Darkest Before Dawn (KGI 10)

She slowly swallowed the last sips of water, licking her parched, cracked lips to alleviate the dryness, and allowed the soothing cool to trickle down her throat. She had no desire to eat again, and she had only a few MREs and one protein bar left. While she could replenish water in the village, she wasn’t so sure about food. She had no money to buy it and only one possible item she could barter with. But she could go far longer without food than water, so water was her primary focus. And if she could find things she could fashion into bandages and possible clothing, then she could switch out the only garment she wore. It was dangerous to appear in the same manner of dress every day, especially in a different location every day. Eventually someone would notice. People would talk. The maniacs pursuing her would put two and two together and they’d know they were close to capturing her. Worse, they’d know exactly what she looked like and would identify her on sight.

Her fingers closed around the handle of the sharp dagger concealed in the folds of her clothing and secured to the tie around her waist keeping the material in check. She’d brought it primarily as a means of protection, but the true reason crept into her mind more and more on a daily basis.

In the aftermath of the attack and with her panic at epic levels, after she’d seen what those monsters had done to her friends and knowing that what they’d do to her would be ten times worse and in no way merciful, she’d taken the knife because she’d promised herself that while she would not go down without a fight and that she would fight to live—to survive—at all costs, if there came a time when she knew all was lost and capture was inevitable . . . She closed her eyes, shutting it out. Or trying to. But it was there. The promise she’d rashly made that horrible day. She’d kill herself before allowing them to overtake her and take her prisoner.

It went against every grain. This wasn’t who she was. It never had been. Only in a weak moment of panic had she lamented the fact that she hadn’t died with the others, and it shamed her even now. She was a fighter. She was strong. Taking her own life seemed the ultimate act of cowardice. And yet she wasn’t an idiot. She knew she’d die anyway but only after days, possibly weeks of endless pain, degradation and torture. And she never wanted to get to a point where she begged someone else to kill her. Her pride was too great. She refused to give them that satisfaction. If it came to that, she’d do the deed herself and deprive them of their hollow victory.

Knowing she was wasting time and, if she was honest, spending way too much time avoiding the inevitable pausing to bolster her flagging courage, she pushed herself slowly and painfully to her feet and wrapped the ends of the sack carrying her now-meager supplies, tucking it within the folds of her garment. She secured it to her waist with the tie circling her midsection, leaving her hands free to defend herself if necessary.

She’d rigged the tie so that one firm yank would immediately loosen the robe so that it was easily pulled free of her body and she could better flee. But with the pillows still secured to parts of her body with miles of tape, being free of the robe wouldn’t give her that much more speed.

But the dagger would come in handy. If she could get enough of a start, she could slash at the tape as she ran, eventually freeing herself of all encumbrances, and be able to pick up speed. She just had to pray that her knee held out.

When she peered around the tallest and widest rock she’d sought refuge behind, she was surprised to see that the road leading to the village was quite busy for this early in the morning. There were people walking in groups. Some alone. Some pulling small wooden wagons by hand, others urging a mule forward as the animal pulled a cart behind it.

She swept a glance over the village below and saw various booths set up, people already putting their wares on display and readying themselves for customers. It was obviously a market day in the village, one that drew many from outlying areas.

Allowing a small exhale of relief, she looked for an opportunity to slip from behind her secluded shelter and fall in to the mix of people making their way to the village below. Hiding in plain sight. Her pursuers wouldn’t expect her to openly mingle with others in broad daylight. Not when she’d only traveled by night thus far and had hidden during the day to rest. Or so she told herself. If she dwelled on any other possibility, she’d stay in her current position, too afraid to move, and she’d lose her only opportunity to replenish her supplies before she once more took flight and forged ahead in her quest for freedom.

When there was a break in the parade of people, she hurriedly strode toward the road, taking her place like she was just one of the others on their way to market, but she was careful to assume the stooped-over shuffle of a much older woman. Her hand automatically went to her veil to ensure that it covered all but her eyes, and she kept them downcast so she chanced looking no one directly in the eye.

Then she glanced down at her hands before burying them in the layers of material flowing from her waist. There was still swelling, and dirt covered the cuts and lacerations, only giving the impression of a woman who’d worked a lifetime with her hands. She’d been careful to wash away any dried, crusted blood; her fingernails were broken to the quick and dirt covered them, embedded around the cuticles, coating the area where they’d been ripped away from her skin.

She was near the outskirts of the village and she could hear sounds bursting from the small populace. There was even music in the distance. Already haggling had begun and the booths were alive with people seeking to barter for items or buy them.