Chapter I
A soft clickclickclick was all needed to jolt her out of a light slumber. Her pupils widen to take in the dark room. She focused in front of her, staring intent at the door. Tangled up in sheets and his arms, she felt the steady rise and fall of Murphy's chest as he continued to sleep.
Her eyes shot to the night stand, a crate flipped over with a series of lacey tea dollies poorly knitted together. The moon's beams glinted off the barrel of her semi-automatic pistol, small and easy to handle, unlike the silencer's he always persisted her to use. There had to be at least three shots left and under the bed was another two bullet castings.
The door knob twisted slightly and the intruder quickly realized there was a chain to secure the door. He wouldn't have any patients to fumble with that, she realized. She willed herself to move, to react.
She grabbed the pistol and rolled over on top of Murphy, throwing them both on the other side of the bed just as the door was broken threw with an explosion of bullets. Frantic, she dug her arm underneath the bed and pulled out the castings then stood up and fired two shots. One ripped threw his shoulder and the other went into his chest. The man fell to the floors in convulsions, only for two more to step threw the door frame and over the dying man.
Shaking, she struggled to reload, swallowing hard and pushing the image of the man, puking and choking on his vomit and blood, out of her mind. She went to shoot again; it hit lower and the man's knee cap exploded. He collapsed on the floor, screaming. The other man shot at her, the breeze of bullets whizzing by, the shattering pain of the one that bit into her arm.
She dropped her own gun and jammed two fingers into the bullet wound to stop the bleeding. A hand grabbed her shoulder and threw her down. Her head cracked against the tile floor and she looked up at Murphy, firing one pistol while whipping out the other. His face was cold and hard, his eyes lit and focused. She looked back at her arm; blood was pouring between the cracks of her fingers.
Suddenly, Murphy grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. "They'll have friends," he said, gesturing to the several bleeding bodies. He ran over to their dresser, crude and made of oak that they found together at a consignment shop, and ripped threw the drawers, pulling out castings and cash and throwing it all into a worn duffel bag. She scanned the room and retrieved her own little pistol and a pair of jeans. Her arm throbbed but she managed them on and shoved the gun into her waist band. "C'mon," she looked up at Murphy, who had his hand out. His was smooth and cool, hers moist and warm. He pulled her over and started to bandage her arm with a ripped shirt. "It'll hold until we get to Connor."
She nodded numbly. He grabbed her hand again and they made her way to the door. She tripped over a man's leg, but he righted her and they were gone.