CHAPTER EIGHT

                                    

                                          
The floodgate opens. Seven years I've kept these memories hidden, kept away in the darkest recesses of my mind, and now, they not only trickle through the cracks, the holes, they burst through, pouring out like a burst dam.
                          
I can't confront them. I can't look at them, I can't think about them, I can't be consumed by them. So I do what I do best, and I run. I turn tail and run. 
                          
There's a commotion behind me, there's a shout – I think it's my name – before I hear feet trample behind me. I don't care. I weave through the trees, through the dark, not caring where I go, where I end up. I have to escape those memories. I have to escape that face. 
                          
I don't even make it half a mile before something crashes into me and tackles me to the ground, landing on my back. I don't even have to turn to know it's Nate, because I'm unfortunately starting to get used to this arsehole. The air's shoved from my lungs and as my chin connects with the ground, I bite my tongue; I spit blood as he tries to roll me over, though it's awkward because he's on top of me. But he eventually manages it, and rolls me onto my back. 
                          
"What the fuck was that?" he snaps, but I don't owe him an explanation. I punch him hard across the face, my right fist connecting with his left cheek. He doesn't expect it, and the impact knocks him sideways.
                          
Rolling onto hands and knees, I get part way to my feet before I launch myself on top of Nate, and try to unstrap the rifle from his shoulder while he's dazed. He doesn't stay down for long, and with me on top of him, he surges upwards, grabbing the rifle as he does so. He shoves it against me, which in turn knocks me off balance and away from him. I don't know if the rifle's loaded, whether he means to shoot me. But it's all disregarded as I launch myself at him again, using my weight to push the rifle back against him, and the momentum takes us down until Nate lands hard on his back. 
                          
Through the struggle the strap of the rifle comes free, and though Nate might have a good hold on the weapon itself, I have a hold of the strap, the end with the buckle. I sit back and hit him as hard as I can with the leather, the buckle making contact first with his chest, his neck, then his chin. Blood flies. 
                          
Nate blocks the next swing with the length of the rifle, the buckle catching on the wood of its body. And then, to my surprise and disdain, he retaliates, and he smashes the rifle upward, almost like a spear, and the butt catches me in the mouth, the chin, and he slides out from under me, his chin red, dripping blood. I in turn lose my footing and fall hard, the contact jarring my tailbone.
                          
Nate lurches to his feet as I try to get to mine, my boots unable to find a grasp on the slippery, dead leaves that coat the ground – my tailbone protests, pain shooting up my spine as I try to get my legs in the right position. But when I finally do get to my feet, my first instinct is to flee, not to fight. 
                          
Nate's not having any of that. Or really, he's not taking another chance. He discards the rifle before he launches himself at me, and instead of falling to the ground, I'm shoved into a tree, the trunk as wide as Nate is broad in the shoulders. My chest and face hit the tree so hard stars dance across my vision, followed by black spots against the black of the trees. My arms become pinned between my body and Nate's, and he twists them high until I can't do anything but cry out at the discomfort.  
                          
"Try that again," he growls, and he shoves his body roughly against mine, positioning himself in such a way that I can't move and breathing is basically difficult and torturous. "I dare you."
                          
Oh, how I want to just to spite him. I want to punch him again in the face just because it would feel fantastic. But I don't because I can't. He keeps himself pressed against me, his front to my back, my face pressed against the tree. His hands are between us, grasping my wrists, which are wrenched so high up my back it feels like my arms are about to snap off at the elbows. He has my legs spread wide, with both of his caught on the inside, twisted around them like vines so I have no way in hell of getting free and potentially kicking or kneeing him in the balls and rendering him infertile. 
                          
"You know what? Fuck you, buddy," I say, trying not to eat bark.
                          
Nate doesn't rise to the bait, and he makes no move to shift from this odd position. "I think you need to update your vocabulary," he says finally, but his words come out more like a grunt than anything else. Maybe I broke his teeth. "Do you know anything other than fuck?"
                          
"I know words like you and get and go," I say, and I swear there's bits of bark between my teeth. "You know, nice complementary words."
                          
Nate's body presses into mine, and that's because he's leaning into me, my own body acting as a barrier between him and the tree. And it's uncomfortable. He's not so bad, his front pressed to my back, but it's my front that's wedged into the fucking tree. And maybe that my arms are yanked so far up my back I'm actually worried they might snap off.
                          
"I'm going to let you go," Nate says finally, and his fingers flex around my wrists. His hands are like iron bands. "Don't try to run."
                          
Unfortunately this situation is much like what happened earlier tonight. He's keeping me warm, and moving means losing that. But moving also means I can get my arms back. So I guess it's a win win.
                          
"Fine."
                          
Slowly, Nate disentangles himself from me, first his legs, and when he releases my arms, he takes a step back, then two, and suddenly it feels like there's miles of distance between us. My arms have never felt such relief. I take stock of my injuries - swollen and cut lip, bitten tongue, swollen jaw and chin - before turning to face Nate – not that it matters, because he can't see my injuries, and I can't see his.
                          
"Are you going to tell me what the fuck that was all about?" he asks, but he's calmer, less aggressive, less stand-offish.
                          
God, I definitely don't want to tell him anything, but I know he won't drop it until I say something. So I try to explain everything in a round-about way. "You never said Emmi was a little girl," I answer, rubbing my jaw.
                          
Nate scoffs. "I didn't know I had to."
                          
"When I choose to join a group – key words being choose and join, I steer clear of those with little girls."
                          
Even in the minimal light, I know Nate's confused. "Can you tell me why?" he asks, but even as he says it, I know he knows he won't get a word out of me. So in the silence that follows, I know his brain is working overtime, and it's probably better that he puts it together, so then I don't have to say it out loud. Just thinking about it – even touching upon it – is torture enough.
                          
"Something happened," he says finally. "What happened?" He takes a step forward, a shadow against the darkness. "When?"
                          
"Pre-apocalypse."
                          
His shadow moves, scrubs a hand over his face. "Emmi wants to meet you," he murmurs, thankfully changing the subject. Despite our ... differences, I'm glad Nate has the sense to not push me on this topic. But who is this little girl in relation to him?
                          
I rub my wrists. "Are you sure?" I ask. The little girl reminds me of a ghost, one that will haunt me until the day I die. "Do you–"
                          
"You've got no choice," Nate replies. He grabs my wrist, fingers like a loose bracelet. I do everything I can to ignore the impulse to bolt. "You never had."