He shook his head
violently and the pillow slid away.
The room was still dark, and the hot, moist air rushed into his nostrils
and mouth as he gasped it in. He heard Davey moving in the dark, and as
his eyes adjusted, he saw him unfolding a knife. It was a clasp knife
with a broken hasp and it swung open with the sound of a cockroach's
shell crunching underfoot. The blade was rusty.
Alan flung his freed arm across his body and tried to tug himself
loose. He was being held down by his own sheets, which had been tacked
or stapled to the bed frame. Using all his strength, he rolled over,
heaving and bucking, and felt/heard the staples popping free down one
side of the bed, just as Davey slashed at where his face had been a
moment before. The knife whistled past his ear, then scored deeply along
his shoulder. His arm flopped uselessly at his side and now they were
both fighting one-armed, though Davey had a knife and Adam was wrapped
in a sheet.
His bedroom was singularly lacking in anything that could be improvised
into a weapon -- he considered trying getting a heavy encyclopedia out
to use as a shield, but it was too far a distance and too long a shot.
He scooted back on the bed, trying to untangle the sheet, which was
still secured at the foot of the bed and all along one side. He freed
his good arm just as Davey slashed at him again, aiming for the meat of
his thigh, the big arteries there that could bleed you out in a minute
or two.
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