more sleep for me this morning, and I almost dive into my bedding area, frantic to pack up the most vital of my possessions and make tracks before whatever is on the other side of that barricade makes it inside. This is not the first time I’ve need to make a quick escape and my travel pack is ready to go, waiting patiently next to the makeshift pillow I’ve made from salvaged cushions from cars and those peculiar little belts that all the vehicles seem to have. When I have the time, it straps to my travel sack so space inside isn’t wasted - but now I don’t have that luxury and it’ll have to be left behind, along with my blanket and the dishes from last night’s meal. I sling the bag of salvage over my right shoulder and begin dismantling the makeshift block I have against the escape door.
I'm running out of time as I fight with the furniture blocking my freedom, and the noises from the barricade grow increasingly louder. I've abandoned any attempt to be silent now, and one of the desks howls into the quiet morning as the metal surface grinds against the floor. I hear a great cacophony from the barricade as a section of debris tumbles into the stairwell and I risk a look back as I tug on the final desk. Whoever is on the other side is just about to invade my domain and they don't look particularly friendly. I register a pair of blocky males with dirty furrowed brows and a prodigious assortment of weaponry. Guns have become increasingly rarer as time passes as the supplies are not being refreshed by the obliging arms manufacturers, but at least one of the men appears to be carrying a piece strapped under his arm. I throw my weight against the desk with a grunt worthy of any man twice my size and it gives way with a final whine, and I reach behind it and wrench open the door. There's a gap just big enough for my and my pack to shimmy through, but just as it looks as though I'll escape to see another day, I slide in reverse as my pack is yanked hard by one of the men. I can smell him now, a fetid combination of sweat, urine, and the oil smeared on his knives, as he breathes heavily on my neck from the exertion of broaching my barrier. I've never clung to a door quite as hard as I did then, digging my nails into the peeling metal faceade of the doorway. The screams from my throat are abruptly cut off as he wraps one stinking arm around my neck and curls his fist back. I choke on the absence of air I was breathing so greedily just a few moments before and brace my legs outside the door with desperate movements. I have no doubt that these men are headhunters, and their sole goal is to bring me in to their camp - alive or otherwise.
My struggles are outweighed by greater strength and size, and despite my efforts, my body is sliding back into the arms of my would-be captor. He's got me in a bearhug straight from hell, and as I look down I can see the grouping of knives strapped along his thigh. It's an brutally efficient collection, and by the looks of it, at least one of them has been recently
I'm running out of time as I fight with the furniture blocking my freedom, and the noises from the barricade grow increasingly louder. I've abandoned any attempt to be silent now, and one of the desks howls into the quiet morning as the metal surface grinds against the floor. I hear a great cacophony from the barricade as a section of debris tumbles into the stairwell and I risk a look back as I tug on the final desk. Whoever is on the other side is just about to invade my domain and they don't look particularly friendly. I register a pair of blocky males with dirty furrowed brows and a prodigious assortment of weaponry. Guns have become increasingly rarer as time passes as the supplies are not being refreshed by the obliging arms manufacturers, but at least one of the men appears to be carrying a piece strapped under his arm. I throw my weight against the desk with a grunt worthy of any man twice my size and it gives way with a final whine, and I reach behind it and wrench open the door. There's a gap just big enough for my and my pack to shimmy through, but just as it looks as though I'll escape to see another day, I slide in reverse as my pack is yanked hard by one of the men. I can smell him now, a fetid combination of sweat, urine, and the oil smeared on his knives, as he breathes heavily on my neck from the exertion of broaching my barrier. I've never clung to a door quite as hard as I did then, digging my nails into the peeling metal faceade of the doorway. The screams from my throat are abruptly cut off as he wraps one stinking arm around my neck and curls his fist back. I choke on the absence of air I was breathing so greedily just a few moments before and brace my legs outside the door with desperate movements. I have no doubt that these men are headhunters, and their sole goal is to bring me in to their camp - alive or otherwise.
My struggles are outweighed by greater strength and size, and despite my efforts, my body is sliding back into the arms of my would-be captor. He's got me in a bearhug straight from hell, and as I look down I can see the grouping of knives strapped along his thigh. It's an brutally efficient collection, and by the looks of it, at least one of them has been recently
