Instinct

Nestled comfortably between a large moss covered rock and an ivy strangled tree, Harriett peered through the telescopic camera lens at the three story mansion on the other side of the valley. Glad for the cover of night, Harriett took a moment to relax and practice a little breathing meditation. She would only have one chance to get this right, and if it truly was going to be her last job, she had to focus.

Minutes later the glass door slid open and a man, dressed impeccably save for the irritated furrow in his brow, stormed out, and headed straight to the edge of the wooden balcony that wrapped around the middle floor of the mansion. As he stared blankly over the valley, a soft white curtain edged its way out of the door, and billowed in the light summer evening breeze. The low-ball glass filled with what Harriett estimated to be two fingers of an amber coloured spirit, seemed like a simple extension of his right arm, the liquid sloshing around but never spilling. Seconds later a woman stumbled out of the door with a lopsided gait carrying one six-inch heel, and wearing the other. Harriett recognised her as the recently elected, and very popular, state senator. The senator’s dress, a murderous shade of red, was hanging unattractively off her right shoulder. The strap had been torn, and had what Harriett assumed to be a red wine stain splashed almost dead centre from her breasts to her stomach. She was yelling at the man, slightly bent at the waist, her left hand on her hip and her right hand pointing her shoe in the direction of the open door. Although shorter than him, she seemed to be able to tower over him as she delivered her angry message to his back. The man, fury radiating off his face, his stature rigid as if struggling to maintain his composure, closed his eyes, raised his glass to his lips and took a deep slow swallow, finishing off the drink. His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath, and, quite suddenly, he relaxed. His shoulders lowered ever so slightly, he put his left hand in his pocket, and looked down, contemplatively, at the empty glass in his right hand. He calmly turned to face the senator, the look on his face apparently meaningful enough to stop her rant mid-sentence.

Something seems ‘wrong’ about this situation, Harriett thought ironically as she continued to take several more photos, not that I care, this one is going to set me up for life! She mentally shrugged and took several more photos, blissfully unaware of the horror she was about to witness, and the terror she was about to experience.

Harriett would look back on the situation and consider what happened next to move in slow motion, though the time stamp on her photos would prove it all happened within the space of two minutes and thirty-four seconds. The man raised his glass high above his head, the senator stumbled back, a look of shock on her face. He brought the glass down hard and fast, smashing it square in the centre of her forehead. The senator fell back, the heel of her one shoed foot caught between the planks on the balcony and her leg bent at an awkward angle under her body as she lay unconscious on the ground, her face bloodied. The man calmly knelt down beside her, raised the broken glass over his head, and smashed it down on her face again. And again. Twelve times in total. Almost as quickly as it started, the man stopped, his right arm holding the broken glass mid-air. He stood, calmly walked to the southern-most edge of the balcony and hurled the glass far out into the valley. He returned to the senator, lifted her, almost tenderly, and carried her to the opposite side of the balcony. As he reached the glass safety barrier, he paused, looked down at her bloodied face and décolletage, and casually tossed her over the edge. He strolled back to the sliding door, stepped in, and turned and looked directly into Harriett’s eyes. Whoa! There’s no way he can see me! Is there? He slid the door closed and walked away as the soft white curtain gently fell back into place between the man and Harriett’s camera.

Alone with her camera, hands shaking, Harriett panicked, what the hell did I just see?!! She started packing up her camera, struggling with the lens cap and almost dropping her camera down into the ravine. Pull yourself together, woman! As was her habit, Harriett removed the memory card and tucked it into her bra. She inserted the spare memory card, tucked the camera safely into the custom made bag, and began the short hike back to her car. As she walked she contemplated what she was going to do next. Feeling oddly safe in the thick of the forest, she started a muttered conversation with herself.

“If you don’t say anything, that man is going to get away with murder, but if you do, you’ll be done for blackmailing. If you don’t, he’ll probably murder someone else, but if you do… ok ok. Pros and cons aside, there really is only one way I can deal with this situation. I have to give my photos to the police. Maybe I can do it anony– ”.

There was a man standing in front of her car. His right hand, bloodied up to the crisp white cuff of his shirt, casually holding a gun by his side. He looked familiar; and very, very angry. Shit! Harriett exclaimed to herself, quickly running through a list of possibilities in her head. She could play dumb, or use her God-given gift of the gab and try to talk her way out of it. Maybe I could –

He’d raised the gun and pointed it directly at her forehead. His left arm held straight out, palm up. Harriett handed him the camera bag, hanging it by the handle on his upturned hand. He tossed the camera bag out to the side, and Harriett cringed as she thought of her expensive equipment smashing. He inclined his head, indicating she should turn around; he’s going to execute me! As he cocked the gun’s hammer the sound triggered a survival instinct in Harriett that she briefly considered must be what they refer to in the movies.

Refusing to be put down like a lame horse, Harriett swiftly dropped into a sprinter’s crouch. As she took off she barely heard the angry hiss of the gun’s silencer, feeling only the searing pain of the bullet as it glanced off the top of her left shoulder. Using the pain as motivation, she bolted into the forest. What was the rule for running away from a crazed gunman? Harriet thought, taking in her surroundings, looking for shelter, a weapon, anything that would give her the upper hand. As she tripped over a fallen tree she muttered a curse, hugging her painfully twisted knee to her chest; Oh yeh! Don’t trip over big logs! She heard his feet crunching on the forest ground behind her, and without looking to see how close he was, she hauled herself up and started sprinting again, this time more careful to watch for ground obstacles.

“Shit!” Harriett exclaimed as she came to a clearing, how the hell did I get myself into this mess? To her right the forest circled back around to the direction of her assailant, and to her left the forest started to incline down into the valley. Though Harriett had no idea how to find her way through the valley and get out on the other side, she calculated that it’d be a better bet than trying to hide under a picnic table in the clearing. She turned and ran into the forest, struggling to hold her footing over the rocks and fallen trees.

With the man still audibly behind her, she ran deeper into the foreboding forest; adrenaline and a fierce desire for survival spurring her on. As tree branches reached out and tore at her expensive leather coat, small shrubs conspired to gather at her feet. Still without a plan, Harriett started to panic. She’d always been good at escaping tricky situations, yet she was unable to shake this man. She was desperate for a moment to stop, take a breath, and formulate a plan, but she knew if she did he’d catch up and shoot her in the head.

In her panic, Harriett didn’t notice the downward slope of the ground in front of her. She lost her footing on some mulch and tumbled down, head over heels, limbs striking trees and rocks on her way down. Constantly unaware of when she was facing up or down, Harriett struggled to grab onto something to slow her fall. She tried numerous times to dig her feet into the ground, but every time the momentum of her fall would pitch her forward, sending her into another somersaulting tumble.

Harriett landed heavily, face down in the ice cold river; the throbbing in her head instantly dulled by the water that surrounded her. As the water gurgled in her ears, Harriett experienced a sudden clarity; an urgency to survive. With the resolve of someone determined to live, Harriett struggled to stand, but as her left leg crumbled underneath her she recognised the pain of a sprained ankle and knee. Sitting at the edge of the river, water surrounding her almost to her arm pits, Harriett fought to orient herself. She could feel warm blood streaming down from her right temple, and an horrendous stabbing pain in her right side just below her ribs. She parted her torn coat to reveal a large piece of a tree branch lodged deep into her skin; she cringed as she pulled it out, and bit her lip against the scream. Her left shoulder was in agony, and Harriett started to feel fury bubbling in her stomach as she realised it was dislocated. Great! Just fucking great! What the hell do I do now? Recalling her Hollywood movie education, Harriett struggled to the side of the river, pain searing through her entire body, and found a tall tree. She tore off some of the soft bark and bit down hard, and before she could talk herself out of it, she slammed her dislocated shoulder against the tree. It took her three tries before she got it right.

With the sound of rushing water from the river Harriett didn’t hear the man approach as he carefully picked his way down the slope. She felt the force from the bullet through her left bicep more than the pain, and she fell forward. She knelt and frantically searched for a weapon; giving a small victorious yelp as she found a branch, narrow at one end, and heavy with sharp angles at the other. Harriett stood, favouring her left leg, her left arm hanging uselessly, her right hand clutching her weapon. She turned to face the man, trying not to see the gun that was again pointing directly at her forehead, and stared straight into his black, soulless eyes.

“You shot me from behind. Twice.” She stated matter-of-factly.

He tilted his head to the side, looking at her inquisitively, assessing every one of her injuries. He smiled a thin evil smile as his eyes rested on the weapon in her right hand. He raised his gaze to meet her own, lowered his gun, uncocked the hammer, and tucked it in the back of his pants.

For the first time he spoke: “I’m going to enjoy this”

There was something about the tone in his voice, the way his eyes dulled, that had Harriett’s blood curdling. He changed his stance, his right foot a step behind, his left fist in front and in line with his chin, right fist tucked in beside his chin. Harriett’s pain was replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, as she realised what was about to happen.

He led with a right cross and Harriett ducked, but when he followed with an upper cut to the ribs, she was unable to use her left arm to protect herself. Doubled over and winded, Harriett heard him snicker. She couldn’t believe it! This man had shot her from behind twice, and, now that she was seriously injured, he was going to kill her with his bare hands. In an act of sheer defiance she straightened and looked him in the eyes. As he led again with another right cross to her jaw she angled her head with the punch in an effort to mitigate the blow. With the metallic taste of blood in her mouth, she faced him again.

“You’re a fucking coward!” As she spat her blood in his face she watched it twist in fury.

He launched at her again with another right cross. This time she felt the force of the blow and stumbled to her right, her good leg supporting her weight as she fell into a crouch. Seizing the opportunity, and with as much force as she could muster, Harriett swung her branch around at his left knee. He fell to the ground, screaming and grabbing at his knee. Harriett stood over him, raised her branch above her head, and swung it around, this time onto his right knee.

In the light of the moon, Harriett could see wet patches soaking through the knees of his expensive suit pants. The man moved his right hand back, reaching for the weapon, but as he raised it to point at her, the branch came down again, knocking the gun from his hand, and breaking the bones in his forearm. He let out yet another scream of agony, but this time it sounded sad and pathetic. Like a beaten dog that had given up the will to fight.

As the man lay on the ground, shaking and whimpering, Harriett marvelled at how easily he had given up. The adrenaline that had minutes ago given Harriett so much strength, now started to dissipate as shock and exhaustion stepped in. She stood there, watching him, aware of her pain only as a mascot that stood beside her, egging her on. Her anger was replaced with disgust.

Harriett realised that she now had a decision to make. She could beat him to death, just as he would have done to her. She could punish him for shooting her from behind twice, and for the serious pain and suffering she had just endured. She could be judge and jury and convict him for the murder of the beloved senator. Or she could be the bigger person, and just limp away, putting faith in a system that would find him guilty of murder, aggravated assault, and attempted manslaughter.

In the movies, this was the point when the authorities would swoop in and talk her down. But there would be no rescue party. No helicopter with search lights hovering overhead, or armed people of authority telling her that if she lowered her weapon they would help her. No one telling her that he wasn’t worth it.

Staring deep into the pathetic murderer’s eyes, Harriett raised the branch above her head.