Page 80 of Mayflower

I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on Butcher as I take the first move forward, and my knees and palms are pierced with dozens more pinching sparks as I crawl through the glass field.

The pain is piercing, spiderwebbing through my entire body like zaps of electricity as shards of sharp glass dig into my flesh, cutting into it.

“Oh, yeah. Keep going,” Butcher taunts.

Forty feet. I can do it. The pain is sharp. I want to howl at the unbelievable sharpness of it cutting and slicing through my flesh.

“Caaah-mon!” Butcher encourages me.

My palms get slick with blood. When you feel blood coming out, your brain already creates a scenario. You don’t think of what’s happening to your flesh—that’s how you manage wounds.

So I look ahead.

Slowly, I crawl farther.

Every time my palms make contact with the ground, one after another, new pain shoots through my flesh, then my entire body. My shoulder aches like a motherfucker.

“One more for the ride!” Butcher shouts.

Another shot zips through the air, and a sharp pain pierces my neck, snapping my body backward.

“Fuck,” I grunt, wobbling on all fours.

“Raaaaaave!” It’s Sonny. I look at him, and his eyes are wide, so wide with fear as he cries uncontrollably, watching me.

I feel dizzy. Something floods the neckline of my vest—blood. My neck is injured. I pray that it’s not an artery and I can make it to where my little dude is.

Sweat drips down my face, but I can’t get distracted. I move faster. I see Butcher’s face, scowling. “Good, Raven. Good. What a sport! Woof-woof!”

And then he howls.

He’s crazy. He’s reckless. I’m twenty feet away. If only I could get to Butcher’s gun, I could shoot him through the head. I would. No hesitation.

“Ra-a-a-ave,” Sonny whimpers.

Never did I want to hear that plea. But I keep crawling, soil mixed with glass already embedded in my skin and new shards cutting into it, creating a concoction that rips my nerve sensors to pieces. I feel like I’m crawling on fire.

I move my hands forward, grunting as new pieces of glass dig into my skin, pushing the ones before that deeper, into the bone.

I look at Butcher, his gun pressing at Sonny’s temple, then shifting to point at me. “Crawl.”

There’s a tiny moment between the shift of his gun from Sonny to me. If only I could get that moment right.

Ten feet.

I’m almost at their feet. The next shot might be in my head, but I hope it’s mine, not the kid’s.

I lock eyes with Sonny.

“Snake,” I grunt through the pain as I crawl through glass.

Sonny’s brows scrunch in faint recognition of the word. Or so I hope.

“Snake,” I hiss.

Butcher smirks. But I’m not saying it to him. I’m saying this for Sonny. He needs to try to get away from him.

I burrow my gaze at Sonny as I crawl. “Ssssnake,” I repeat.

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