11. 11 #2
He rolled his eyes. “Listen, Smokey, we’ve been up to more important things. Running for our lives, having really great sex, and learning how to defend ourselves. Also, running for our lives.”
“So I can take a break?” I asked.
“When we’re done,” he clarified.
“Let’s get it going then, I’m ready.”
He smiled. “Okay. Come at me, grab onto my neck or shoulders.”
I stepped forward, half heartedly grabbing his throat in my hands.
“That wasn’t very convincing,” he teased.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you were gonna toss me on the ground or something, I’m trying to be cautious here.”
He ignored me. “So let’s see how I’m getting out of this. It should feel pretty instinctual, there’s just a few things you need to keep in mind. I’ll use my right hand and I’ll grab your right wrist, which is on my left, since you’re facing me.”
He did just that.
“Now, I’m not going to do this for real because I don’t want to snap your arm off, but I’ll do it slowly. I’m gonna come down with my left arm like an axe,” he warned.
His left arm went straight up in the air, his hand in a fist, and he brought it down, pushing my arms down and to the side, leaning my body to my left. He froze here for more instruction.
“Now I’m not being choked out, and I can use this opportunity to kick your knee.
If you kick hard enough, even the biggest guy is going to at least buckle.
If anything, it would at least give you a moment to use a knife or gun.
If you’ve noticed, joints are a bit of a weak point.
It’s a lot more effective to manipulate an elbow or a knee than it is to get into a fist fight. ”
He tapped my knee with his foot, and while he didn’t try to knock me off balance, I could feel how easily it could happen.
“Now,” he said. “Pretend I’m another guy trying to kiss you.”
“Don’t say that,” I warned him. “My mom always told me to kick where the sun don’t shine.”
“Let’s not do that. Can’t damage the goods. Okay, are you ready?”
I nodded, and his hands were on my throat. He didn’t grab me hard, but his arms were held firm, and I’d need to hit pretty hard to get free. I grabbed onto his wrist and he shook his hand free, putting it back on my neck. “No fair,” I said.
“Then hold on tighter.”
My hand slammed into his wrist, forming a vice that he wasn't able to shake free. Like he showed me, my opposite hand formed a fist and slammed against his arms, and it felt like I hit a concrete wall.
“Hit closer to my wrists. They’re farther from my body, so it takes a lot more effort to keep them in place.”
Instructions spot on as usual, his hands slid down to my shoulder. I wasn’t quick enough, however, and when I didn’t kick his leg out from beneath him, he put them back in place.
“That was a clean hit. Just remember to follow up with the kick.”
I hit him again, successfully on the first attempt, and kicked the side of his knee. The force of my foot widened his stance a bit, but it wasn’t enough to cause him to fall.
“Use your heel. Obviously, when you have shoes on, this won’t feel as delicate, but I don’t feel like getting bruised up by your hard ass shoes.” He readjusted his legs. “One more time, pretty girl.”
One more time, I followed his instructions. As my heel hit the side of his knee, I watched it buckle, and he fell to the ground.
“You’re awesome,” he said, standing up. He patted me on the shoulder a few times.
“Are your bones harder than the average person or something? I feel like my arm is broken,” I complained.
He laughed, but picked up my arm, inspecting it for injury. “I’m not going to lie to you, it might bruise.” I opened my mouth to complain, but he stopped me. “A bruise is definitely better than dying.”
“Smoke break?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’ll cook.”
Sausage was sizzling on the stove as I walked in, and I grabbed a water bottle for myself before sitting at the table to wait. Chef Elias scrambled eggs and flipped sausage and I felt bad forcing him to do it all himself.
“Want me to watch the sausage?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Absolutely not. You’re my guest.”
“More like your hostage,” I said.
“In that case, sit in your chair. I’ll shoot you if you try to run.”
He stood at the stove, shirtless, and expertly avoided the oil splatters from the pan of sausage, jumping back every time he heard it pop.
“How about a shirt?” I offered.
He gave me a side eye. “Are you not loving the view?”
“I’m watching you hop around, trying not to get burned,” I said. “I feel like your life would be easier with a shirt right now.”
“I’m tired of wearing clothes. I wear them everyday. I even wore a shirt to be polite when you were at my house. That’s not me. That’s not who I am. I need my freedom of movement.”
“You definitely didn’t have to wear a shirt for me. But you are a weirdo.”
“Eat your eggs, hostage,” he said, setting a plate in front of me.
I looked at him, pretending to be scared. “Could I have a fork, sir? I promise I won’t stab you with it.”
A phone rang from somewhere in the room as he handed me a fork, and he jogged to the duffel bag still on the floor by the front door. The first phone he pulled out wasn’t ringing, so he tossed it aside before pulling out another, equally outdated phone.
He flipped the phone open to answer, but didn’t speak. He held it to his ear and waited.
“Am I safe to speak freely?” He asked. He returned to his seat at the table and began to eat.
“I escaped with an employee. No, she’s a virologist, she was working with the virus. Not yet. But to my knowledge there had been a breakthrough the day of the attack. No, she didn’t have a chance.” He was talking with his mouth full, the subject matter clearly not rushing us out the door.
He sighed, setting his fork down as the conversation went on. “I really don’t want to do that. At all.”
He paced the room, cleaning up odds and ends around the cabin. “This is not equal. If this doesn’t kill me, you will owe me for the rest of your life. Talk soon.”
Hanging up the phone, he walked back to the table, standing over me. “Are you finished?” he asked.
My plate wasn’t quite empty, but I was done. “Yeah, I’m full.”
He walked the dishes to the sink and rinsed them off, not bothering to clean them.
“Who was on the phone?” I asked.
“An old friend.” He was curt.
“And?” I asked.
“He just called to tell me about his stupid fucking ideas,” he stomped off.
“You were clearly talking about me, the virologist you escaped with.” His attitude was getting to me now. We were such a good team when we didn’t withhold what seemed to be vital information from each other.
“I’m taking a shower,” he said, ignoring my question.
I stood up, following him to the bathroom. Arms crossed, I sat on the bathroom counter and watched him turn on the water, stepping in without a glance in my direction.
“Can you tell me why you’re upset?” I asked, my voice even. I hoped that if I wasn’t antagonistic he’d be more apt to give me answers.
“I prefer to shower by myself,” he said.
That did it.
I threw my clothes on the floor and stepped in with him. He stared through me, soaping his arms and chest. I shoved him. He barely moved, but he got the message.
“Are you trying to kill me? We are in the fucking shower, you psychopath,” he nearly shouted.
I threw my arms up in the air. “I’m trying to get your attention because you’re being an asshole.”
“It’s my attention you want?” He asked, pushing me back into the wall with a hand flat against my chest. He kissed me hard, all anger. “How’s this?”
The man in front of me was one I hadn’t met.
We’d been stalked, chased, shot at, and on the run for two days and there wasn’t a second of those forty-eight hours that I’d feared for him in the slightest. He recovered quickly, cracked his jokes, and kept me safe.
But right now, here in the bathroom, he unsettled me, and I was afraid of how reckless he might become.
He’d been through so much, maintaining his composure through it all, but that phone call may have completely unraveled him.
“Eli,” I said.
His eyes shot to mine at the endearment, and he stepped back, moving his hand to cup my cheek. He then hung his head, and he stood there, letting the hot water scald his back. “We have to go back,” he said.
“Where?”
“To Baker and Pryor.”
My breath caught in my throat. Gun shots, a skull smashed to bits with a flashlight. A horde of my infected coworkers running toward me and my empty gun. “What are you talking about?”
“You need to create a sample of the vaccine. That’s our key to getting out of this,” he said, the water still running down his back. “That’s the deal.”
I shivered now, unsure if it was because I was naked or if it was fear. “We’ll die,” I said, choking up.
“I won’t let that happen.”