Fuzzy Navel

11:53 P.M.
JACK

NOISE, FROM BEHIND ME. The Ravenswood sniper charges into the garage, and when he raises his pistol I throw myself forward.

Two shots in quick succession, both missing. The sound is painfully loud in the enclosed garage, echoing off the concrete floor. I tumble over a container of books, roll, and land on my butt, my body forcing a trench between two stacks of boxes. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling isn’t strong enough to penetrate the crevice I’m in, so I can’t see a thing.

I cover my head and wait for the sniper to start firing again.

He doesn’t. Instead, he starts kicking boxes, knocking them over, swearing and yelling. A crack opens up between crates, and I see he’s brandishing a knife now. One of those survival models, long and unwieldy, with a serrated blade. His face is a picture of anger and frustration.

“Come out of there, you split-tail bitch!”

I get on all fours, back away. There’s a breeze coming from my left – the broken window. Maybe I can make it outside. I crawl toward it, keeping low.

He pushes through ahead of me, cutting off my escape. He’s only a few feet away. He grins, baring yellow teeth.

“There’s my girl. Stay down. I like that position.”

If I got scared by creeps talking trash, I would have quit the Job after a week. Threats don’t bother me much. Knives, however, do.

“Where’s your friend?” I ask. I hold out a hand, touch the wall, keeping an eye on the blade.

“Casualty of war.”

I keep my voice even, keep the fear out of it. He seems like a guy who would be turned on by fear. “You don’t seem too upset about him dying.”

The man smiles. “He knew the risks.”

I stretch up onto my knees.

“Is that was this is?” I ask. “A war?”

“Life is a war. We have to fight for every little bit we get.”

“War is for soldiers,” I say. I shift my weight back onto my toes. “You’re not a soldier.”

He points the tip of the knife at me. “I AM a soldier!”

I lean back into a squatting position. “Soldiers don’t kill innocent people. They don’t threaten girls with knives. What’s your real job? Construction worker? Assembly line at a factory?”

I see that hits a nerve. The sniper snarls and rushes forward, slashing. I leap at him rather than away, getting inside the swing of the blade, throwing a hard right into his stomach and then driving him backward with my shoulder. We get tangled up, push through some boxes and up against the workbench.

I latch both hands on to his wrist, keeping the knife away. The Ravenswood sniper fights against my grip, then suddenly seems to realize he has more than one hand, and uses his free one to punch me in the face.

I hold on tight, tucking my chin into my chest. He hits me on the side of the head – in the ear – and my legs give out. Then he connects with my cheek and I release his knife hand, falling backward, my consciousness slipping away.

“I don’t work in no goddamn factory, bitch!” he screams. “I’m the best goddamn soldier you ever met!”

He switches his hold on the knife so it angles down, raising it up over my head.

I’m in no condition to stop him.