bushwhack ('bu̇sh-ˌ(h)wak), transitive verb
to attack (someone) by surprise from a hidden place : ambush
He woke to the feeling of heat on his face and pressure on his chest. A groan built in his throat, but he didn't voice it. Quiet, always quiet, and still. Don't move until you know what you're moving into. Make no sound until you know who's there to hear you. He breathed in scorched air and opened his eyes.
His vision blurred the flames leaping out of the window above him, but the thick smell of smoke shot him through with enough alarm to move his aching body. Something heavy slipped off his stomach as he sat up, and he blinked to focus on the object beside him.
An arm, limp, connected to a bloody shoulder. Glassy eyes stared from a face he didn't know, mouth open, cheek pressed into the concrete.
They'd fallen together, this man beside him, when something like a horse's kick forced them through the window. Fragments of broken glass glittered across his shirt, and the back of his right hand was torn and bloody. The dead man was sprawled across his legs, and he extricated himself with careful movements, trying not to aggravate his throbbing head and burning chest.
Voices came to him through the crackle of the fire, and he covered his face with an arm as he eased himself free. "Where is he?" a man yelled from somewhere to his right. "Where's Spencer? Find him!"
He staggered to his feet, squeezing his eyes shut as the room swayed around him, and pushed long hair—impractically long, and sticky with blood—out of his face. Pain shot up his leg, but there were more voices now, and instinct drove him toward the door at the far end of what looked like a parking garage.
A handful of cars blocked his route; he ducked behind a black sedan and squinted through the smoke at the partially open door.
He hesitated. There was something he was supposed to do, to find. He couldn't leave without it.
"I found a body!" a new voice yelled.
"Who is it?" asked another.
"It's Vinny. Call it in—tell Lancaster Vinny's dead. Who's got eyes on Spencer?"
Can't make a recovery if you're dead. Escape now, return later.
He suppressed a cough and darted toward the door, running in a low crouch. The flames were high behind him now, hot against the back of his shirt, and he hoped it would give him cover.
"There! There, the door—stop him!"
The crack of a rifle split the smoke behind him, and he threw himself through the doorway and ran on without bothering to shut it. No time. He had to find a place to defend himself, something to put his back against without getting himself cornered. Another shot, a curse, an order: "Find him! Find him!" He kept running.
It was dark. He moved in the shadows, sticking to the side of the building as he turned the corner, his ears straining into the night.
"He's heading south," called a low voice.
A hedge cut along the sidewalk beside the building, and he gathered his strength and vaulted over it, placing his hand on the thickest branch he could find. The overlapping sticks ripped at his already-bloody hand, but he pushed the pain from his mind and held himself still as two figures hurried past.
He was behind them now, in position to take them out. Adrenaline pounded through him, and he pictured the way the fight would go: he would trail them until he got close enough to slip his hands over their throats, and then a twist—
His body went cold. The feeling of bones snapping under his palms was so strong, so real, that nausea churned his stomach.
He'd done it before.
A siren wailed in the distance. He put his back to the burning building and headed toward the sounds of traffic.
He didn't know where he was.
The blare of car horns and engines and voices and music pounded in his head, and he squinted through the traffic lights and storefront signs as he stumbled onto the street. Exhaust mingled with the smoke still in his lungs, and he staggered into an alley and coughed until he retched.
"You sound like you're in bad shape," said a voice.
He looked up, rubbing a hand over his eyes until they focused on a man sitting against the wall a few feet away. "Sorry," he rasped, wincing when the word dragged over his raw throat.
The man studied him. "What's your name?"
He blinked. His name?
What was his name?
The throbbing in his head intensified, and he swallowed a moan and pressed his forehead against the hand resting on the wall.
"Don't have to be your real name," the man prompted. "Folks call me J.B."
Any name… What was it the men had shouted at the parking garage?
He spoke without lifting his head. "Spencer."
"Spencer," the man echoed. "All right. You need a place to stay?"
He glanced up, shaking his head. "I'm… I'm not…"
"No need to be shy," J.B. said. "There's a place over on 5th. I was gonna head there myself, once I got myself moving. You been there before?"
He didn't know. Now that his mind was free to contemplate more than escaping the fire and the men, there was a disturbing lack of information to draw from. He'd run from the parking garage, where he'd woken up beside the dead man after falling from the window.
Before that… nothing.
J.B. waited in silence, but it was too dark to read his expression. "Come on," he said finally, working himself to his feet. "The house closes in an hour. We have to get there before they lock up for the night."
It was tempting to let him go, to collapse against the concrete and let the darkness have him, but the thought of giving up didn't sit well in his stomach. He rolled his sore shoulders and closed his eyes, summoning the strength to follow J.B. out into the street, and tested the name he'd given in a whisper.
"Spencer."
Nothing. There was no flash of insight, no connection beyond having heard it as he fled the garage. Still, he had to call himself something.
"You coming?" J.B. said.
Spencer let out a long breath and went after him.