Page 49 of Rabid

Lance finished cleaning the cut and rubbed one finger along her cheek. He licked the tear off and smiled at the taste.

“You’re the old woman’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”

Did he know her story? She didn’t see how he could. Her grandmother would never have told any of the Hoggs, including Carrie.

He backhanded her when she didn’t answer.

“The way this goes,” he said, his voice shaking with anger, “is I ask questions, and you give me answers. If you don’t, that pretty face will be bruised before I put it to good use. I don’t want that, do you?”

“No,” she said quickly, allowing her voice to quiver. She had nothing to lose, and she’d been in this situation before with her father. She was no longer twelve. She would fight Lance to the death. He would find little enjoyment in what he had planned.

“Now that’s better,” he murmured. “Was the old lady your grandmother?”

“She was. Her name was Joan.”

He backhanded her again. “Smartass bitch, aren’t you?”

It was better than being a dumbass, she thought silently. She pictured her mother’s weakness and the years of abuse she suffered without fighting back. Her mother could have escaped, but she hadn’t. Willow was more the product of her grandmother; of that, she had no doubt. She didn’t have a plan, only years of built-up rage coursing through her veins. Rage that ran with Joan’s blood.

“You lay there and don’t move,” he said, backing up.

He pulled off the backpack and unzipped the largest compartment. He began pulling out items. There were two packages of peanut butter crackers. He opened one and began shoving them into his mouth. Willow could see how thin he was. His weakness gave her hope.

He pulled out a flashlight and clicked it on, then off. Last, he pulled out a length of rope.

“Look what we have here,” he said, his smile so wide she saw another missing tooth. “This will be fun,” he added.

He was an idiot. Did he not remember the duct tape?

His eyes flashed to the other package ofcrackers.

“I’m hungry,” she said softly.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “If you’re good, I’ll let you have half.”

She started crying, proud of her acting skills. “Don’t hurt me, please.”

He walked closer and squatted beside her, his hand reaching out to carefully take a few strands of hair between his fingers.

“I don’t need to hurt you if you behave. I may even keep you around when I move into your place.”

Her entire body shook with rage, but he wouldn’t know that.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “You might like it.”

He reached for his pants, unsnapped them, and began working on the zipper. He pushed them down his legs but didn’t have a chance to finish.

Willow grabbed his ankles and rolled backward. His arms flailed, and he hit the dirt floor with a loud thud. His legs were trapped by his pants, and he hadn’t remembered the guns, which tumbled out and hit the floor behind him. His eyes narrowed on the weapons, and she knew he would reach them first.

Fisting her hands, she brought them down with all the force she could muster, straight into his stomach. Foul air rushed from his mouth, and he curled inward. Willow kicked out, her footconnecting with his head. She practically dove over his body, but he struck out with his knee, catching her on the shoulder. She slammed against the wall.

Somehow, he leapt onto her, his fist raised above her face, ready to strike.

The door slammed open, and Dale rammed into Lance, knocking him away from her. She had no time to feel relieved; she dove for the guns.

Willow’s heart thundered in her chest, the taste of blood sharp in her mouth. She blocked out the sounds of the fight and grasped the cold metal of the gun. Her body screamed in protest as she raised it, her mind flashing back to her father.

“Willow,” Dale rasped as her vision cleared. “It’s me.”

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