Page 69 of Concerted Chaos

“That’s my sister!” Silas yells, ironically upset that someone would dare harm his sibling. He finally releases me, tossing me aside as easily as if I were a piece of garbage.

“The police are on their way,” Powell shouts to me. “Cass, answer me, are you okay?” I don’t look okay, since half my face is unrecognizable from being battered, and I’m kneeling on the floor, shirtless and covered in blood. Thankfully, it’s not my blood, but Powell wouldn’t know that.

“I’m fine. Watch out!”

Silas dives at Powell, who swings the curtain rod. His blow glances off Silas’ shoulder, and they both crash to the ground. Now I can act. Nobody hurts my brother. I lurch to my feet, twist the remains of my shirt into a rope, and leap on Silas’ back. I loop my makeshift garrote across his throat, the ends wrapped around my wrists for extra traction.

He was trying to punch Powell, but now he’s rising to his feet, fighting to throw me off. I jam my left knee into his back for leverage and hang on with all of my might. He lets out a choking sound, and stumbles backwards, clawing at the fabric that is slowly cutting off his air supply. When he can’t get his fingers under it, he pulls a knife from his belt, one I’m lucky he didn’t use before. I’m terrified of the blade, but I can’t let go. I have to strangle him, because if I don’t, he’s going to kill us both. Silas tries to slash at me behind his back, but the angle is awkward for him and I can dodge. He must not be thinking clearly, or he’d simply slice the loop around his neck. His slashing motions grow weaker and more erratic, and I keep twisting away without lessening the pressure I’m exerting on his windpipe.

“Hang on Cass,” Powell yells. He tries to hit Silas with the curtain rod, but with the way Silas is thrashing, he accidentally hits me instead. Luckily, he pulled back at the last second, so, while I’ll probably have a bruise on my shoulder, it wasn’t hard enough to make me release my grip.

“Get the knife!” I shout at him, and Powell drops the rod and grabs for Silas’ wrist. Silas is weakening, I can feel it. His movements are becoming jerky and slow, and he stumbles to his knees. Powell is trying to pry his fingers off the knife when Silas collapses on top of him, with me still clinging to his back.

Silas isn’t moving, so I finally let go of the garrote as I slide off him, and land in a spreading puddle of blood. Oh no.

“Powell! Powell, are you okay?” I yell, frantically trying to shift Silas’ body. He is huge and heavy. There is a muffled groaning coming from beneath him, and then Powell pushes upward, helping me shift Silas. “Whose blood is that?”

My brother emerges, with blood all over his forearms and shirt. “His, I think? I’m not sure.”

“Are you in pain? Did he stab you? You should know if it’s yours!”

He pulls the mask off his face and examines his arms, then lifts his shirt to look for wounds. Nothing. Good.

I want to collapse. I’m tired, my face hurts, my muscles ache, my shoulder is numb, and ... in all the excitement we’ve forgotten about Whitney.

“First my dad, now my brother?” Her eyes are wild as she staggers toward us. She picks up her purse and reaches into what must be a magical never-ending bag of peanut flour. Before I can call out a warning, she throws a handful in Powell’s face. His eyes widen. He probably doesn’t recognize the smell since we’ve kept him so sheltered from his allergen. But he definitely recognizes the sensation.

“Kitchen drawer,” I shout, reminding him of the location of the nearest EpiPen. As he sprints to the kitchen, I take the opportunity to grab the curtain rod. I hold it, poised to defend my brother from Whitney, but she’s no longer interested in us. She rushes to her own brother and drops to her knees next to him, weeping and promising that everything will be alright.

While she’s distracted, I run to check on Powell, laying on the kitchen floor next to the contents of the drawer he’d ripped out of the cabinet. He’s already jabbed himself in the thigh with the first EpiPen. “Get me an ambulance,” he gasps. His breathing is labored and his face is already swelling and turning red. He’s having a bad reaction. I grab the other Epi from the set. If I’m remembering my training correctly, we need to wait five minutes.

I’m about to call 911 when Mike bursts through the front door, gun at the ready. I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my life. I wish he’d been here ten minutes ago. Or twenty? I don’t have any idea how much time has passed since Silas punched me. It could have been thirty seconds for all I know; my senses are skewed by pain and fear.

“What’s going on?” Mike asks, his gaze doing a sweeping assessment of the room. He cautiously approaches us.

“Peanuts,” Powell struggles to force the word out, so I jam the second shot into his thigh.

“Call an ambulance, now,” I order Mike. “Two, probably. And have those people arrested.” I point to the other set of siblings. Whitney is draped over her brother’s body, sobbing hysterically.

Mike takes off his cardigan and places it over my shoulders to cover my bare skin and my blood-spattered bra. Yes, Mike, security guard extraordinaire, was wearing a powder blue cashmere cardigan on his day off. I’ll try to remember to tease him later.

“It’ll be okay. We’ll handle this,” he reassures me in a soothing voice. I want to believe him, but I don’t. Powell is gasping for breath and his face is more swollen than mine.

More footsteps are running down the hall and the police thunder in, guns drawn. Mike holsters his weapon and puts his hands in the air while he identifies himself and us. The cops are initially hesitant to arrest Whitney, as she’s a weeping woman clinging to a presumably dead body, but I’m able to convince the officers that Whitney was one of the attackers, and they cuff her. She’s going to need to get checked out as well—Powell cracked her pretty hard in the head—but she’s going to the hospital in handcuffs.

An officer touches my shoulder softly, trying to pull me away from Powell. The paramedics have arrived, and they are trying to get me out of the way. I want to obey them, but I can’t bring myself to let go of my brother’s hand. I don’t understand why these EpiPens didn’t make him better. Aren’t they supposed to fix everything?

“Cassidy, come on, we need to get you taken care of too,” Mike unhooks my fingers and gently pulls me to my feet. “Let the paramedics do their job.” He leads me to a chair and makes me sit while they check my vitals and examine my broken face. The adrenaline is wearing off now, and I’m starting to shake.

Powell is carried down to the waiting ambulance on a stretcher. It takes a little bit of arguing and me clinging tightly to the ambulance door, but they finally agree to allow me to ride with them on the bench seat. They’d prefer to strap me to my own stretcher in a different vehicle, but Mike warns them of the uproar I will create if they try to separate me from my brother. As the doors close, I see Silas being wheeled out to another ambulance, with an oxygen mask over his face. I guess we didn’t kill him. I don’t know how to feel about that yet. I suppose it depends on whether my brother survives.

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