Nitro’s eyes blazed with blustery panic. His mouth was cranked open in a silent scream. His hands clamped his throat, trying to stem the freshet of blood gushing from it.

He came straight toward me, and for a moment I thought he was going to attack me.

He released his throat and seized my tank top with blood-soaked hands, pulling me forward. Powerful jets of blood shot from his jugular veins straight into my face, into my eyes, my mouth. I tasted it on my tongue, coppery, salty, sweet.

Nitro slumped to his knees, tugging me down with him. He was like a drowning person, flailing, dangerous.

I tried to pry his hands from my top, but he wouldn’t let go.

Pita and Elizaveta were screaming. I wanted to tell them to shut up, but my mouth was full of blood.

Nitro was surely screaming too, though he could no longer make any sound. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, his vocal cords severed at the same time as the rest of his plumbing. I could see straight into his gaping windpipe.

Dismayed, disgusted, I shoved him away from me, hard. He released my top and fell onto his back, his arms and legs flopping akimbo. He suffered a paroxysm of agony, as if he were being kicked by an invisible boot. Then his body relaxed, went still. The fountain of blood spurting from his throat shut off.

His heart had stopped beating.

He was dead.

7

My paralysis broke. I dropped to my knees next to Nitro and attempted CPR. Nevertheless, I knew this was futile. His head was only half attached to his neck.

Someone was behind me, talking to me, pulling me away. It was Jesus. He’d returned inside. I stared at him blankly, watching his lips move, wondering what he was saying. Elizaveta and Pita were nearby, hugging each other and crying. I couldn’t hear them either. I couldn’t hear anything except for a plaintive drone in my ears.

I lumbered to my feet and went to a corner, away from them. My balance was skewed. I leaned against the wall, spitting blood from my mouth, waiting to be sick.

What the hell happened?

Nitro was dead…

Solano!

I whirled toward the cabin’s front door, seeing Solano charging inside, bloody knife swinging, slashing.

He wasn’t there.

It was my imagination.

I returned to Nitro’s body. I rolled it over, which proved oddly difficult, for it was slick with blood and had become a dead weight. I cringed at the feel of the warm flesh beneath my hands.

Pita was asking me what I was doing in a semi-hysterical voice.

I unzipped Nitro’s backpack and searched the pocket for the pistol.

It was missing.

I panicked before seeing the outline of the gun’s handle poking out the top of his board shorts. I retrieved it and stood, leaving him facedown.