Chapter?18 (Anna’s?POV)

  The instant I rolled back through the sheet?metal gates, the outpost’s rancid heat closed around me like a damp fist. The guards on duty—two thick?necked men with mismatched armor—looked me up and down as if cataloging bruises they could exploit.

  “Back already?” one sneered, thumb hooked through a belt of shotgun shells. His gaze lingered on my chest long enough to make my skin crawl.

  “Found nothing worth stealing?” added the other, scratching a rash beneath his collar. His smile was all rot.

  “Found plenty,” I snapped, tightening my grip on the steel bar. “Just not for you.”

  They laughed—low, ugly—and waved me through, but the tone set my nerves on edge. Inside, the market corridor churned with scavengers bartering over dented cans, addicts scratching for a hit of home?brewed rotgut, and drifters too hollow?eyed to care who saw them beg. Every second set of eyes seemed to latch onto me. Hunger. Malice. A calculation of how much fight was left in the limping woman with a pipe for a cane.

  I kept my head forward, pulse drumming in my ears. Bath first, I reminded myself. Bandage. Sleep. Yet the weight of those stares followed like gnats.

  Halfway to my cubicle I heard them: footsteps matching my pace. I risked a glance back—two men, maybe early thirties, both sporting patchy beards and stained jackets that used to be tactical gear. One had a knife on his belt; the other toyed with a length of chain, swinging it against his thigh.

  I quickened my limp. So did they.

  Heat prickled along my spine. Keep calm. Corridors twist everywhere; lose them. I veered left, ducking behind a stall selling half?moldy bread. The vendor barked, but I ignored him, slipping through a gap in hanging tarps into a narrow side passage that reeked of rancid grease. My heart pounded so hard it made my thigh wound pulse.

  Footsteps followed, scraping on the warped planks.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” a voice called, half?laughing. “Slow down—let’s talk.”

  “Yeah,” the second chimed in, chain clinking. “Heard you got pearls. And that limp says you could use some… protection.”

  I tasted bile. Not here. Too many corners, too many potential witnesses who’d just watch. I spotted a broken exit sign ahead—an old service alley that emptied behind the strip?mall into a blind, trash?clogged lane. Risky, but at least fewer eyes. I shoved through the door, metal screeching, and limped into the alley’s gloom.

  The smell hit first: sour beer, spoiled meat, urine baked into asphalt. Dumpsters towered like rusted coffins, their lids pried open by scavengers. A chain?link fence blocked the far end, sagging but climbable—if my leg could manage. I spun, bracing the steel bar in both hands.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The two men emerged, silhouettes against the doorway’s faint glow. The one with the chain gave it an experimental whip, metal clacking. The knife?man grinned, lips split and oozing at the corners.

  “Didn’t want an audience, huh?” Knife?man said, stepping closer. His blade caught a sliver of light—six inches, serrated. “Smart girl.”

  “Leave me,” I hissed, forcing the steel bar up between us. My voice trembled with rage more than fear. “I’ll cave your skulls before you touch me.”

  Chain?guy laughed, a phlegmy bark. “Look at her. Half dead and still talking tough.”

  They advanced. My heartbeat drummed so loud I barely heard their threats: how they’d take the pearls, the money, and anything else worth taking. How nobody would miss me. Something in me snapped—white?hot fury eclipsing pain. I shifted my weight off the wounded leg, planted my good foot, and swung.

  The steel bar cracked across Chain?guy’s collarbone with a wet crunch. He shrieked, chain dropping from numb fingers. Knife?man lunged. I jerked back; the blade sliced my shirt, a whisper from skin. I rammed the bar into his stomach. Air whooshed out of him. He staggered.

  Chain?guy recovered, grabbed my bar’s shaft. I yanked free, pivoted, and drove the bar’s jagged end into his cheek. Bone gave with a muffled pop. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic. He collapsed against a dumpster, howling.

  Knife?man slashed wildly. Steel kissed my forearm, carving shallow but hot. I gritted my teeth and used the momentum: bar up, then down—hard—onto his wrist. The knife clattered. He screamed. I didn’t stop. I swung again, this time connecting with his temple. A dull, wet thud. He crumpled to his knees, eyes already glazing.

  Chain?guy tried to crawl away, gurgling curses through broken teeth. I stepped after him, raised the bar overhead. “I said. Leave. Me.” The bar came down. Skull met steel with a sickening crack. He jerked once, then lay still, blood pooling in oily swirls.

  Silence rushed in, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant hum of generators. My arms trembled. The alley spun. I wiped spatter from my face with a shaking hand and swallowed the rising nausea. They would have done worse to me; the logic was simple, brutal.

  I crouched—searching quick, efficient. Their pockets yielded four crumpled bills, a half?pack of cigarettes, and two rust?flecked bullets that didn’t match any gun I owned. Pearls? None. Figures. I left the loot; not worth hauling. Instead I pried the chain from the first man’s limp hand—lengthy, sturdy. Could double as a weapon or lock. I coiled it around my torso, hissed at the sting in my forearm, and backed away from the bodies.

  Before slipping through the door, I kicked trash over the blood puddles. The outpost didn’t punish murder, but it invited questions I didn’t need. Inside, the corridor’s heat swallowed me again, noise crashing like surf—haggling, cursing, the crack of a distant fistfight. No one noticed the fresh crimson flecks on my boots.

  I reached my cubicle, shoved aside the tarp, and collapsed onto the filthy sleeping bag. My heart still hammered; adrenaline shook my hands. But I’d kept my pearls, my dignity, my life. Tomorrow I’d find water. Tomorrow I’d ride north on that rusty bicycle and leave this cesspit behind.

  For tonight, I pressed a rag to my bleeding arm, swallowed another antibiotic pill dry, and listened to the outpost settle into its usual chorus of misery. Somewhere beyond these plywood walls, the city plotted fresh nightmares. I closed my eyes, bar cradled across my chest, and let exhaustion drag me under—ready to wake swinging if anyone else decided I looked like prey.