Carry Me Home by Rosalind James Page B

thought of it. Instead, she charged him, shouting at the top of her lungs, a wordless, primal scream of fear and anger and aggression, lifted the maple wood bat that had been beside her bed and swung it backhanded, because there wasn’t enough room between her bed and the wall. And because she had seen him telegraph his move.
    He’ll go for your right. Go for his left.
    She didn’t swing for his head. Too small, too uncertain a target.
    Center mass. It had worked when she’d been standing at home plate facing the pitcher, and it worked now. She swung, hard and fast, and that right hand that had been reaching for the bat missed, but she didn’t.
    Wham. Into his left arm, and he was spinning, gasping.
    Wham. Into his back as he spun, and he was catapulted forward, and then he was scrambling, running away, and she was still screaming at the top of her lungs, no words forming, just screaming. And chasing him.
    Out of the bedroom, through the dark living room, out the open sliding door, into the shock of the freezing night, her bare feet hitting concrete, then grass as he ran for the fence, hunched over, hugging his left arm.
    Three steps, four, and her foot was sliding out from under her on the frost, and she was flailing, falling backward, the other foot going out from under her.
    She hit the grass hard, the wooden handle flying out of her grasp, into the darkness. Her head banged against the frozen ground, and she saw stars, but her feet were scrabbling all the same.
    She rolled, looked up, and he was there. The face she’d seen only for those couple of terrifying seconds before she’d struck. Nothing but black, the white edging visible in the moonlight outlining his eyes and mouth, a staring, screaming mask. His hands glistening weirdly, curled monkey paws reaching for her.
    “Bitch,” he hissed, still favoring his left side. “You bitch .”
    She scrabbled back like a crab on palms and feet, reached desperately behind her for the bat.
    He didn’t let her get there. He grabbed her left ankle in his right hand, was pulling her toward him, her short nightgown riding up over her hips, above her waist, nearly to her breasts, her bare skin burning against the frosted blades of grass, sharp as needles, and she was kicking desperately, screaming with every ounce of breath in her lungs.
    “You’re going to pay .” It was a snarl, and he grabbed her right ankle as well, pulled harder, toward the bushes, and she was hauled up on her elbows, naked now from the shoulders down, still trying to kick, still screaming.
    “ Hey! ” It was a shout from behind her. “ Heyheyhey! ”
    She didn’t stop kicking, didn’t stop screaming. Her attacker froze, dropped her ankles, turned and took off. It was Tom, her neighbor, running after him, and the man in the ski mask was running, too, still hunched, leaping for the top of the fence only yards ahead of Tom and heaving himself awkwardly across it.
    Tom was up and over seconds later, and Amy heard the pounding of feet, Tom still shouting, the sound fading into the cold night.
    She was sobbing, pulling herself up, tugging her nightgown down with shaking hands, then standing, hunching over with her arms wrapped around herself, and the yard was full of people now. Lights coming on along the row of apartments, students pouring out, milling around, talking. Tom’s girlfriend, Janice, was running across the grass, grabbing her.
    “What happened?” she asked, panting. “Who was that? Was that Bill?”
    Amy couldn’t answer. She was crying too hard, shaking too violently.
    Tom appeared at the top of the fence again, dropped down, came over to the two of them, stood over her, hands on hips, breathing hard, and Amy shrank into Janice’s arms, sobbed and sobbed, and couldn’t stop.

ANOTHER BORING COLLEGE FUNCTION
    Five o’clock on Friday afternoon, and instead of getting a start on Tuesday’s lecture for her Groundwater Hydrology class, Zoe was about to use a precious couple of hours