Six Days After Christmas Chapter 4: Six Days After Christmas Part 4, an o.c. fanfic

Six Days After Christmas

Part 4

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"We didn't know," Lindsay offered breathlessly.

She struggled to keep her voice steady. The tears weren't helping, but she couldn't stop them. The entire situation had taken on a surreal quality. Maybe this wasn't real, maybe there was a hidden camera somewhere, and in a few seconds everyone would start laughing at her and Ryan would point and say, "Gotcha".

Ryan.

She glanced at him.

He had stopped his heavy breathing, stood rigid, blinking slowly, staring at the truck.

With a gun to his head.

How could anyone stand that motionless with a firearm pressed against his face?

Then she saw it, a flash from the corner of his eyes, in her direction; slow, deliberate movement, until he made contact with her eyes, locked on them.

"Sir," Lindsay's voice shook, she spoke to their assailant but kept her eyes pinned on Ryan. "Sir, we didn't know. We didn't know he wanted my purse. Here," She proceeded in slow motion, exaggerating every movement as she lifted the strap of her purse off from across her shoulder, over her head, until she held the small bag in her hand, held it out to the psycho that was holding a gun to Ryan's head.

"Here," she repeated. "See. Just take it."

"Chris!" The man shouted over his shoulder, wrenched his neck, trying to see his brother but keeping an eye on Ryan. "Chris get up. Get over here."

The other man, still on the ground from Ryan's beating, rose up on all fours, swayed like a newborn colt on unsteady limbs. "Shit," he snarled, hacked up a mouthful of blood and saliva. ""I don't know if I can move. He fucked me up."

Lindsay heard sounds of retching, she breathed a little faster.

His brother's pain distracted the man with the gun. He backed off slightly from Ryan, cranked his neck trying to get a better view of his brother. "Chris? Are you okay?"

Lindsay tore her eyes away from Ryan.

"You should take him home," she rushed the words out of her mouth, forced herself to look at the gunman. "Here, take my purse. This is what you wanted, right? You could take it and get out of here."

The man licked his lips, looked back and forth nervously between the purse, his brother and Ryan.

He wasn't really a man, noticed Lindsay. He couldn't be more than a few years older than her.

"Chris?" The guy called out, repeated his brother's name. He lowered the gun from Ryan's head, shoved it into his back, and nudged Ryan with it. "Go help him! Help him get up."

The man moved away from Ryan and refocused his aim on Lindsay. "Help him up or I will fucking shoot your girl. I just want to get out of here ok? This wasn't supposed to go down this way, but you fucked it all up, so either you help me with my brother or I will fucking lay you and your bitch out right here."

Ryan held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"It's ok Lindsay," he said quietly, finally breaking his silence.

When he spoke again, his voice was slightly raised. He sounded different that he usually did in every day speak, his tone a strange combination of pleading and command, like he was asking permission to assert authority. "I'm gonna help you with your brother, ok man? But you gotta' take that gun off her. Please don't point it at her. You don't need to do that. Lower the gun and I'll go get your brother. I'll do whatever you want."

Ryan stared at the man. "Lindsay, do you promise to just stand there while I help this guy's brother?"

She nodded furiously, managed a feeble, "Yes."

"See?" Ryan asked, his tone gaining confidence. "She's not gonna cause any trouble. Just lower the gun, man, and I'll go help your brother up. Please, just lower the gun. You're scaring her."

The guy pointed the weapon to the ground, screamed at Ryan. "Shut up! Get him the fuck over here now!"

"It's ok," Ryan nodded slightly at Lindsay, actually managed a grim smile. "This will be over in a few minutes. I'm just going to help this guy out and then we can go."

She started to quietly cry again, kept nodding her head, watched as Ryan struggled to assist her attacker to his feet and then over to the Rover.

The gunman grabbed Lindsay by the arm, pulling her away as Ryan approached them, the injured man's weight causing Ryan to stumble.

"Put him in the fucking car!"

Ryan fumbled in his pocket, trying to get his keys out while balancing the injured man.

The younger brother spit in Ryan's face, "Fuck you."

The words came out slurred.

"Knock that shit off Chris," the older brother warned. "Just get in the goddamn car and keep your mouth shut."

Ryan wiped the spit off his face, finished loading the kid into the vehicle then backed away from the truck, held his hands up, the keys dangling from the right one.

Lindsay stared at him. How could he possibly be so together? The blood from the fight was still smeared on his face; the knees of his jeans and the palms of his hands dirty from the asphalt. If the cops came right now, they'd have a hard time figuring out whether Ryan was a victim or one of the assailants.

"Lindsay, give him your purse."

She nodded at Ryan's words, held the purse out and jumped, startled when the gunman snatched it from her hands.

"Lindsay," Ryan's voice continued it amazingly controlled pace, "start walking away, really slowly. It's going to be ok, just walk away."

"Ryan?"

He ignored the call of his name, stared at the guy with the gun. "Walk away Lindsay, nice and slow. I'll catch up with you in a minute."

The man followed Ryan's lead, ignoring Lindsay as well. He repositioned the aim of his gun so that it once again had Ryan in its' sight.

"Drop the keys and your wallet to the ground and move the fuck away from them."

Ryan complied.

The keys jiggled as they hit the parking lot's surface.

The man kept the gun pointed at Ryan, never took his eyes off him as he reached down and picked up Ryan's wallet along with the keys to the Rover.

"Lindsay, go away." Ryan's words now had urgency to them. "Please, just do it Lindsay."

But she couldn't move, couldn't do what he was telling her to do.

She was frozen in place.

Ryan knew something she didn't; she could hear it in his voice. He was still trying to protect her.

"You should not have fucked with my brother," the gunman warned Ryan. "He's only sixteen, man. He's a fucking kid. Now what I am supposed to do here, huh? What am I suppose to do with you, now that you've been so fucking disrespectful to my little brother?"

"I thought he was going to hurt her," Ryan backed up slightly. "Why don't you just get out of here before the cops come."

Somewhere in the dark night Lindsay could faintly hear a girl laughing. She resisted the urge to scream out for help. Ryan and the gunman were in a staring match, sizing each other up, Ryan's hands in the air, palms out.

"Get on your knees asshole," the man instructed Ryan.

"No," Lindsay reacted with panic to the command. "He said he was sorry. We didn't do anything wrong. Please just let us go."

"Lindsay get the hell out of here." Ryan was pleading with her now.

The man walked briskly towards Ryan, "Get on your knees, NOW!" He cocked the gun. "You should not have fucked with my brother," he muttered, then raised his voice. "Get on your knees or I will blow your fucking head off in front of her."

Ryan watched Lindsay, his eyes tracking her the entire time he slid to his knees, he mouthed, "Just go."

The guy aimed for the center of Ryan's head, placed the barrel of the gun on his hair.

Lindsay shook her head back and forth.

This was not happening.

She should do something, run, scream, try and tackle this maniac.

He was going to shoot Ryan in the head, in the middle of a beach parking lot, because of a purse that contained five bucks and a cell phone. Because Ryan fought back and kept her safe.

The man scratched at his hair with his free hand. "I should just fucking kill you," he taunted Ryan, "but your ass ain't worth my bullet."

He moved swiftly, raising the gun and a split second later used it like a mini-baseball bat, slamming it against the right side of Ryan's head.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He saw flashes of silver slivers, floating, spinning in every direction, dancing crazily like shooting starts, or those twinkling white lights Kirsten loves so much..

Ryan could feel himself falling forward but for some reason his limbs had no desire to protect him and the side of his head smacked against the parking lot.

Ow.

He tasted dirt.

Suddenly he couldn't breathe. Something had taken all the oxygen away. Ryan tried to take a huge gulp of air, tried to figure out why nothing was coming in.

Then a force hit him harder, removing what little air was left in his lungs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ryan dropped so quickly Lindsay had no time to even consider breaking his fall.

She watched helplessly as the man kicked Ryan several times hard in the abdomen and chest, with such force he almost tripped and fell. The assailant regained his balance and then delivered one last, even more powerful kick to Ryan's stomach.

This wasn't happening.

Ryan wasn't falling and the man wasn't scrambling to the driver's side of the Rover and jumping in and stealing Ryan's truck and Ryan wasn't laying on the ground, clutching his stomach, wrapped up in a ball, his movements stopping as he lost consciousness.

The Range Rover sped away, kicking up pieces of gravel, wheels squealing and Lindsay was left standing in the parking lot, hands to her side.

And then everything was quiet.

"Ryan?"

She said his name tentatively, made a few steps toward him.

God, what if that madman changed his mind. What if he came back?

Ryan wasn't moving; he wouldn't be able to defend himself.

"Help!" Lindsay screamed into the air. "Somebody please help us."

Blood from Ryan's head wound was flowing down the side of his face.

Head wounds bleed. It's ok. Lots of blood is normal.

"Ryan?"

He wasn't waking up, wasn't going to help her, she was on her own.

"Help!" she tried yelling again, hoped someone would hear and bother to try and figure out why a teenage girl was screaming in the middle of the night.

Her phone was gone.

Ryan had a cell in his pocket. Lindsay had seen him use it earlier that evening.

She gingerly eased herself next to him, first settling on her knees and then sitting.

Ryan was lying on his stomach, face down. He had a head injury. How was she going to get to his jeans pocket without moving him?

Options.

Leave Ryan to get help. Move him to get to his cell phone and risk aggravating a head injury. Sit there and scream and hope that someone came.

Lindsay made a decision, took off her coat and placed it on top of Ryan.

"I'm going to go get help, ok Ryan?" It felt better to talk to him, even if he wasn't capable of listening.

Brain damage.

How hard can you get hit before you have brain damage?

Ryan groaned, made a strange wheezing sound.

His upper body shuddered and he started gagging.

Lindsay recognized the symptoms. He was going to throw up.

Shit.

Ryan was on his stomach. Can you choke on vomit if you're on your stomach? Health class always said to roll the person to their right side. But did you do that if there was a head injury, especially to the very side you're supposed to roll him to?

"Ryan," Lindsay apologized, her voice quivering, tears beginning to flow down her face again, "I don't know what to do."

In her head, she could almost hear him telling her it was ok, no big deal, just do whatever.

Lindsay snatched her coat back, balled it up, placed it as a pillow on the ground and somehow managed to rolled him to his left side just as vomit came pouring out.

Make sure he can breathe.

What the hell had her health teacher said, something about securing an airway? Lindsay hesitated, her hand hovering around Ryan's mouth, and then pried it open, fished around with her finger hooked.

The digit came away slimy but hadn't met any resistance. She wiped her finger on her jeans.

Now that Ryan was on his side, she felt around his jeans pocket, dug out his cell phone.

Dialed 911.

She told the dispatcher that answered that she didn't know what to do and Ryan was choking and asked if maybe she had hurt him worse, by moving him. And he told her to stay calm and police and paramedics were on their way and did she know Ryan's last name and his address and his phone number and where his mom and dad where?

She knew the Cohens' number, gave him that.

Was he conscious?

No.

Was he breathing?

Yes.

Were the people that did this still there?

No.

Keep him warm the man told her. But her jacket was being used for a pillow.

She was useless.