Page 77 of Catching Camila

John

Friday 9:20 a.m.

John slammed his body into Nomad, catching him off guard. He couldn't use his shackled hands, so he lashed out with his legs, landing two solid kicks into Nomad's knee and groin, the cracks echoing off the brick walls. Nomad buckled to the pavement, unprepared for the ferocity of the attack. With Nomad down, John ran and slammed his body into Lizzy's backdoor. The metal door thunked and dented in, but would not give. He might be able to pry it off if his hands were fr—

Nomad slammed into him from behind, sending him careening headfirst into the brick wall. His head cracked through the brick, sending mortar and rubble flying. Stars exploded in his vision. Hot blood dripped into his eyes as the world dimmed; he shook his head to clear his sight. He dragged his body off the ground and stood.

“Somehow,” Nomad said, spitting blood from his mouth, “I knew you'd fight back.”

John ran full speed and slammed into Nomad.

They flew across the alley and smashed into the dumpster with a loud bang. Nomad drummed punches into John's kidneys, his stomach, his face. John kicked, leaning down to bite Nomad's neck. Nomad choked John. John twisted out of his grip and kicked Nomad away as hard as he could.

In seconds he was bolting back toward the ice cream shop.

Somewhere in the distance police sirens sounded.

“Stop,” Nomad said, dragging himself after John. Blood trickled from his mouth and ear. “You can't kill him.”

“Yes I can.” John turned the corner and headed straight for the front window.

“No, John!” Nomad shouted after him. “You don't understand.”

John ignored Nomad's calls. He had seconds to save her. If it wasn't already too late. God, he thought, please don't let it be too late.

He plunged head first through the front window.

John barreled into the ice cream shop. Shards of glass, wood, and brick pelted the serving area. He hit the ground and rolled to standing.

“Camila!” He ran toward the back, skidding to a stop when he reached the storage closet.

A shelf had toppled, littering the floor with cans of fruit and tubs of chocolate. A smear of something coated the floor. Blood? No, chocolate syrup. Inside, the metal shelf lay diagonal to the floor. The beast was under it, its legs pinned. It seemed stunned, for now.

Movement at the base of the shelf. A hand emerged, then an arm. Camila wiggled out from under the mess.

Relief flooded him. He reached for her with both shackled hands, pulling her upright. She bled from a cut on her forehead and scratches down her arm. Her wrist looked even worse—purple, swollen, and tucked to her side. He pulled her into his arms, needing her body next to his, her heart beating against his chest. She looked into his eyes.

The beast erupted from under the shelf.

John pushed Camila behind him and turned to face it.

Blood lust had transformed the defensive creature in the woods into a killing machine. Taking one giant step, the beast lashed out, raking claws across John's chest. Blood sprayed from the wound into the beast's fur. John staggered back, a hand to his chest. John raised his fists as the beast lunged and sunk its teeth into John's neck.

Pain. Panic. Teeth tore at John's throat, an awful tearing just below his ear. He couldn't breathe. The beast's arms were locked around his, pinning him. The smell of blood—his blood—filled his nose. If it punctured his windpipe, would he heal?

John lurched forward, slamming the beast into the wall. A section of drywall fell away in powdery pieces, dust clotting the air. Still its teeth tore at his flesh.

John pushed against the beast and they went sprawling into the front. Tumbling over a stool, the beast fell, its arms slipping off. John struggled up. He touched his wound. His hand came away soaked in red. Hot blood flowed out of his neck. He'd heal, but how much blood could he stand to lose? His head felt like a helium balloon. The place was trashed—stools lay on the floor, blood and plaster clotted on the tile. Where was the beas—

“John!” Camila screamed.

The beast pounced.

Teeth sunk into his shoulder again. John's eyes locked on the matted mane and a brown ear. John could feel his blood, hot and sticky, pouring down his chest. His limbs sagged like lead weights. A deep hum filled his skull.

Dying. That's what this was.

He blinked back the darkness. The beast lifted up to bite him again, closer to the jugular, a death bite. In that second John's eyes locked on the front window. The broken glass angled up like shark's teeth, sharp and deadly. If he could push the beast back… He gritted his teeth and shoved as hard as he could.

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