A clap with the Fabulous Killjoys that goes all Costa Rica.
The insufferable sirens blare from the city, telling the Scarecrow units that I've escaped. The day is hot, and the sun of Zone 3 is beating down on my neck. I've already broken three of my delicate fingers, and my knee is gushing crimson blood that clashes with my fair complexion. I won't be pale for long- not with the way I burn. I'm exhausted and haven't seen any signs of water for the last 30 miles. I can't stop, though. I might be on the edge of death, but I will not die without a fight.
Sweat drips down my soft blue shirt, which hardly covers my bloated stomach. GOD, I feel like a whale. It's only been about seven mouths, and I'm already so huge- that's probably not healthy. In the distance, I hear a car engine roaring. It's maybe about five miles away, but getting somewhere before it finds me isn't possible. I'm still gonna run though. I sling my duffle bag over one shoulder and take off in the opposite direction. All goes well, until the hot pink lace of my black Converse decides to be an asshole and trip me, just five feet from the road. And what's worse is that I'm pretty sure my ankle's twisted. I try to stand, just fall to the side, further injuring myself and what little pride I have left. I push my bag aside and attempt to crawl away, which my knee challenges. I eventually just give up using both legs and focus all my strength on my arms trying to at least get behind a big ass rock, about two feet out of the way from where I currently lay. The sound is getting closer now, and I'm definitely panicking. I'm going to have to fight- that much is certain. I pull my bag back to me and throw it on my shoulder again. I get to my feet, putting all my weight on my good ankle, and painfully limp over to the rock, using my right hand to try and balance myself. The car in sight now.
I pull my silver gun from its holster and aim it at the car engine, holding my weapon confidently with both hands. The blast hits the hood and bounces off, only leaving a slight mark on the tacky spider. I now recognize it as a Firebird, white with a black arachnid. A figure with black hair pulls itself out of its seat and through the roof, aiming at me and blasting its raygun. I feel a pain in my left arm and I know I've been hit. My right arm stretches forward triumphantly and pulls the trigger. A blast just barely misses his face, taking out some of his gorgeous ebony hair. I keep firing at him, but miss him every time. If I wasn't dehydrated and dizzy from all the blood loss, maybe I'd stand a chance. Right now, things aren't looking good. Another blast is shot at m, this time grazing the side of my ear. My right hand involuntarily flies to the wound and I drop the gun. The Pontiac rolls up in front me and I'm fucked. The world is spinning. Shit.
I drop to the ground, vomit coming up my throat and out of my dry mouth. Whatever fluids were in my system, aren't. Four men bail out of the sports car and surround me, three with their guns pulled. I kick myself away with my good leg and pull the hunting knife from the left pocket of my faded blue bell bottoms, trusting it in their confused faces.
"Is she pregnant", the man with black hair whispers. His face twists in shock as swing my left hand protectively over my belly, sending a jolt of pain strong enough make me cry out.
"Shit. We can't kill a fetus."
A tall man with curly hair rushes to my side, and I'm about to stab him when I realize he's the only one not pointing a gun at me. "How hurt are you?" I gesture to my leg with the knife, then my arm, my ear, and finally my left hand, which bears a thin layer of medical tape. "We should get you indoors."
"Jet... I don't think this is a good idea", says a man in a red leather jacket. Seriously, why are these guys wearing leather? This is a fucking desert! "I mean, what if we can't trust her?"
"Yeah. She just shot off a piece of my hair!"
"Ghoul, you of all people should understand why we can't leave her here. For fuck's sake- would you leave Jamia out here in this condition? She's knocked up, dude! She's just trying to protect her kid."
"Just bring her to the car, Jet. I'm not about to let her die", says the redhead. His hair reminds me of somebody. It slips out.
"You look like somebody I used to know. Ever hear of Blasta Violence?" They look at me, wide-eyed. "Have you?"
"Get her in the car", the readhed orders.