Page 3 of Her Darkest Possession
Bullets ping off metal and shatter windows. Glass rains down as passengers scramble over each other, desperate to escape. A child wails somewhere behind me.
That's when I see the red emergency stop button on the wall near the conductor's body.
I lunge for it, my fingers shaking as another bullet whizzes past my shoulder. I slam my palm against it with everything I have.
The brakes engage with a deafening screech. The train shudders violently, throwing everyone forward. I grab a seat back to keep from flying down the aisle.
Grisha, still standing, isn't so lucky. The sudden deceleration launches him off his feet. He flies forward, arms windmilling uselessly. His body crashes into seats, passengers, and anything in his path.
The gun spins from his hand, skittering across the floor until it stops just feet away from me.
The train grinds to a complete halt with one final, violent jerk.
I don't hesitate. I scramble across the floor, my fingers closing around the cold metal of the gun. Its weight is unfamiliar but somehow steadying in my hand.
I turn and point it at Grisha, who's struggling to get up from where he landed. Blood streams from his nose and a fresh gash on his forehead.
When he sees me, his eyes widen, then narrow. A bloody smile splits his face.
"You don't have the balls, little whore," he sneers, dragging himself upright. "So put that down before you hurt yourself."
He takes a step toward me. Then another.
"Stay back," I say.
"Fuck you." He lunges.
I pull the trigger.
The gun kicks in my hand. Grisha howls, collapsing to the floor, clutching his leg where my bullet tore through it.
I pull the trigger again, aiming at his chest this time.
Click.
Nothing happens.
My blood turns to ice as Grisha's eyes widen, his expression shifting from pain to savage glee.
"Looks like you're out of luck, little whore," he growls, already pushing himself up on unsteady feet while blood pours from his leg wound.
I don't wait to see what happens next. I turn and sprint down the aisle, leaping over fallen luggage and pushing past panicked passengers. The empty gun is still clutched in my hand, useless but maybe just threatening enough to keep others away.
Behind me, I hear Grisha's curses and the heavy thud of his limping pursuit. I reach the door at the end of the car, and pull it open with trembling hands. Cold air hits my face as I stumble onto the small platform between cars.
We've barely just entered the Bronx.
I jump down onto the gravel beside the tracks, my ankles screaming in protest as I land. But I don't stop. I can't.
My legs pump beneath me as I scramble up the embankment and onto the street.
It's the same neighborhood I've walked through a hundred times. I know these buildings, these corners, and these alleys so well that I can navigate them blind if I have to.
Behind me, someone shouts. Maybe Grisha. Maybe someone else. I don't look back.
I run past a bodega where I used to buy coffee, past the laundromat where Amara and I would spend Sunday afternoons reading while our clothes tumbled dry. My lungs burn as I run, but I don’t dare stop.
The baby, I think,please be okay.
