Page 36 of Velvet and Valor
Shorty reluctantly moves toward June’s bedroom. I try to get past the Mullet, but he lands a kick right in my breadbasket. The air explodes out of me as he compresses my diaphragm. I stumble back, struggling to wheeze in air.
“So big, so strong,” he mutters, moving toward me as I back away down the hallway. I’m going to run out of hallway in a moment, and no way will I be able to breathe by then. “But you move like a pregnant yak.”
I’ve backed to the end of the hallway now. The door to my left is partly open, revealing a closet inside. Nowhere to run that way. There’s a window behind me, but it leads to a sheer drop off two stories right into the concrete flood control trench. So, basically a three-story fall. Survivable, but broken bones are likely.
I don’t have the air to fight. Not yet. There’s no time to stall, because June is in danger. The Mullet surges forward, murder in his eyes. He’s going to pay me back for shooting his friend.
Or he would, if I didn’t have other plans. I’m still gasping for air, my vision darkening and barely able to stay conscious, let alone upright. But it doesn’t take much effort to grab the closet door and swing it open wide.
Mullet runs face-first into the edge of the door. The door buckles, wood splintering as the hinges tear and deform, but the door only moves a couple of inches. The rest of the energy of his charge goes right into his face.
He goes down in a heap, but he’s not out. He’s trying to shake it off, and he’s tough enough that he just might succeed.
Moving on instinct, I change levels and drop on top of him, getting into a full mount position. I rain punches down like the volcano rained down destruction on Pompeii.
“Pregnant yak?” Smack! “That’s sexist and ignorant!” Smack! “I’ve been to Bolivia!” Smack! “Those pregnant Yaks keep up with the herd!”
I stop the lecture there, because he’s in no condition to listen. I have no time to savor my victory, however. June’s cry from the bedroom drives me back into action.
I stagger forward, trying to will air into my lungs. I was fine when I was sitting on that guy. Man, that sounds terrible. When I was beating that guy. Still not great…
“Get your fucking hands off of me,” June cries. Her defiant snarl turns into a scream. “No!”
I rush the last few feet down the hallway and grip the edge of her door frame, leveraging myself in. June lies pinned face-down on the bed, one of her arms twisted painfully between her shoulder blades. Shorty has his knee in the small of June’s back.
His face bears four red lines running in a curving track from temple to cheek. Good girl, June. You made him pay for breaking in here and being a prick.
But maybe she was too successful. Now Shorty’s bloody face has twisted into a mask of sheer fury. He lifts his axe up over his head. Whatever the plan for June was before, plans have changed. He’s going to make her pay for ruining his face. With interest.
I don’t have time for anything fancy. I leap forward with everything I’ve got left, hurling my body like a lance toward the intruder. We collide, and I wrap one arm around his body, while the other seeks control of the axe. Both of us tumble off the bed, freeing June.
We keep rolling until he lands on top of me, knocking the precious wind I’d drawn into my body right back out. The intruder pushes his advantage, literally and figuratively. He grabs the axe handle with both hands and tries to use it to crush my windpipe.
I kind of have strong feelings about not having my trachea shattered, so I fight back as best I can. Unfortunately, we land with my left arm pinned under his leg, so I have to push with one hand versus two of his.
To top it all off, he has gravity on his side. Inexorably, the handle moves down until it presses into my throat. I kick my legs, trying to get some purchase so I can buck him off, but there isn’t much room to maneuver between the bed and the wall.
A red blur flashes into sight, ricocheting off of Shorty’s head. He bends forward, his eyes wide with shock as a new line of blood trails down from his temple.
The pressure on my neck lessens. Shorty looks up from me toward the direction the missile came from. This time, I can tell what the object is—one of June’s shoes. A red patent leather number with a wooden heel. It has to weigh a ton.
Shorty lets go of the axe handle in an attempt to intercept the shoe flying toward his face. He partly succeeds, deflecting it away though the wooden heel cracks painfully into his wrist.
But with only one arm pressing down on me, I’m able to get free at last. I punch upward with the axe handle, driving it into his chin once, twice, three times. His body grows limp and slack atop me. I kick him away and get to my feet, but it’s obvious he’s down for the count.
I look over and see June standing by her closet, armed with a pair of knee-high boots.
“Are you okay?” I ask between pants.
She nods, her eyes saying it all; June is on the verge of shock.
“You’ve got one minute to get what you need,” I say, wiping the blood off my face. I hadn’t realized how beat up I’d gotten during the fight, but at least I didn’t take a direct shot from one of those nasty axes. “Then we’re out of here.”
June starts moving, which makes me glad. It means she’s not going into shock. Not yet. I sink onto the edge of the bed as my vision darkens around the edge.
“Wake me in fifty-five seconds precisely,” I say, collapsing backward onto the bed until all I can see is her ceiling.
And then, I can’t see anything at all.
