The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 59
He rolled, sputtering. Climbing to his feet, he threw himself atop Brunner, swinging the phone madly before him. It impacted once, twice, three times as Brunner tried desperately to fend it off with outstretched arms.
After the third blow cracked into his skull, Brunner was still. Chris sprawled on him, wheezing and sobbing from pain and exertion. Brunner still breathed but did not awaken.
Brianna's cries finally broke through his senselessness in the wake of the violent struggle, and he leapt to his feet and hurried to the bed.
Frantically, he snatched her up and went for the door. His frenzied flight amplified the child's alarm, and her wails increased in volume. Seized by an overwhelming need to flee, he was completely incoherent. He had to get away from this place. He had to run as far and as fast as he could before Brunner awoke and came after him.
Panic-stricken, he fled blindly into the night. He didn't know where he was going, certain only that he needed to get far, far away. He ran as he had never run in his life. His eye was swelling shut. Blood ran down his arms. Brianna screamed and clung so fiercely to his neck he could scarcely draw breath. He hit the end of the parking lot at a fast clip and tore down the road, not certain which way to go, but flight instinct driving him resolutely toward the feeble glow in the heart of town to the south.
His lungs burned as his legs pumped furiously. Had there been anyone to see, he would have appeared an odd sight: a battered and barefoot young man, a screaming child clutched tightly to him, running staggeringly down the deserted roadway as if being pursued by the devil himself.
Finally, his body could give no more, and he stumbled. Pitching forward, he dropped to his knees, choking for air, overcome by exhaustion. Brianna sobbed senselessly. Her eyes were swollen, and her nose ran liberally.
He clung to her, trying to soothe her in between ragged breaths. He looked back over his shoulder with wild eyes. Now that the panic had subsided somewhat, with regret, he realized the many mistakes he had made. If he had been more thoughtful, he might have tied Brunner up, searched for his keys, pounded on neighboring doors, or sought help from the desk clerk. It was too late for any of that now. He could no longer see the motel, but he could not go back. It was too dangerous. If Brunner had regained consciousness, he would be looking for them.
Chris was weak and shaky, dizzy. He tried vainly to stand, but his legs were like water. He pressed his free hand into the rough asphalt, struggling to remain upright, holding his terrorized daughter close to keep her calm.
"Shh," he soothed, bouncing Brianna gently. "It's all right, baby. It's okay."
He didn't believe it himself, but the tender words quieted her tears.
He scanned the horizon in the direction opposite the motel. The town was still asleep, the faint lights of the city's center still impossibly far in the distance. He'd never make it---he was completely spent.
A pair of headlights arose on the road far behind him. He stiffened and began to tremble. What if it was Brunner?
Terrified, he dragged himself off the road. There was nowhere to hide. The car drew closer. He flattened himself to the ground, hovering protectively over his child, trying futilely to conceal himself in the sparse scrub.
As the car roared by, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was a battered green station wagon---not the black Mercedes he'd feared it would be.
As the taillights faded into the distance, he realized he was missing an opportunity. He leapt up and rushed after it, waving and calling frantically. The driver either didn't see him or chose to ignore him, because within moments, the car was gone.
Sighing, resigned, the momentary rush of intense fear having imbued him with some unknown reserve of strength, he started out again.
After what seemed a lifetime of painful traversal across the rough and uneven blacktop, he finally came upon a darkened service station.
He made his way to the glass door and pounded on it, screaming for help, praying that there was someone inside. There was no answer, no movement from within.
He turned away. Off to the left, an old payphone caught his eye.
"Thank you. Oh, thank you," he cried, stumbling toward it.
His hand reached out and pulled the receiver off the hook. Before bringing it to his ear, he sent out a silent prayer. Please, please let it work.
The dial tone was, he thought, probably the sweetest sound he'd ever heard. He jabbed a trembling finger into the "0" button and waited as he connected to the operator. Jason's number had been recorded in his mobile phone, and though he tried, he could not recall the digits. It was unwise to call the police. Jason had told him they were wanted for murder. Even though he had been warned against contacting him, George was the only other person he could think of to call. He was certain George would know what to do.
"I... I need to make... a collect call," he sobbed when the operator answered, and he gave her George's number.
When George accepted the charges, Chris could hear the profound relief in his voice.
"Christian. Are you all right? Where are you? Jason Kingsley called. I've been frantic."
"George," Chris cried, "I'm in Weed, California. I got away. I don't know what to do."
"You got away from Brunner? How?"
"I knocked him out with the telephone in the motel room. He was unconscious when I took off, but when he comes to, he'll find me, George. He'll find us and kill us." Chris's voice was high with hysteria.
Brianna started screaming again in sympathetic resonance.
"Calm down, Chris, calm down. I'll take care of everything. Have you called the police?"
"N-no, not yet. I'm wanted for murder," Chris stammered.