I don't own this stuff. I just moosh it around until it does what I want.
One of them started up the stairs with slow, careful steps. She ducked behind the open door to the bedroom. Her hand found the knife at her belt and she gripped it until her knuckles ached.
He came a step or two into the room and paused, not far enough in to see her yet. She held her breath, but surely he could hear her heart pounding in fear.
"Hey, come on out, sweetheart. We know you're here." It was the younger one.
He moved a few more steps into the room, but went left toward the bathroom. Maybe she could slip past him and make a run for the front door. When she heard him push open the bathroom door, she darted from her hiding place and bolted for the stairs, hoping he was looking the other way. But before she got more than a few steps, he grabbed her left arm and yanked her around. She slashed with her knife as he spun her, catching him deeply in the upper arm, drawing plenty of blood, but not doing enough damage to slow him down.
"Bitch!" His fist connected solidly with the side of her head, making her stagger. Her ears rang, but taking a punch was something she'd had plenty of experience with, so she didn't lose her feet. He grabbed her knife hand at the wrist and twisted, forcing her to drop the weapon.
"She's up here – I got her!" he shouted. He grabbed her jaw in one hand, digging his fingers in, pulling her close. "You're gonna regret that, you fucking cunt," he snarled in her face. She realized for the first time that he couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Just a child.
She lashed out with her free hand to gouge the wound on his arm as hard as she could. He howled and flinched, and she kicked at his knee. He was quick enough to avoid any damage from the kick, but his grip slipped enough that she wrenched herself free and ran for the stairs. He caught her by the collar of her jacket and yanked her back again. Instead of resisting, she let herself be pulled, driving him into the wall with all her weight. Rebounding, they staggered forward again, and she slipped out of the jacket he was holding. She ducked under his arm as he made another grab and gave him a hard shove toward the stairs. Off balance as he was, he flailed for a long moment right at the edge before tumbling down with a sickening crack as his head hit the edge of one of the wooden steps.
She flew down the stairs and jumped over the boy's motionless body. No more than two steps into the living room, she was grabbed from behind in a fearsome bear hug.
"Fucking whore! Did you kill him? Did you kill him? You filthy fucking bitch, you're gonna wish you were dead!" He shrieked in her ear, his voice no longer smooth, but ugly and harsh.
He was doing his best to crush the air from her. She struggled and thrashed but couldn't begin to break his grip. She kicked backward sharply, making him lurch when she connected with a kneecap. Raking her boot heel down his shin, she stomped his instep. He bellowed his rage and tried to move his feet out of her range as she kept kicking. While he was thinking about her feet, she snapped her head back and caught him hard in the face with the back of her head. His grip loosened just enough that she was able to twist free and try for the door again, her hands scrambling at her waistband.
He lunged and caught her around the knees, and she went down, cracking her cheek on the floor. He was on his knees, screaming obscenities as he dragged her back toward him one handful of her cargoes at a time, his fingers digging into her legs beneath the cloth. She kicked and twisted until she was on her back, pulling her little .38 from her belt. His face was so contorted in fury he barely seemed human. She raised the pistol, firing at him just like she'd been taught. For walkers, only headshots. For a human threat, two to the center of mass, two to the head.
Gore sprayed and his body collapsed forward onto her, knocking the wind out of her. Blood flowed freely from his wounds, soaking her skin and clothing. In a panic, she struggled against his weight, the blood making everything slippery. When she finally got out from under him, she scuttled across the floor to a corner, revolver at the ready, shaking and panting.
Eventually it sank in that he wasn't getting up again. She crawled over to check the boy. There was no pulse. He'd hit his head hard during the fall, or maybe he broke his neck. She didn't know and didn't care. He was dead. He looked so young lying there at the foot of the stairs, eyes empty. It made her feel sick to realize he was barely older than Carl. Pulling herself up at last, she used her last round to make sure he wouldn't try to hurt her again.
A sudden scratching and thumping sound startled her into a wide-eyed crouch. The sound was loud enough to reach her even through the ringing in her ears from the gunshots. She was out of ammo, and her hand scrabbled at her waist before she remembered her knife was still upstairs on the landing where the boy had forced her to drop it.
Walkers. The shouting and gunfire had drawn walkers. She sighed a shaky breath and sucked air back in. She could deal with walkers.
She continued gulping air as tears came without warning. Choking sobs wracked her body and she shook so hard she couldn't keep her feet. She sank to the ground in a pool of the boy's blood. Her hands rested in the puddle and she stared at them. She was responsible for that blood. She'd killed that boy. Part of her knew there hadn't been much choice, but in that moment it didn't matter. She'd killed a child.
Turning to the side, she vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach. She broke into a sweat, and still she cried, tears making trails in the blood spattered on her face.
The pain in her body began to register. Her head throbbed, her left eye and her wrist were beginning to swell, her ribs ached, and her skin burned where the man had clawed at her legs.
She got to her feet and climbed the stairs, feeling like it might as well have been Mt. Everest. Her head felt muzzy and the room spun, forcing her to cling to the railing as she made her way up. She was certain she had a concussion, maybe a bad one.
When she reached the landing, she scooped up her knife from where it lay in the hallway, nearly falling in the process. She couldn't seem to make the blade go into the sheath, though, so she dropped it as she made her way back into the bedroom. The smell of mangoes made her queasy again, so she grabbed her Cherokee roses and held them close to her chest, breathing in their strong fragrance and ignoring the thorns. She staggered into the little bathroom and slumped to the floor against the back wall, shower stall on one side, cold porcelain on the other.
She leaned her head against the shower door. The cool glass felt good on her battered face. She was too confused to remember if it was safe to sleep or not when you had a concussion, but before she could decide, she sank into blackness.