24 Hours
3:25 PM
Pam was in the parking lot with her wallet between her teeth and her car keys in her hand, trying to figure out where she had put her parking lot punch ticket when the tap on the window came and she looked up into the barrel of an excessively large gun. Her first thought, perhaps unwisely, was that he was compensating for something.
"Open the doors."
Well, he didn't really say that, but he mouthed it and she got the hint, popping the automatic locks and letting the man into her car. She didn't ask what he wanted. It was pretty obvious.
"Drive."
7.56 PM
They were 100 miles out of her familiar territory when he told her to stop and motioned her out of the car. She took a few steps away and stopped when he pointed the gun at her, yelled for her to stay where she was. So she did. There wasn't any cover she could run behind without getting shot first and no matter what anyone said, she was bold. Not stupid.
He tossed the car and she glared at his hunched-over back as he tore up her decent upholstery and broke her little harlequin statue off the dash. There wasn't anything useful that he would find, not that he knew that.
"You're not going to find anything." Great, Pam. Well done. Antagonize the crazy person with the really big gun. That's not going to do anything except make him madder.
"What the hell are you saying, bitch?" He brandished his gun at her like an extra in a bad gangster movie knockoff. "You telling me I drove all this way out here for nothing?"
"Actually, I did the driving..."
Pam and her smart mouth. She didn't remember being hit in the head by the butt-end of the pistol, and she didn't remember hitting the ground either.
3.12 AM
There was no place on her body that didn't hurt. Her fingernails hurt. Her eyeballs hurt. Her lips hurt. Everything from mid thigh to just above her hip bones really hurt, and she hadn't been this sore since she was sixteen. He was pacing around by her car, muttering. She wasn't sure what he was saying.
Pam was drifting, anyway. It didn't much matter what the other man was saying because she wasn't paying attention. Her head hurt. The grass was damp beneath her cheek and the sky was so vast and so full of stars.
Cold night. She still had most of her shirt on but that was about it, but she'd long ago stopped feeling the goosebumps in favor of the pain. Stupid thing, pain. It made for a good, hard-to-ignore warning system, but there was no way to turn it off when there was nothing you could do about it. Except for shock, of course. Shock could hit any time now.
"Oh, you stupid..." something. There was more. Words like bitch, slut, all words for some other woman whose beatings she was taking all at once. Most likely. She didn't know, and she wasn't sure she cared. As long as she kept her mouth shut and didn't antagonize him further. If she could find an opening...
Too late. There was that gun again, barrel big as her eye and filling her view. She didn't hear if it went off or not.
9.45 AM
Something was lapping at her cheek. It felt like a deer. It looked a bit like a deer but her head was feeling far too delicate and she didn't want to turn her head just yet. Someone would notice she was missing, soon.
Pam had attempted to contact the spirits, but most of the ones who were in the area hadn't been very communicative. In fact, most of them had stayed away for reasons she hadn't quite been able to discern. Pain had gotten in the way. If she was lucky and if she had gotten through, some of them would carry a message to Bobby, to Rick, to Callie or Peter or someone who could come find her, call the police, do something. She should have gotten up, herself, but she wasn't sure her car would even run anymore. She wasn't sure she could run anymore.
The tip of her tongue flicked out over her lips. Dry tongue over dry lips; it didn't help much. There was dew touching her cheek just out of reach and she still didn't dare turn her head. Dehydration was giving her a headache. Fatigue had already stolen the sensation from her limbs.
3.04 PM
Minutes ticked by, and by now she knew minutes were all she had left. It was a miracle she had lasted this long.
(Heh. Miracle. That was something she vaguely wondered about, but only vaguely. Surely he was doing something more important.)
She had tried to lift her too-heavy arm to see how bad her injuries were, and it wasn't so much that her arm was broken as that it simply wouldn't move. Then she had decided to try moving her head, and it was the new wetness, warm and sludgy, that told her what had happened. She didn't have any memory of being shot. She tasted blood in the back of her throat and something solid clicked against her teeth. Another tooth. A bullet. Hard to tell.
Pam sighed. All of this, all the war, demons and angels and angry spirits, and she was dying in a field from a gunshot wound by a sexually frustrated hijacker. It was so stupid.
The sun passed through the clouds and shone down into her eyes, straight into her eyes. It should have hurt. It didn't.
Pam was in the parking lot with her wallet between her teeth and her car keys in her hand, trying to figure out where she had put her parking lot punch ticket when the tap on the window came and she looked up into the barrel of an excessively large gun. Her first thought, perhaps unwisely, was that he was compensating for something.
"Open the doors."
Well, he didn't really say that, but he mouthed it and she got the hint, popping the automatic locks and letting the man into her car. She didn't ask what he wanted. It was pretty obvious.
"Drive."
7.56 PM
They were 100 miles out of her familiar territory when he told her to stop and motioned her out of the car. She took a few steps away and stopped when he pointed the gun at her, yelled for her to stay where she was. So she did. There wasn't any cover she could run behind without getting shot first and no matter what anyone said, she was bold. Not stupid.
He tossed the car and she glared at his hunched-over back as he tore up her decent upholstery and broke her little harlequin statue off the dash. There wasn't anything useful that he would find, not that he knew that.
"You're not going to find anything." Great, Pam. Well done. Antagonize the crazy person with the really big gun. That's not going to do anything except make him madder.
"What the hell are you saying, bitch?" He brandished his gun at her like an extra in a bad gangster movie knockoff. "You telling me I drove all this way out here for nothing?"
"Actually, I did the driving..."
Pam and her smart mouth. She didn't remember being hit in the head by the butt-end of the pistol, and she didn't remember hitting the ground either.
3.12 AM
There was no place on her body that didn't hurt. Her fingernails hurt. Her eyeballs hurt. Her lips hurt. Everything from mid thigh to just above her hip bones really hurt, and she hadn't been this sore since she was sixteen. He was pacing around by her car, muttering. She wasn't sure what he was saying.
Pam was drifting, anyway. It didn't much matter what the other man was saying because she wasn't paying attention. Her head hurt. The grass was damp beneath her cheek and the sky was so vast and so full of stars.
Cold night. She still had most of her shirt on but that was about it, but she'd long ago stopped feeling the goosebumps in favor of the pain. Stupid thing, pain. It made for a good, hard-to-ignore warning system, but there was no way to turn it off when there was nothing you could do about it. Except for shock, of course. Shock could hit any time now.
"Oh, you stupid..." something. There was more. Words like bitch, slut, all words for some other woman whose beatings she was taking all at once. Most likely. She didn't know, and she wasn't sure she cared. As long as she kept her mouth shut and didn't antagonize him further. If she could find an opening...
Too late. There was that gun again, barrel big as her eye and filling her view. She didn't hear if it went off or not.
9.45 AM
Something was lapping at her cheek. It felt like a deer. It looked a bit like a deer but her head was feeling far too delicate and she didn't want to turn her head just yet. Someone would notice she was missing, soon.
Pam had attempted to contact the spirits, but most of the ones who were in the area hadn't been very communicative. In fact, most of them had stayed away for reasons she hadn't quite been able to discern. Pain had gotten in the way. If she was lucky and if she had gotten through, some of them would carry a message to Bobby, to Rick, to Callie or Peter or someone who could come find her, call the police, do something. She should have gotten up, herself, but she wasn't sure her car would even run anymore. She wasn't sure she could run anymore.
The tip of her tongue flicked out over her lips. Dry tongue over dry lips; it didn't help much. There was dew touching her cheek just out of reach and she still didn't dare turn her head. Dehydration was giving her a headache. Fatigue had already stolen the sensation from her limbs.
3.04 PM
Minutes ticked by, and by now she knew minutes were all she had left. It was a miracle she had lasted this long.
(Heh. Miracle. That was something she vaguely wondered about, but only vaguely. Surely he was doing something more important.)
She had tried to lift her too-heavy arm to see how bad her injuries were, and it wasn't so much that her arm was broken as that it simply wouldn't move. Then she had decided to try moving her head, and it was the new wetness, warm and sludgy, that told her what had happened. She didn't have any memory of being shot. She tasted blood in the back of her throat and something solid clicked against her teeth. Another tooth. A bullet. Hard to tell.
Pam sighed. All of this, all the war, demons and angels and angry spirits, and she was dying in a field from a gunshot wound by a sexually frustrated hijacker. It was so stupid.
The sun passed through the clouds and shone down into her eyes, straight into her eyes. It should have hurt. It didn't.