Turn and look
By some instinct that screams see what the hell is behind you, I turn.
Two men stand there. Just two unarmed men, but their faces and hands are bloody. Their nails are crusted black with dried blood. It flakes along the creases of their smiles. It sits in the crevices between their teeth.
If these are the attackers, it looks like they tried to eat her.
Eat her.
God, what has that woman been through?
Forget her! Worry about you! My voice of reason points out. It’s right. Because unlike the paramedics, I don’t have a gun. And I’m much closer to these maniacs than the paramedics are.
I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat. I want to arm myself with the only weapon I have—the mace. Before my fingers can fully grasp the metal cylinder, a hand wraps around my throat.
A s
