In an alley next to Foggle Towers there lay a neatly folded wheelchair, surrounded by garbage that hadn't quite made it to the dumpster and the cardboard boxes and styrofoam peanuts of packages labeled "fragile." Its owner sat immobile against the wall of the inside of a van, his legs not only rendered useless by paralysis but also by the rope holding together his ankles, which had been pulled uncomfortably to rest just below his sharply bound wrists. Across from him was Original Cindy, bound in the same way and moving her hands around seemingly in an effort to find a position of comfort. To his right, against the seatback and partition, was an armed soldier, no longer hiding behind the guise of a roofer. To the left, his back to the door, another soldier, flipping his gun from hand to hand to ward off apparent boredom. Things could not possibly appear more dire.
He let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes falling shut and a tinny bang coinciding with a sigh of despair. It was no secret how they'd found him; Lydecker had no doubt found himself in a precarious position and gone the route of betrayal to save his own skin. Not like it wasn't expected; Logan had, indeed, expressed concern over the strength of their alliance, because he knew the man and he knew it was risky ever to get involved with him. But if this were a trap, it wouldn't have mattered, would it? Trust was less the issue here than was his own carelessness, his own stupidity. His own big mouth. He almost couldn't wait until they reached Manticore and his fate was sealed. The gallows was clear, but this time he looked to it not with trepidation, but with relief.
Regret and other such unpleasant emotions had somehow been pushed to the background for Cindy, though, who presently was in need of all concentration possible. There was anxiety, yes, but the trick was not to show it, not even acknowledge it. Some said killers could smell fear...you can't small what's turned and trapped inward.
//Ugh, if I could jus'...c'mon, girl. C'mon, c'mon// she coaxed silently. //Jus' a little more...there.// Through her pants she clasped the handle of her knife, her wrist now strained so hard against the rope that it threatened to cut off the circulation. It didn't help that she had absent-mindedly secured the weapon in her left sock, a distinct bane to a right-handed individual. Still, it was coming, though painstakingly slow, and, confident that she had the action under control, she allotted a bit of attention to the task of alerting Logan somehow to the directive she was aiming to accomplish. Striking eye contact, a nod or two, piece of cake.
He responded with confusion, though, for no sooner had she met his gaze than her eyes had closed and her nose had wrinkled slightly, giving her the appearance of one afflicted with sudden nausea. He chalked it up to car sickness, but in reality the knife had presently been prematurely stained with blood, and her teeth were gritted and her muscles were tightened to the brink of bursting and she momentarily forgot to breathe, perhaps even forgot how. She took a second or two to curse herself in thought after the initial wave of pain subsided, then with an awareness of laughable contradiction praised herself for having so expertly bit back and disguised the pain. She knew she was tough, but right now she was surprising herself, and she felt damn proud.
A minute or two later the blade was freed from its makeshift sheath and turned toward her as she passed it to her strong hand. The faces of the soldiers were studied briefly. Each was too bored and certain of the success of the operation to be taking any stock in her slow, decisive hand movements. So the work was continued, cautiously but with secure sureness of victory. The strip of rope connecting her hands to her feet was sliced, glee working its way through her system as she pressed the edge to the final strand...and then she stopped. She was struck with strategic brilliance every now and then, most notably the time she'd alerted Max to danger afoot with mention of some hot boy named Carlos. Now, it was hitting her again; if she left the rope this way, she'd probably be able to pull it apart on her own when the time was right. On the other hand, if she cut all the way through, even with such a blasé attitude at least one of the soldiers was apt to take notice. And so that rope was abandoned, and the knife was turned upward to begin work freeing her wrists.
The soldier near the door, meanwhile, was now shuffling his gun back and forth robotically, without attention or care. The back of the driver's head had become far more interesting somewhere along the way, and then it was all about the mole above his partner's right eyebrow. It was large and humorously so, and he found himself imagining that the thing was growing progressively larger and that soon it would engulf the man's entire head. He smiled; what fun that would be.
He was blown from his reverie when the van hit an inconsistency in the road and sent him tumbling over, his gun falling to land against the JamPony messenger's leg, who inadvertently cut through the whole of the bind connecting her ankles at the heavy bounce. She retracted the knife quickly, but it was too late; the soldier had already caught the glint and was advancing on her, his senses and gun swiftly collected.
"Whatcha got there?" he inquired, peering down into her hands and bringing with him the suspicious attention of the other soldier. Adrenaline was all that mattered...fight or flight fight or flight fight or flight...die today? Feel the pain of the bullet, the one that would erupt from his gun, the one pointing at her thigh? Her thigh, not her chest...fight or flight...or her head...fight or flight...because they were wanted alive. They were needed, she and Logan. Fear was paramount and crippling but there's always the other option. Fight or flight. She looked to her friend, who understood like she knew he would because even when he was too proud and stubborn he always did, beyond the fact that they weren't all that close. Choose now. Strength; that's what she needed from him, and he was scared, it wasn't a secret and if it was it was very poorly guarded but he was pleading. Fight or flight. What has to be done must be done. Fight.
Flash to a nanosecond later, after the contact of her now free foot with a highly sensitive male area. To a soldier collapsing in pain against the wall and a gun skidding to the extreme back of the van. There was no time for jubilation or thought before the other soldier had wrapped one arm around her throat and aimed his weapon at her hand, though, and on instinct she utilized her own weapon, thrusting her hand back blindly and stabbing her assailant dangerously close to the eye. He cried out, releasing his gun to hold his gushing wound.
It was then that the ensuing fray registered with those up front. The soldier riding shotgun turned first, reaction with gun poised and ready, and his gaze was soon joined by that of the driver.
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, forgetting the road. He felt the pavement begin to slope and diminish, and he turned back to find that they had come upon a sharp curve and weren't going to come off of it...vehicles that slam into trees at 40 miles per hour usually aren't in the best shape to accomplish such a thing. He barely had time to utter another curse before all were slammed heavily into whatever happened to be in front of them, a steering wheel and dashboard being in his way. Unfortunately for him, cars equipped with airbags were hard to come by these days, let alone budget vans. He slumped over, knocked unconscious, his passengers shaking their heads to regain their bearings.
Weakened by both Cindy's assault and the shock and severity of the impact, the soldiers accompanying the prisoners could do little beyond groan and grapple at the floor, while Cindy had to work hard to overcome the intense amount of pain she was now feeling and poor Logan could only lie helplessly on his side, having been knocked over. Vision was beginning to fail her and her sock felt soggy with blood, but it wasn't important. Survival was important. Access to her knife failed her but the guns were free for the taking and she collected them with immediacy. They felt heavy, cold...like she imagined death must feel. Death that would have to come from her own hands. She hesitated.
"You have to do it," he said suddenly and she looked into his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, understanding her question perfectly. And he meant it. He knew how she must feel, but if she didn't go through with this they were done for. The soldiers were already picking themselves back up.
"I don't wanna do it." She was about ready to cry; soon they'd be on her and they'd be angry, and the still conscious of the two up front was limping out the door surely to come around. It had to be done. But god, two people would be dead and she'd be responsible.
"I know," he said, "I know. And I can't promise you you'll be all right afterward, but..." He paused for reflection; how he'd felt these past few days and only ten or so minutes before, letting himself waste away and wanting it. But now, for the first time in a long time, he truly wasn't thinking about himself. When he gave himself up, he did it more to save his image than to save Cindy. Now, though, it didn't matter what happened to him, or how he looked to the world. What mattered was that she live. "...but if you don't do this you'll die. I'd do it for you if I could...but YOU have to."
Fight or flight. Her breath came in short gasps. "I ain't down with this, Logan. Original Cindy lays the smackdown when she has to, but...I don't wanna kill anybody." His response didn't have time to reach her; one of the soldiers found himself and lunged toward her, sparking reaction with consideration. He fell dead and she tumbled backward from the inertia of the shot, into the other soldier, who met the same fate before she could process what had just happened.
Perfect.
She was shaking and sobs threatened release. There was no air, there was no color, and repressed self-hatred and insecurity was rapidly finding itself an outlet. Hazy, awful world this was...adrenaline tells you it's okay to fight but it neglects to bring to light the consequences. Kill or be killed? She refused to subscribe to that slogan, even now, even after all she'd done and seen. A rotten little voice suddenly complained that Max was supposed to be the killer in this relationship and she hated herself even more.
Repression was a virtue in this case, though, and years of the hard life had taught her well. She was numb, but nimble fingers were searching for the knife and then righting Logan before setting him free and giving him one of the guns. Not a moment too soon, either, as it was then that the final mobile soldier of the van threw open the doors, only to eat the bullet of an armed and dangerous Eyes Only. There was some measure of guilt within him, but he was fast in survival mode, so it was easily ignored.
She fell to her knees at the third death and heaved out of relief. "It's over," she whispered.
"I wouldn't count on it," Logan warned, looking irritably out into the street. She too looked, punching the floor of the van in frustration when she saw the vehicle that had been bringing up the rear of this little convoy stop and spew out five more soldiers. Logan pulled himself expertly against the space between the wall of the van and the hinges of the left door, motioning for Cindy to do the same on her side. Sound became the enemy; the loud eruption of guns and the sharp wail of metal bending as it was pummeled with bullets reigning Hell over their ears. She stayed with fright in hiding, desiring both to avoid getting shot and having to kill yet another person. He, having had more experience in the matter before he'd lost his legs, was braver, leaning around the hinges in short intervals to unload at their foes. One down, two out of sight but that wasn't important right now. Two down...and then he started at Cindy's cry and an odd sensation of being pushed backward. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks were pale and her chest was heaving, and he looked down to find that he had been shot in the leg. For once, he was grateful for his paralysis.
He wasn't really sure how to react, but he wanted to keep confident his partner of sorts, so he simply shrugged it off and turned back to the ensuing shoot-out. It worked; he exuded strength and she borrowed it, despite nearly crippling fear and a gross fascination with the fresh bullet hole in his leg. She sucked in a deep breath and peered around the door for the first time, shooting with wild abandon and without much in the way of aim or even general direction. There were three shots at once, from her, the solitary soldier and Logan, and she was blown back at nearly the same instant that the soldier fell. There was nothing in the world that could possibly compare to this, nothing. She could feel and hear the skin tear, and she felt it and heard it over and over and over, the bullet ripping her flesh and embedding itself securely in her shoulder. She fell against the wall and allowed herself to cry, forgetting to remember not to care, forgetting the world...everything but the pain, the pain pouring acid directly into her veins and permeating even what she didn't know she had. The sacrifice of stolid dignity was a small price to pay for a way to make it all more bearable.
He looked to her with sympathy and searched for a way to comfort her, though deep down he knew nothing could ever make this better and that if they made it home she'd never be the same. She'd be more like...probably more like Max. Max, if only she was here...he shook her away and looked out at the last killed, whom he knew he'd shot. Cindy was poor with a gun and had only managed to mark up the other van, but she didn't need to know that.
"Nice shot," he said simply. Through the cascade of tears he picked up a look of confusion. "That was you. You got him. You saved us."
//Great. I killed again// she thought bitterly, but she pretended to buy in to what he was trying to do, for his sake and perhaps a little for her own. She smiled, and he smiled, and they began to move from the van when the two soldiers who had disappeared earlier revealed themselves, rapidly relieving the two of their guns. She pushed backward, fumbling around with eyes steady on the man approaching her as the other proceeded to drag Logan violently from the van. He threw awkward punches and mentally retracted the thankfulness he'd briefly had for his disability. He scraped and bumped against the pavement and it wasn't long before his fate was accepted and any sort of struggling on his part ceased.
In the van, the soldier grabbed Cindy's left arm and pulled her harshly toward him, her right hand passing over cold and grabbing at it desperately. She fell back into survival mode, without tears, without thought and with sudden hatred and boiling anger over her injured and aching shoulder, the shoulder that was being yanked roughly by her attacker. Haze, pain lost in fog...and a knife wedged deep under the vest and into the stomach of a surprised and now severely bleeding young man, who fired harmlessly over the girl's unmarked shoulder. Another thrust and he brought up blood, and then he had fallen to her knees.
//Huh, guess I DO got the balls// she thought as she pried the peace from the dying man's fingers. She was steel; she could feel herself changing and she didn't think she liked it but right now such was inconsequential. She steadied herself and took her time, now, using the site and bracing the barrel against her opposite forearm, as she'd seen Logan and the soldiers do. A single shot pierced the back of the neck, and Logan was free.
Belief was impossible at first, but when he saw her climb out into the road and limp toward him, the person she had been such a short time ago swiftly fading into elsewhere, he knew she'd saved him. Both of them. What troubled him was that it might have cost her more than a healthy shoulder.
She stopped short to make sure he was all right, then surveyed the rear van with annoyed disapproval. "Figgers we blow the front tires out," she complained. "Guess we don't got much choice butta try it, though."
He nodded, then noted the blood coating her sock and the bottom of her pant leg, as well as that spreading across his own leg. "Worry about that later. Right now we've got bigger problems." She took the hint and they spent the next few minutes tearing bits of cloth with which to dress their wounds, getting on in somewhat companionable silence but truly trying their damndest not to pay attention to the ravaged victims of battle that lay around them. The stench of blood and gunsmoke and the beginnings of death assaulted them, and it was decided without words that they were getting out of this place as soon as they could and promptly forgetting it...if that was even possible. Was it? No...Cindy's head suddenly fell into her hands and she tried to keep standing the new walls she'd created, forcing the emotional and physical pain into an uncomfortable ball and trying without success to swallow it. The comforting hand that took hers startled her, and, despite her orientation, she thought she could tell what Max saw in Logan when she looked up into his face.
"If you wanna cry, it's all right," he urged. But she didn't. She thanked him with a nod and a smile, but there were no more tears. She was beyond that now. She was in a place where the upsetting could no longer outwardly upset her, and without a word she pulled herself to her feet and moved to the driver's side of the van. She was about to get it when Logan gruffly cleared her throat.
"Hey, uh...I'm a little crippled here," he joked wryly. Nervous laughter passed between them and she walked over and grabbed him tightly under the arms, pulling with all her might and finally getting him to the passenger side after quite a bit of difficulty. She helped him get settled, something he usually would have insisted upon doing himself but he presently was too drained to care about, then returned to the driver's side and prepared to complete their escape, however futile it might be in a van with only two available wheels. As she was turned the engine, though, a flash of motion caught her eye and again chemicals rushed, alerting all senses and putting her on such an edge that Logan couldn't help but notice.
"Shit, shit, shit!" she cried, desperately trying to turn the van around as a fresh batch of bullets struck the hood, the windshield, the front of her side view mirror. The driver of the first van had regained consciousness and pulled himself out, effectively starting the battle anew. The engine revved and sputtered in protest at her hurried maneuvers but it turned all the same, going slightly off the road at one point but without trouble. A bullet crashed through her window and grazed Logan's upper arm before embedding in the opposite door, but other than that the two remained relatively unscathed from this present encounter, though there was plenty to remind them of the injuries sustained in the first part of the battle. They tried to forget it, to focus on the exhilaration of having earned themselves a victory, and for perhaps a moment or two there was relief, even some amount of joy.
But nothing lasts forever.
The back of the van was now riddled with bullet holes, including the two rear tires. When it's useless to try and shoot to kill it's best to do what you can to disable. The previously unconscious driver followed this well, and in his mind, as he fiddled with his radio and wished that he instead could have a cell phone, that was something for which the director could definitely be proud.
He let his head fall back against the wall, his eyes falling shut and a tinny bang coinciding with a sigh of despair. It was no secret how they'd found him; Lydecker had no doubt found himself in a precarious position and gone the route of betrayal to save his own skin. Not like it wasn't expected; Logan had, indeed, expressed concern over the strength of their alliance, because he knew the man and he knew it was risky ever to get involved with him. But if this were a trap, it wouldn't have mattered, would it? Trust was less the issue here than was his own carelessness, his own stupidity. His own big mouth. He almost couldn't wait until they reached Manticore and his fate was sealed. The gallows was clear, but this time he looked to it not with trepidation, but with relief.
Regret and other such unpleasant emotions had somehow been pushed to the background for Cindy, though, who presently was in need of all concentration possible. There was anxiety, yes, but the trick was not to show it, not even acknowledge it. Some said killers could smell fear...you can't small what's turned and trapped inward.
//Ugh, if I could jus'...c'mon, girl. C'mon, c'mon// she coaxed silently. //Jus' a little more...there.// Through her pants she clasped the handle of her knife, her wrist now strained so hard against the rope that it threatened to cut off the circulation. It didn't help that she had absent-mindedly secured the weapon in her left sock, a distinct bane to a right-handed individual. Still, it was coming, though painstakingly slow, and, confident that she had the action under control, she allotted a bit of attention to the task of alerting Logan somehow to the directive she was aiming to accomplish. Striking eye contact, a nod or two, piece of cake.
He responded with confusion, though, for no sooner had she met his gaze than her eyes had closed and her nose had wrinkled slightly, giving her the appearance of one afflicted with sudden nausea. He chalked it up to car sickness, but in reality the knife had presently been prematurely stained with blood, and her teeth were gritted and her muscles were tightened to the brink of bursting and she momentarily forgot to breathe, perhaps even forgot how. She took a second or two to curse herself in thought after the initial wave of pain subsided, then with an awareness of laughable contradiction praised herself for having so expertly bit back and disguised the pain. She knew she was tough, but right now she was surprising herself, and she felt damn proud.
A minute or two later the blade was freed from its makeshift sheath and turned toward her as she passed it to her strong hand. The faces of the soldiers were studied briefly. Each was too bored and certain of the success of the operation to be taking any stock in her slow, decisive hand movements. So the work was continued, cautiously but with secure sureness of victory. The strip of rope connecting her hands to her feet was sliced, glee working its way through her system as she pressed the edge to the final strand...and then she stopped. She was struck with strategic brilliance every now and then, most notably the time she'd alerted Max to danger afoot with mention of some hot boy named Carlos. Now, it was hitting her again; if she left the rope this way, she'd probably be able to pull it apart on her own when the time was right. On the other hand, if she cut all the way through, even with such a blasé attitude at least one of the soldiers was apt to take notice. And so that rope was abandoned, and the knife was turned upward to begin work freeing her wrists.
The soldier near the door, meanwhile, was now shuffling his gun back and forth robotically, without attention or care. The back of the driver's head had become far more interesting somewhere along the way, and then it was all about the mole above his partner's right eyebrow. It was large and humorously so, and he found himself imagining that the thing was growing progressively larger and that soon it would engulf the man's entire head. He smiled; what fun that would be.
He was blown from his reverie when the van hit an inconsistency in the road and sent him tumbling over, his gun falling to land against the JamPony messenger's leg, who inadvertently cut through the whole of the bind connecting her ankles at the heavy bounce. She retracted the knife quickly, but it was too late; the soldier had already caught the glint and was advancing on her, his senses and gun swiftly collected.
"Whatcha got there?" he inquired, peering down into her hands and bringing with him the suspicious attention of the other soldier. Adrenaline was all that mattered...fight or flight fight or flight fight or flight...die today? Feel the pain of the bullet, the one that would erupt from his gun, the one pointing at her thigh? Her thigh, not her chest...fight or flight...or her head...fight or flight...because they were wanted alive. They were needed, she and Logan. Fear was paramount and crippling but there's always the other option. Fight or flight. She looked to her friend, who understood like she knew he would because even when he was too proud and stubborn he always did, beyond the fact that they weren't all that close. Choose now. Strength; that's what she needed from him, and he was scared, it wasn't a secret and if it was it was very poorly guarded but he was pleading. Fight or flight. What has to be done must be done. Fight.
Flash to a nanosecond later, after the contact of her now free foot with a highly sensitive male area. To a soldier collapsing in pain against the wall and a gun skidding to the extreme back of the van. There was no time for jubilation or thought before the other soldier had wrapped one arm around her throat and aimed his weapon at her hand, though, and on instinct she utilized her own weapon, thrusting her hand back blindly and stabbing her assailant dangerously close to the eye. He cried out, releasing his gun to hold his gushing wound.
It was then that the ensuing fray registered with those up front. The soldier riding shotgun turned first, reaction with gun poised and ready, and his gaze was soon joined by that of the driver.
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed, forgetting the road. He felt the pavement begin to slope and diminish, and he turned back to find that they had come upon a sharp curve and weren't going to come off of it...vehicles that slam into trees at 40 miles per hour usually aren't in the best shape to accomplish such a thing. He barely had time to utter another curse before all were slammed heavily into whatever happened to be in front of them, a steering wheel and dashboard being in his way. Unfortunately for him, cars equipped with airbags were hard to come by these days, let alone budget vans. He slumped over, knocked unconscious, his passengers shaking their heads to regain their bearings.
Weakened by both Cindy's assault and the shock and severity of the impact, the soldiers accompanying the prisoners could do little beyond groan and grapple at the floor, while Cindy had to work hard to overcome the intense amount of pain she was now feeling and poor Logan could only lie helplessly on his side, having been knocked over. Vision was beginning to fail her and her sock felt soggy with blood, but it wasn't important. Survival was important. Access to her knife failed her but the guns were free for the taking and she collected them with immediacy. They felt heavy, cold...like she imagined death must feel. Death that would have to come from her own hands. She hesitated.
"You have to do it," he said suddenly and she looked into his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, understanding her question perfectly. And he meant it. He knew how she must feel, but if she didn't go through with this they were done for. The soldiers were already picking themselves back up.
"I don't wanna do it." She was about ready to cry; soon they'd be on her and they'd be angry, and the still conscious of the two up front was limping out the door surely to come around. It had to be done. But god, two people would be dead and she'd be responsible.
"I know," he said, "I know. And I can't promise you you'll be all right afterward, but..." He paused for reflection; how he'd felt these past few days and only ten or so minutes before, letting himself waste away and wanting it. But now, for the first time in a long time, he truly wasn't thinking about himself. When he gave himself up, he did it more to save his image than to save Cindy. Now, though, it didn't matter what happened to him, or how he looked to the world. What mattered was that she live. "...but if you don't do this you'll die. I'd do it for you if I could...but YOU have to."
Fight or flight. Her breath came in short gasps. "I ain't down with this, Logan. Original Cindy lays the smackdown when she has to, but...I don't wanna kill anybody." His response didn't have time to reach her; one of the soldiers found himself and lunged toward her, sparking reaction with consideration. He fell dead and she tumbled backward from the inertia of the shot, into the other soldier, who met the same fate before she could process what had just happened.
Perfect.
She was shaking and sobs threatened release. There was no air, there was no color, and repressed self-hatred and insecurity was rapidly finding itself an outlet. Hazy, awful world this was...adrenaline tells you it's okay to fight but it neglects to bring to light the consequences. Kill or be killed? She refused to subscribe to that slogan, even now, even after all she'd done and seen. A rotten little voice suddenly complained that Max was supposed to be the killer in this relationship and she hated herself even more.
Repression was a virtue in this case, though, and years of the hard life had taught her well. She was numb, but nimble fingers were searching for the knife and then righting Logan before setting him free and giving him one of the guns. Not a moment too soon, either, as it was then that the final mobile soldier of the van threw open the doors, only to eat the bullet of an armed and dangerous Eyes Only. There was some measure of guilt within him, but he was fast in survival mode, so it was easily ignored.
She fell to her knees at the third death and heaved out of relief. "It's over," she whispered.
"I wouldn't count on it," Logan warned, looking irritably out into the street. She too looked, punching the floor of the van in frustration when she saw the vehicle that had been bringing up the rear of this little convoy stop and spew out five more soldiers. Logan pulled himself expertly against the space between the wall of the van and the hinges of the left door, motioning for Cindy to do the same on her side. Sound became the enemy; the loud eruption of guns and the sharp wail of metal bending as it was pummeled with bullets reigning Hell over their ears. She stayed with fright in hiding, desiring both to avoid getting shot and having to kill yet another person. He, having had more experience in the matter before he'd lost his legs, was braver, leaning around the hinges in short intervals to unload at their foes. One down, two out of sight but that wasn't important right now. Two down...and then he started at Cindy's cry and an odd sensation of being pushed backward. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks were pale and her chest was heaving, and he looked down to find that he had been shot in the leg. For once, he was grateful for his paralysis.
He wasn't really sure how to react, but he wanted to keep confident his partner of sorts, so he simply shrugged it off and turned back to the ensuing shoot-out. It worked; he exuded strength and she borrowed it, despite nearly crippling fear and a gross fascination with the fresh bullet hole in his leg. She sucked in a deep breath and peered around the door for the first time, shooting with wild abandon and without much in the way of aim or even general direction. There were three shots at once, from her, the solitary soldier and Logan, and she was blown back at nearly the same instant that the soldier fell. There was nothing in the world that could possibly compare to this, nothing. She could feel and hear the skin tear, and she felt it and heard it over and over and over, the bullet ripping her flesh and embedding itself securely in her shoulder. She fell against the wall and allowed herself to cry, forgetting to remember not to care, forgetting the world...everything but the pain, the pain pouring acid directly into her veins and permeating even what she didn't know she had. The sacrifice of stolid dignity was a small price to pay for a way to make it all more bearable.
He looked to her with sympathy and searched for a way to comfort her, though deep down he knew nothing could ever make this better and that if they made it home she'd never be the same. She'd be more like...probably more like Max. Max, if only she was here...he shook her away and looked out at the last killed, whom he knew he'd shot. Cindy was poor with a gun and had only managed to mark up the other van, but she didn't need to know that.
"Nice shot," he said simply. Through the cascade of tears he picked up a look of confusion. "That was you. You got him. You saved us."
//Great. I killed again// she thought bitterly, but she pretended to buy in to what he was trying to do, for his sake and perhaps a little for her own. She smiled, and he smiled, and they began to move from the van when the two soldiers who had disappeared earlier revealed themselves, rapidly relieving the two of their guns. She pushed backward, fumbling around with eyes steady on the man approaching her as the other proceeded to drag Logan violently from the van. He threw awkward punches and mentally retracted the thankfulness he'd briefly had for his disability. He scraped and bumped against the pavement and it wasn't long before his fate was accepted and any sort of struggling on his part ceased.
In the van, the soldier grabbed Cindy's left arm and pulled her harshly toward him, her right hand passing over cold and grabbing at it desperately. She fell back into survival mode, without tears, without thought and with sudden hatred and boiling anger over her injured and aching shoulder, the shoulder that was being yanked roughly by her attacker. Haze, pain lost in fog...and a knife wedged deep under the vest and into the stomach of a surprised and now severely bleeding young man, who fired harmlessly over the girl's unmarked shoulder. Another thrust and he brought up blood, and then he had fallen to her knees.
//Huh, guess I DO got the balls// she thought as she pried the peace from the dying man's fingers. She was steel; she could feel herself changing and she didn't think she liked it but right now such was inconsequential. She steadied herself and took her time, now, using the site and bracing the barrel against her opposite forearm, as she'd seen Logan and the soldiers do. A single shot pierced the back of the neck, and Logan was free.
Belief was impossible at first, but when he saw her climb out into the road and limp toward him, the person she had been such a short time ago swiftly fading into elsewhere, he knew she'd saved him. Both of them. What troubled him was that it might have cost her more than a healthy shoulder.
She stopped short to make sure he was all right, then surveyed the rear van with annoyed disapproval. "Figgers we blow the front tires out," she complained. "Guess we don't got much choice butta try it, though."
He nodded, then noted the blood coating her sock and the bottom of her pant leg, as well as that spreading across his own leg. "Worry about that later. Right now we've got bigger problems." She took the hint and they spent the next few minutes tearing bits of cloth with which to dress their wounds, getting on in somewhat companionable silence but truly trying their damndest not to pay attention to the ravaged victims of battle that lay around them. The stench of blood and gunsmoke and the beginnings of death assaulted them, and it was decided without words that they were getting out of this place as soon as they could and promptly forgetting it...if that was even possible. Was it? No...Cindy's head suddenly fell into her hands and she tried to keep standing the new walls she'd created, forcing the emotional and physical pain into an uncomfortable ball and trying without success to swallow it. The comforting hand that took hers startled her, and, despite her orientation, she thought she could tell what Max saw in Logan when she looked up into his face.
"If you wanna cry, it's all right," he urged. But she didn't. She thanked him with a nod and a smile, but there were no more tears. She was beyond that now. She was in a place where the upsetting could no longer outwardly upset her, and without a word she pulled herself to her feet and moved to the driver's side of the van. She was about to get it when Logan gruffly cleared her throat.
"Hey, uh...I'm a little crippled here," he joked wryly. Nervous laughter passed between them and she walked over and grabbed him tightly under the arms, pulling with all her might and finally getting him to the passenger side after quite a bit of difficulty. She helped him get settled, something he usually would have insisted upon doing himself but he presently was too drained to care about, then returned to the driver's side and prepared to complete their escape, however futile it might be in a van with only two available wheels. As she was turned the engine, though, a flash of motion caught her eye and again chemicals rushed, alerting all senses and putting her on such an edge that Logan couldn't help but notice.
"Shit, shit, shit!" she cried, desperately trying to turn the van around as a fresh batch of bullets struck the hood, the windshield, the front of her side view mirror. The driver of the first van had regained consciousness and pulled himself out, effectively starting the battle anew. The engine revved and sputtered in protest at her hurried maneuvers but it turned all the same, going slightly off the road at one point but without trouble. A bullet crashed through her window and grazed Logan's upper arm before embedding in the opposite door, but other than that the two remained relatively unscathed from this present encounter, though there was plenty to remind them of the injuries sustained in the first part of the battle. They tried to forget it, to focus on the exhilaration of having earned themselves a victory, and for perhaps a moment or two there was relief, even some amount of joy.
But nothing lasts forever.
The back of the van was now riddled with bullet holes, including the two rear tires. When it's useless to try and shoot to kill it's best to do what you can to disable. The previously unconscious driver followed this well, and in his mind, as he fiddled with his radio and wished that he instead could have a cell phone, that was something for which the director could definitely be proud.