Page 116 of Silas

I palm the pistol in both hands and drop to one knee as I pivot out from behind the tree.

I find a point of light and squeeze off a shot a tiny bit above it. A howl of pain tells me I hit someone.

“Goddamn cunt! She shot Tim! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill the cunt!” The voice is close, a dozen feet to my left and behind me.

“You can’t kill her, Harry,” a voice calls out from my right.

I spot more points of light—at least six.

Fear pounds in my veins, pain throbs in my head.

If these men catch me…

I can’t let them.

I can’t.

I have to be sneaky, now. I tiptoe like I’m trying to sneak past my father on creaky floors. A branch snaps, and a shot rings out.

“Quit shooting, goddammit!” The same voice screams this, frustrated. “You kill her, you’re dead too.”

I ease through the underbrush—I hear heavy breathing to my left, see a point of light to my right and behind.

They’ve got me nearly surrounded.

I see an upturned tree, a huge dead hulk with a gaping hole where the rootball was. I fight the urge to run to it, instead creeping so slowly it feels like I’m not moving at all. What feels like hours later, but in reality is mere seconds, I reach the root hole and slip-slide down into it.

It smells like dirt and rotting leaves. Something with too many legs crawls across my forearm, and I bite down on a scream—this is no time to be squeamish about bugs.

I hunker down, shoulder to the dirt, panting and wheezing.

Feet clomp past only inches away, heavy breathing huffing in the dark. It’s cold. The vest digs into my ribs and constricts my breasts painfully. My head pounds with unrelenting agony; blood still oozes down my forehead, and I feel faint. The neck and upper portion of my shirt are sticky and warm with cooling blood; I have to stop the bleeding.

I ease the knife from the sheath and cut away at the hem of my shirt until I have a long strip, which I bind around my head. It’s not great, but it will have to do.

“You see her?” A voice shouts, from far too close.

“Fuckin’ bitch vanished,” another answers.

“The tricky little cunt can’t have gone far,” the first voice says; they’re together, now, and right above me.

“Hey, check down there.”

I draw my pistol and aim it up in the direction of the voices. A flashlight clicks on, and the beam sweeps down.

Spotlights on me.

I fire right into the circle of light, squinting, looking away as soon as I’ve fired. There’s a shout, a crunch of a body hitting the forest floor. Another flashlight shines on me—my ears ring from my shot. I can’t hear—my blood pounds in my ears, and time feels distorted and slow. My shoulder burns, the outside, just above my bicep.

I see him, illuminated by his fallen comrade’s light. Thirties, fat but broad-shouldered and powerful, moonfaced, sweating. He levels a rifle at me.

I shoot first, and he falls.

My chest heaves, panting from exertion, but also from horror at what I’m doing. I’m killing people.

Me.

I scramble up out of the hole, tripping over bodies. Soft, pliable, unmoving. My hand lands in something wet and warm. A flashlight shines on a face—gape-eyed, slack-jawed, staring; a red hole weeps from his forehead, a few inches off center.