Endurance - Jack Kilborn [96]
“Almost there,” Cam said. “You can do it.”
The bottom was muddy, and sucked at her shoes. The current was also much stronger than it looked, and Kelly could feel it beginning to push her away from Cam. She clung tightly to his glove, afraid she was going to lose her grip. If Cam let go, she’d get washed away.
There are waterfalls around. I saw one. I’m a strong swimmer, but how long would I last trying to swim upstream? What if—
Then her footing slipped, and she fell forward in the water, dunking her face, dropping her scalpel, sure she was going to be carried off.
But Cam held on. He pulled her past the deep part, and Kelly managed to stand up again. Cam continued to guide her along until they were climbing up the opposite bank.
They sat down on the dirt. Wet. Shaking. Exhausted.
“Thanks,” she managed.
As pumped up as Kelly was, she still yawned. She had no idea what time it was, but it had to be getting close to dawn.
“We need to keep going,” Cam said.
“I’m freezing.”
“Come on.”
They trudged another hundred yards into the woods, but Kelly was getting colder rather than warmer. Her teeth began to chatter.
“I’ll build a fire,” Cam said.
Kelly shook her head. “Those men might see it. Or the cougar.”
“We need to warm up or we’ll get hypothermia. Come here.”
She went to Cam, and they sat down next to a large boulder. Cam put his arm around her, holding her close.
It warmed Kelly up. But it did more than that. For the first time in hours, she felt safe.
“What about my family?” she asked, her face against Cam’s neck.
“We’ll find them in the morning.”
“And JD?”
“I dunno. Maybe he’s okay. Did you see the cat kill him?”
“No.”
“Then maybe he got away. He saved our lives, Kelly.”
She hoped Cam was right. And then, on a wild impulse, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
The first boy I ever kissed.
“What’s that for?” Cam asked.
“For keeping me safe.”
Then Kelly closed her eyes. She was cold, frightened, hurt, worried out of her mind for those she loved. But resting on Cam’s shoulder, his strong arm around her, Kelly somehow was able to fall asleep.
Florence Pillsbury had seen death. She’d seen it up close and personal. Messy, terrible death. Quiet, peaceful death. Death by war and disease and famine and disaster.
She didn’t fear death. Death was part of life.
Florence knew she’d had a good life. She’d seen things. Done things. Raised a terrific daughter. Lived to the fullest, and cherished every day.
Now, it had all come down to this. All of her years of work, and wisdom, and experience, were reduced to this one, penultimate moment.
I will not let any of these bastards get my family.
The first freak lurched forward, waving his arms, howling through a deformed mouth.
Florence drove her knife into his throat.
Two more came.
She slashed at their faces, their hands. Kicked one away. Stabbed the other in the heart.
Three more came.
Another jab in the throat. A punch in the face. A kick between the legs. Two more swipes of the blade.
Three more came.
Florence backed up. She bent down, took a handful of dirt, threw it in their faces. Slashed one. Punched one. Kicked one. Stabbed another that had gotten back up.
Four more came.
Florence hacked and poked and pushed, and their precious blood poured from their wounds.
You won’t get my family.
The freaks formed a half-circle around Florence, closing in. Some had weapons. Knives. Sticks. A pitchfork.
Florence advanced, hyper-focused, letting one of them stab her in the arm so she could slash his throat and take his knife. With blades in both hands, she backed them up, cutting off the fingers that reached for her, poking at them superficially, hoping their hemophelia would prove fatal.
And the bodies began to pile up. Five. Seven. Ten.
But more kept coming. A seemingly endless army of mutants. Florence was finding it harder to lift her injured arm. She chanced a look and saw the wound was bad.
Then the pitchfork hit