He stunned Davey free of his hand and stunned himself onto his back. He
felt small hands beneath each armpit, dragging him clear of the
hill. Brian. And George. They helped him to his feet and Breton handed
him the knife again. Darren got onto his knees, and then to his feet,
holding the back of his head.
They both swayed slightly, standing to either side of Chris's
rise. Alan's knife-hand was red with blood streaming from the bite
wounds and his other arm felt unaccountably heavy now.
Davey was staggering back and forth a little, eyes dropping to the
earth. Suddenly, he dropped to one knee and scrabbled in the dirt, then
scrambled back with something in his hand.
Marci's fist.
He waggled it at Andrew mockingly, then charged, crossing the distance
between them with long, loping strides, the fist held out before him
like a lance. Alan forgot the knife in his hand and shrank back, and
then Davey was on him again, dropping the fist to the mud and taking
hold of Alan's knife-wrist, digging his ragged nails into the bleeding
bites there.
Now Alan released the knife, so that it, too, fell to the mud, and the
sound it made woke him from his reverie. He pulled his hand free of
Davey's grip and punched him in the ear as hard as he could,
simultaneously kneeing him in the groin. Davey hissed and punched him in
the eye, a feeling like his eyeball was going to break open, a feeling
like he'd been stabbed in the back of his eye socket.
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