10
WILLIAM SCHLICHTER
choices needed to survive. How does one put a bullet in their child even if their child hungers for flesh? He has no answer. His brain searches ten-thousand synapses for escape from the concussions. They want what I have. My supplies. My guns. My fortitude. They can’t. I need it to survive—to finish my task. My job of keeping people safe—my last promise made. I will find— Thigh. Damn! One of them figured out to strike my thigh. At least it wasn’t the bad leg. His right knee buckles. If they bash the left knee, it’ll be over. My hard head won’t take blows like my chest does. Kevlar allows for a bit of a cheat. Aroused by the torture, the attackers dance and release wails of pleasure with each new impact. A lead pipe fails to find its destination. The glancing slap allowing Ethan to redirect it through the mouth and out the back of the closest attacker’s brain pan. They stand still. Ethan finds a moment to draw in one breath. His chest tightens—constricts. Bruising. Shocked, the three men back away—a moment of reprieve. They didn’t expect me to be able to kill one of them during the beating. They’ve practiced on travelers before me and always got it right. It took four to get the jump on me. The blows stimulate the fading bruises under his chest armor. Bulletproof vest lacks the truth in its name. ‘Might stop a bullet, but you’re still shot, and it hurts like FUCKING hell!’ must be too long to place on the label. Ethan’s eyes water from the next percussion. Before he’s able to reach for a weapon, a fresh blow glances off the back of his head. Rather than slumping to his knees, he falls over into the dirt. More thumps impact his back. Images flash, overlapping his thoughts of escape. Emily.