No. I’m not in the mood.

My wrists are still tied together, so I slam both my fists across his face in what’s possibly the most unorthodox punch in the history of self-defense. Spot stumbles backwards as I deliver a beautiful roundhouse kick to make my point. He crashes down, clutching his head and moaning.

I guess I did learn something from those self-teaching DVDs about martial arts from the library.

I reach down, grab the rifle, and aim it at Choker.

“Open my backpack and get my knife out,” I say. “And do it quickly.”

Choker slowly crawls across the dirt, dragging my backpack out from behind the log. He fumbles around for a little while before pulling out the knife.

“Give it to Spot,” I command.

Choker looks at me, confused, and I realize that I just called him by my nickname for him out loud. Whatever.

Choker tosses the knife to Spot, who stares at is as it lies on the ground. In the not-so-far-off distance, the sounds of multiple trucks seems extra loud against the night sky. Do I hear voices, too?

“Pick up the knife,” I say, “and cut these plastic ties off my wrist.”

I walk over to Spot, kneel, and keep my rifle trained on Choker’s head for the maximum effect. Spot, dizzy and terrified from the two smacks I gave him, obeys without thinking. He picks up Jeff’s knife and cuts through the binds.

I exhale, loving the freedom of movement I have, now.

“Stay where you are, big guy,” I tell Choker.

I grab my backpack, strap the knife to my belt, and keep the rifle within easy reach. “I would suggest that you run,” I advise, “because trust me when I say that what’s coming isn’t…” I trail off as Blondie’s piercing scream rips through the air.

Without a second glance at Choker and Spot, and sprint forward into the darkness, wishing to god those boys would kill the light from the fire. On second thought, I hope they just run.

Blondie screams again. There are voices. It sounds like some of the trucks’ engines have been cut, which means whoever’s coming is getting out of their vehicles. “Bree!” I shout, desperate.

Why do I care what happens to her?

“Bree, answer me!”

A gunshot breaks the monotone of the truck engines. Dread hits me like a brick in the chest as run in the direction where the gun fired. I can’t see, but I can hear. “Bree? Bree!”

I stop and listen, leaning against a tree.

And then,

“Ginger?”

It’s faint, but it’s her voice. I scramble towards it, dropping to my hands and knees. I rake through the mud and leaves until I touch warm flesh, Blondie’s hand.

“Bree,” I say, leaning over her. I can’t see. “Are you…?”

I run my hands up her stomach, trying to find her face, but I stop. There’s hot, sticky blood on her abdomen. “Oh, my god, Bree…” I breathe, choking on a gag. “I’m so sorry…”

Her breathing is heavy as her hand gropes for my face. When she finally finds it, she pulls my head forward and whispers, “I’m sorry, Ginger.”

She drops something into my lap. Her hand falls away from my face, hitting the ground with a soft thud. I push my fist against my mouth to keep from screaming, checking her wrist, her chest, and her neck for any sign of a pulse.

But there’s nothing.

She’s dead.

Trembling from head to toe, I reach into my lap. My fingers brush cool metal.

Chris’s gold chain.

I bite my lip, stuffing it into my pocket. I need to run. I need to move. Now. But I can’t leave her here like this. What kind of a person would I be?

“Hey, stop!”

It’s a man’s voice, and it doesn’t seem like it’s directed at me. There are flashlights about fifty feet away from me, combing through the woods. From here I can see dark shadows moving around the orange light of the campfire.

“Run, boys,” I murmur, leaning forward.

I compulsively press a kiss to Blondie’s — Bree’s — forehead and climb to my feet, feeling like I’m moving through a slow dream. I just held a girl’s hand as she died. Am I really doing this?

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper again.

Another gunshot. A scream.

Choker? Spot?

I have to go. I turn and break into a run, streaking through the dark forest, occasionally stumbling over roots and stones. Another scream. I slow to a halt. What am I doing? I can’t just leave those dumb kids to fend for themselves.

Against my better judgment, I take the rifle in my hand and feel for the safety switch. It’s off. I make sure the thing’s loaded and start running again…in the opposite direction. As I near the campfire, I hear the pleading, pathetic voices of Spot and Choker. I creep closer, staying out of the way of flashlight beams.

I inhale.

There are only two Omega soldiers. One’s got a gun, while the other holds a flashlight. Spot and Choker are on their knees with their hands behind their heads. I can hear more voices in the distance, which means this party’s about to be crashed by more animals.

I drop to my stomach, holding the gun close to my cheek, the butt steady against my shoulder. I look through the sight, taking a deep breath. I used to play Airsoft with my cousin when I was younger, and it wasn’t much different than this.

AT trooper Number One has his gun cocked and aimed at Choker’s head. Anger tears through my body, making me hot. I’ve still got Bree’s blood on my left hand, reminding me just how capable these guys are of taking a human life.

I aim my rifle, check the sight one more time, and pray.

Then I squeeze the trigger.

The AT guard with the gun screams, and both of the guys drop to the ground for cover. I fire a few rounds into the dirt, scaring the crap out of both of them. They start dragging themselves away from the fire, and in the process, Choker and Spot hunker down with their hands behind their necks.

As the troopers run, I realize something:

I have the perfect opportunity to kill both of them.

And why shouldn’t I? Stupid, pathetic bullies who enjoy killing innocent men, women and children don’t deserve any mercy from me.

But I’m not like them, am I? I don’t kill people. It’s not my job to decide who lives or dies. I guess that’s what sets me apart from the enemy in this game of survival. This state of emergency.

So I just fire another shot, the two Omega soldiers checking out and making a mad dash through the darkness, calling for backup. I stand up and run through the bushes, completely wired with adrenaline in its most dangerous form.

“Get up!”

I break into camp. Choker and Spot are staring at me with wide eyes, both covered with tears. “Listen to me,” I say, grabbing Spot by the collar. “Run. Run as fast as you can, as far as you can. Get your gear and go. Do you understand me?”

He nods weakly, moaning something about Bree.

I don’t want to tell him that his sister’s dead, so I don’t. He’s probably figured it out already, judging by the blood I just smeared all over his shirt with my hands. “Just run,” I say again.

I toss the rifle into his arms.

He holds it awkwardly, frozen. I turn away from the fire and make my way back into the woods, stopping only when Spot says, “Thank you.” I cast him a final glance. He looks confused. “And my name’s Jack. This is Peter.”

I almost smile, but I’m too shell shocked.

“Cassidy,” I whisper.

And then I run.

At dawn, I literally skid to a halt and land on my butt under a tall redwood. I kind of lost all sense of direction running through the darkness, because my only priority all night was to run away from the trucks and the shots.

Where am I now? I could be at the North Pole for all I know.

I lay my head against the tree, pulling a water canteen out of my backpack with shaky hands. I’m not cold, I’m just exhausted. Probably slightly traumatized, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to check into group therapy when this all over, so I just swallow my anxiety and close my eyes.