Free Near Enemy by Adam Sternbergh Page B

in a cloud of white powder as her head ricochets and the truck slams the burly man hard enough to vault him bodily backward through the front window of the cabin, like an Old West outlaw thrown through a window in a barroom brawl, but played in reverse. The window’s gone now, as is half the cabin wall. Just shattered glass and splintered woodframe. Persephone’s foot still slamming the gas, so the pickup truck keeps climbing the porch with a gravelly roar, monster-truck tires spinning, belching black smoke, before the engine finally stalls and abruptly quiets.
    And the truck’s horn, like an abandoned baby, starts to wail.
    They left the keys to the truck in the ignition, for a quick getaway.
    Lucky, she thought, when she found the keys there.
    So very, very lucky.
    Horn still wailing.
    Persephone comes to with her head resting on the airbag like a throw pillow, like she just woke up from a catnap.
    Airbag powder dusts her face like flour. Tastes sour in her mouth. Metallic. Like blood.
    No, wait. That’s blood.
    She lifts her head. Checks her face in the spider-cracked rearview. Forehead and cheeks smeared white and red. Nose bleeding. She blinks.
    Sees stars.
    Shakes her head to chase them off.
    Thinks of Hannah.
    She hated to leave Hannah inside but no way she’d trust alap belt. Not in this situation. So she left her. Just for a moment.
    Hid her. In her playpen.
    In the cellar.
    Where she thought she’d be safe.
    Persephone pauses. Finds her bearings.
    Remembers.
    There were three of them.
    Three men.
    Still two.
    Goes to unlatch her seat belt.
    Won’t unbuckle.
    Horn still wailing.
    She yanks at the buckle again.
    Oh no oh no oh no oh no.
    Two more men. And Hannah still hidden in the cellar.
    She and Mark moved the cupboard to hide the cellar door.
    And there’s two more men inside. Searching.
    Persephone’s crying now. Feeling more frantic. More than frantic.
    Clawing at that buckle.
    Spies a third man also laid out in the living room, through the hole where the window once was.
    Laid prone by the collision.
    But stirring.
    She didn’t want to leave Hannah inside but what choice did she have?
    Claws at the belt.
    Come on Persephone come on Persephone come on Persephone come on and pull yourself together.
    Don’t scream her name.
    Don’t scream her name.
    Don’t scream her name.
    She screams her name.
    Palindrome echoes mournfully through the woods.
    Seat belt gives.
    Unbuckles.
    She lets the belt zip smartly back and jumps out of the truck.
    Stumbles. Woozy.
    Wonders why the ground keeps lurching.
    Hikes across the porch and through the new hole in the cabin wall.
    Arms leaden. Legs jelly.
    Reminds herself to stop and puke when she has a spare moment.
    Spots Mark. Laid prone. Out cold.
    And the first man, the burly one, the one she hit with the truck, is maybe dead and definitely sprawled out awkwardly, legs bent at angles that suggest they won’t be any use to him anytime soon.
    Steps over him.
    Eyes on that third man now.
    Still stirring.
    Now standing.
    Between her and the cellar.
    Her and Hannah.
    The man shakes his head. Straightens up.
    She moves sideways, slowly, cautiously, like someone who’s come home and stumbled in on a feral animal.
    Circles toward the dining table. Trying to put the table between her and him. He mimics her movements, also circling, mirroring her. And he sneers when he realizes she thinks the table will be enough to hold him back.
    He feints left and she spooks.
    He feints right.
    She doesn’t spook.
    So they circle the table some more, like in some silly silent movie.
    Just the table between them.
    He inches forward. Figuring he might as well just go right over the top of the table. Only thing between her and him is some old-fashioned lamp. Easy to sweep aside.
    Still no sign of the second man. The one who went down into the cellar.
    Third man inches closer to the table. Just about ready to hurdle it. Probably figures he needs to move in just. Another. Inch.
    He moves in