching them fade to black as unconsciousness took him.

But if one of us was walking out of there, it was going to be me, damnit.

I pressed for another couple of seconds, not sure if he was faking it or not.

When I was satisfied, I jumped off of him, turning, and running.

There was no exit to the back, so I flew forward, running blindly in the dark.

But then there it was.

A door.

I had horrific visions of reaching for the doorknob, pulling it open, only to have a hand slam down on it, locking me in, then dragging me back to hell.

But that didn’t happen.

The knob turned.

I pulled it open.

Then I flew out onto the street.

I took all of two seconds to look around, to gain my bearings.

I was on Main Street.

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