Page 114 of One Step Too Far

Martin, standing there, taking it. “Kill you... kill you... kill you.”

I grab the gun. One shot to get this right.

Suddenly Martin howls. A father’s rage. A father’s pain. Then, even as the knife comes down in another debilitating blow, Martin charges.

He doesn’t go low. He doesn’t try for finesse. He collides, hard and square against his opponent.

A moment of hush.

Quiet shock.

The hunter, no doubt confused by how his prey can still be standing, still be fighting back.

Then a second of pure disbelief.

As Martin’s momentum carries them backward. As Martin’s sheer indomitable will shoves them to the edge of the ravine.

The hunter, twisting now, trying to get his footing.

Martin’s feral smile, a flash of white against his blood-encrusted face. “Kill you kill you kill you.”

Martin pushes them both over the edge.

I hear the hunter scream. I swear I hear Martin laugh.

Then there’s nothing at all.

CHAPTER 39

Somehow, I crawl my way back to Miguel. The adrenaline is still coursing through my veins. Fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight. But I’ve already exercised both options. I’ve got nothing left.

Miguel has managed to push himself to sitting, his back against a tree trunk. The light is failing now, the temperature dropping quickly. It’s hard for me to tell how much of him is covered in dirt versus blood. I suppose he’d say the same.

“Water?” he gasps.

Our packs are still up on the short rise, tucked beneath their cover of grass. It feels like a million miles away, but of the two of us, I’m in the better shape. I stagger my way in that direction. It takes several tries, then I’m on top of the mound, looping my left arm through both sets of straps. My right arm still isn’t working. And I can feel half my face swelling to twice its natural size.

I get the packs back to Miggy. Take out water bottles for each of us.

He manages to work his. I require his assistance to pop the top off my own.

I do some digging till I find the small first aid pouch packed eons ago by Josh.

I don’t have the energy for more bandages. We’re out of feminine hygiene products and probably beyond help anyway. In the end, I pluck out the ibuprofen tablets. There are eight. I dole out four to each of us. We’re living the dream.

“Can you walk?” Miguel asks.

“Not well.”

“Me either. My knee. My chest.”

I can hear it now, when he breathes. An ominous hiss.

I don’t want to know, but now is not the time to be squeamish. I fumble with my pencil flashlight, finally pointing it at him.

“Oh,” I say at last. I turn off the light. I was right the first time. I didn’t want to know.

“That... bad?”

---