The knife moves away, and I thrash anew, eyes springing open and my blurred vision clearing—Duane is wearing a red bandana over his mouth and nose, a ballcap and sunglasses hiding the rest of his face, clad in dirty denim and a filthy T-shirt. The reek of booze on his breath turns my stomach.
He slaps me again and then presses the blade to my throat. "Hold the fuck still or I'll start cutting. I'll fuck your corpse if I have to.”
I gag, gasp, and go still, wheezing and whimpering.
Panzer is still going nuts, and I hear the window crack. The car is only a few feet away. If I can get away for even a split second, I can yank the door open and let Panzer have Duane.
I have to time it just right.
I go still, watching with a revolting stomach and hammering heart as Duane knees astride me, pointing the knife at me while fumbling at his belt with the other hand.
He's drunk, and his hand is unsteady, working in my favor.
He looks down for a moment, struggling to get the prong of his belt out of the hole. I buck, dislodging him and making him wobble backward; I yank my feet back and kick at him with all my strength, screaming as my feet connect with his chest. He flies backward and lands on his back, gagging for breath.
I scramble backward on my backside, away from him and toward the car, toward Panzer.
"Oh no, you fuckin' don't,bitch!" Duane snarls, jackknifing forward.
He stumbles to his feet, staggers unsteadily sideways, and then lunges for me as I scramble desperately backward, reaching for the door handle.
He stands over me, swiping at me with the short-bladed folding knife; the tip whistles past my face. I grab the handle, but his fist cracks across my face, smashing into my nose, loosing a freshet of hot, salty blood down my face.
With another scream, I lash out with my foot, catching him in the crotch. He doubles over and I kick him again, missing his crotch but getting his thigh, sending him to a knee as he wheezes, eyes bugging out in agony.
I yank open the rear door an inch; Panzer smashes it open with his shoulder as he leaps, clearing six feet in a single bound. His teeth latch onto Duan's knife hand, the blade clattering to the ground. The man screams, a gargling howl of pain.
Panzer snarls, shaking his head—a wet crack echoes through the alley: Duane's arm breaking in several places.
I tug open the driver’s door and haul myself in by the steering wheel. My purse is still slung around my torso, and I dig for my keys frantically as Panzer thrashes and savages the screaming, howling Duane. I hear another crack of breaking bone.
I get my keys free and shove the key into the ignition, starting the motor. "Panzer. Komm Rein." I can barely manage the words past the blood flowing out of my nose and filling my mouth, staining my chest and throat.
Panzer releases Duane and hops up into the car, panting. His brown muzzle drips red.
Duane is on the ground, moaning, rolling. His arm is mangled and unrecognizable, bone protruding in several places. I don’t want to be responsible for his death, but I’m not upset that he’ll never use that arm again.
A groan of agony escaping me. I reach into the back, yank the rear door closed, and then gun the engine out of the parking lot.
It never occurs to me to call 911, or anyone else. All I care about is Bear—Duane's words echo in my head:Got him taken care of. Permanently.
I race at reckless speeds toward Bear's apartment complex, knowing that's where he'd be at this time—showering and changing between work and the shelter.
Tires squealing as I fishtail into the lot and screech to a halt at an angle in front of his building, I shove open my door and race, panting and sobbing, for his unit.
I trip and lurch up the stairs, slicing my palms bloody as I cut them on the metal stairs. "BEAR!" I scream.
His door stands open. Bodies litter the floor, six or eight of them—my first thought is that they're all dead. But then I hear a chorus of ragged moans and realize they're all still alive.
Panting, hanging against the splintered doorframe, I survey the scene.
Bats, chains, knives, and brass knuckles lay discarded near their erstwhile wielders. I see one arm broken, bent at a horrible angle, white shards protruding from ragged flesh. A jaw is dislocated, hanging loose. A leg is bent horribly inward at the knee. One man rolls to his side, vomiting—I see teeth amid the puddle of bile and blood.
Nauseated at the gory scene, I turn away.
A trail of bloody dots leads away from the apartment. I follow the dots down the stairs, Panzer at my heels, whimpering.
"I know, boy," I whisper. "We'll find him. He's okay. he has to be."
