Chapter 3 The Assault

As the three men dragged me across the asphalt, I thought about every time my father had pushed me to take self-defense classes, even insisting I buy a gun.

I’d always shrugged it off. Small. Insignificant. Invisible. That was me. And invisible meant safe.

Tonight, I was wrong.

They slammed me onto the cold ground—hard and uneven—a mix of gravel, asphalt, and fallen needles that cut into my back. The Scout and the Muscle pinned my wrists above my head, their grips tight, strong enough to bruise bone.

The Brain knelt between my kicking legs, his breath hot and sour with the smell of whiskey and excitement. With one savage yank he tore my underwear away; the fabric gave with a sharp, humiliating rip that echoed louder in my ears than my own scream.

I screamed until my voice cracked—raw, animal, desperate—praying the sound would carry beyond the dense wall of firs to the distant campsite, to a ranger, to a stranger walking a dog, to God Himself. But the dense forest swallowed it whole.

“Shut her up,” the Brain snarled, voice low, the way someone might tell a dog to stop barking. “There’s a campsite about a few miles away. We don’t need some asshole calling the damn police.”

"I forgot to bring tape," the Scout said.

"We don't need tape," the Muscle replied.

His fist came fast, slamming into my cheekbone. Stars exploded behind my eyes; the world smeared into watercolor streaks. I whimpered, tasting blood, copper-thick and salty. Another blow cracked against my jaw, snapping my head sideways. Then another. And another. Each hit brought fresh pain, sharp and nauseating, until my face felt like raw meat stretched over splintered bone.

I tensed, waiting for the next one.

It never fell.

“That’s enough,” the Brain said—calmer now, almost bored. “They need a clear picture of her face for the ID. Bruised is fine. Unrecognizable isn’t. Now spread her legs and hold 'em. We stage the assault first. Then the murder.”

“Why don’t you just fuck her and be done with it?” the Muscle muttered, half-laughing. "She's hot. I'd do it."

“And leave DNA all over her?” the Brain scoffed, voice dripping contempt. “No. We use the baton. Clean. Efficient.”

The cold came next.

Smooth, unyielding polymer—thick as a wrist—forced its way inside me. No warning, no mercy. I bucked, twisted, tried to curl into myself, but the hands on my wrists and thighs might as well have been steel cuffs. Pain rammed upward in brutal, rhythmic thrusts, tearing delicate tissue, spreading fire that felt like it would split me in half. My body convulsed around the violation, helpless, betrayed by its own reflexes.

Then came the knife.

The blade was short, serrated near the tip—hunting steel, I guessed. He drove it into my abdomen once, twice, three times; I lost count after four. The strikes were quick and shallow, designed to make me bleed out, not kill outright.

Each puncture was a white-hot supernova; each withdrawal a sucking drag of agony. Blood welled fast, soaking my gown, pooling beneath me in sticky warmth that rapidly turned cold against the night air. My vision tunneled. The world dimmed at the edges, softening into gray.

“You guys can let go now,” he said casually, wiping the blade with my torn panties. “I’m finished.”

Fingers—rough, impatient—hooked the thin white gold chain around my neck. My father’s gift, the small diamond pendant he’d given me the day I graduated college, the one I never took off. The chain snapped with a tiny, heartbreaking ping. The Brain held it up to the moonlight; the stone caught the glow and threw it back in a single, perfect spark.

“We need proof it was you,” he said, almost gently. “This diamond is what she wants.”

Suddenly, a growl tore the night open.

Not a dog. Not a coyote. Something dark chest-deep, vibrating through the ground itself—feral, massive and furious.

“Did you hear that?” the Scout squeaked, voice pitching high with sudden panic.

“What are you so scared of?” the Brain snapped, pocketing my necklace. “It’s just wolves. You’ve got a gun. Use it.”

“I’d rather put one in her skull,” the Muscle muttered.

“Bullets trace. Besides—” The Brain jerked his chin toward me, where I was already bleeding out in the dirt. "If she doesn't die from that, the wolves will finish her off. They can smell blood from miles away. Let’s go."

Footsteps retreated—crunching needles, snow, and snapping twigs—until the forest went silent around me again.

Above me the full moon floated serene and pitiless, a perfect silver disc pouring pale light through the black lace of branches. It painted everything ghostly: the gleam on the pine needles, the slow spread of red across the snow, the small patch of skin where my necklace had lain before it was taken.

I lay there, a broken thing in a spreading pool of my own blood. My breath came in wet, shallow sips that tasted like iron. My lips were cracked, dry, and bleeding, stiff from the cold air. I couldn’t feel my legs. Couldn’t feel much of anything except the cold creeping up from my toes.

“Please…” The word was barely sound. “Help me…”

The forest gave no answer.

Only the moon watched—cold, eternal, indifferent—while my pulse fluttered thinner and thinner against the uncaring earth.