Part 36 (2/2)

Crak! went the gunshot, closer.

Jill knew it had worked. She was on her own now.

She put her head down and ran for her life.

Chapter Sixty-two.

Crak! went another gunshot, even closer.

”Help!” Jill put on the afterburners, running faster. Raising her hands to clear her way. Keeping her knees high so she wouldn't fall. Ducking when the branches got too low. She sweated and bled. She had no idea where she was. She didn't know if she was running straight or in a circle. She knew only that she was running away.

Her chest heaved with each breath. Her legs ached, and she started to stagger. Thorns sliced her palms and forearms. She tripped on a vine, yanking it to free herself. She didn't know how much longer she could keep going. Donator would catch up with her. Cohz would regain consciousness and join him.

Then she saw it. Up ahead, through the trees. It looked oddly lighter, like a clearing. She didn't know what it was, but she ran for it. Civilization lay ahead.

”Help!” she hollered, with hope.

Crak!

Jill felt the heat of the bullet, whizzing past her head. She bolted in terror through the woods toward the clearing. She had to get to help before Donator got to her. She didn't know how many bullets he had. The promise of the clearing gave her new strength. She got a second wind.

She raced ahead. She cried out when a branch sliced her cheek, its end pointed like a steak knife. She ran and ran, knocking dead limbs out of the way with her arms. Beyond the trees was a brightness. The sun shone through. She spotted rooftops and glimpsed houses.

”Help me somebody!”

Crak!

”No!” Jill cried out. Her left shoulder burned like it had caught fire. She'd been shot. Her arm flew instinctively to grip the wound, but it slowed her pace and she let go. She reached the clearing like crossing a finish line.

It was a housing development, unfinished. The trees had been cut down, making a circle of dirt and clay around a few Cape Cod houses, then a row of bare wooden frames for houses. They sat on an unfinished paved street, part of a larger asphalt grid. Tattered orange flags marked the building lots. RUNNING HORSE REALTY, read the faded sign, with a peeling overlay that read MODEL HOME.

”Help!” Jill yelled. Tears of relief ran down her face. She sprinted toward the model home, then noticed something, on the run.

There were no people, no cars. No toys in the front yards, no swingsets in the backs. No trash cans or recycling bins. Everything was quiet and still. It was a suburb that never happened.

Her heart sank, her hope vanished. Still, she ran on and on. The development had been abandoned. The Cape Cods stood empty and unoccupied. The unfinished houses were skeletons, their Tyvek skins flayed by the elements, their plywood bones bleached by the sun.

She ran past the model home, guessing it would be locked. She scanned on the fly for a place to hide. There were no open garages. No gardening sheds. No sewer pipes.

She ran down the street past the finished houses. They had to be locked, too. She felt exposed and vulnerable. Donator could pick her off here with ease. Her breath came harder and harder. She couldn't keep going much longer. Her shoulder was killing her. Her heart pumped hard, she was losing blood fast. She had to get out of sight.

She gulped for breath. She ran for the last frame house in the row, which was almost complete. Plywood sheets formed its front wall. She tore through the rubble and red clay to the threshold. It had no door.

She whirled around, looking for a place to hide. It was a see-through house. Wood frames stood where the walls would have been, their studs at regular intervals. All the rooms were open except one in the back, intended to become a garage. A cinderblock wall blocked her view.

She raced for the cinderblock wall and ducked behind it. The garage was open to the back, facing the woods. The floor was poured concrete.

She looked around for something she could use for a weapon, left by a construction worker. A two-by-four, a hammer. A boxcutter, a pipe. There was nothing. It had been picked clean.

She faced the front of the house, her eyes glued to the threshold for Donator. Then she saw something that sickened her.

Drops of her own blood dribbled along the plywood floor, leading to her hiding place. She was bleeding from the shoulder wound. She should have thought of that. She couldn't hide here, she couldn't hide anywhere. She was bleeding, making her own gruesome trail of crumbs.

Then she realized. She hadn't heard a gunshot in a while, and that was the only thing worse than hearing a gunshot. It meant that she didn't know where Donator was.

She rose silently, trying to slow her heart, quiet her breathing. Maybe he was out of bullets. Maybe he'd given up. Maybe he'd gone back to his car.

Suddenly she heard a shuffling behind her, and she turned.

Chapter Sixty-three.

”You b.i.t.c.h!” Donator roared, running at Jill, his hands reaching for her throat.

”No!” Jill raised her arms, but he was already upon her. His strong hands caught her, pus.h.i.+ng her off her feet, crus.h.i.+ng her Adam's apple under his thumbs.

She gagged. She tried to breathe but couldn't. She tried to pry his fingers off but they closed tighter. She tried to kick him but he kept coming, knocking her off-balance.

She lost her footing. He dragged her backwards by her neck, sc.r.a.ping her heels across the plywood floor. She couldn't breathe, he'd sealed her windpipe with his hands. Still, she kept hitting, prying, and kicking, fighting for her life. Her shoulder exploded in agony.

”Give it up!” Donator yelled, his face crimson with rage. He bared his teeth like an animal. She fell backwards, her head hitting the floor, her arms flailing at him. Donator fell on top of her, tightening his grip, strangling her.

She felt dizzy, she saw stars. She was out of oxygen. She writhed and twisted, trying to wiggle away. She tried to knee him but he weighed her down. She tried to move but couldn't.

Her strength started to desert her. Her arms fell backwards. Her shoulder was agony. Her legs flopped open. She couldn't fight anymore. She couldn't form a single thought. He had choked the life from her.

”Good girl,” Donator whispered, his hot breath in her face, his grimace an inch from her lips. He was killing her and he was enjoying it, she could see. Then she didn't want to see anymore.

Jill closed her eyes. She heard her own, final choking sounds, pathetic and fading.

Then, she heard nothing.

The last sound she heard on earth would be her own silence.

Chapter Sixty-four.

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