Suckers - J.A. Konrath

More shotgun blasts. More chaos.
It occurred to me that I should be trying to use the distraction as a tool for escape, rather
than fantasizing about Harry McGlade's tragic demise.
I fantasized about it a little bit more, just because it was so pleasant, and then sprung to my
feet.
Since my legs were all bitten-up, I promptly dropped back down to the floor. Falling on my
legs hurt about as much as getting them bit in the first place.
One of the ladies dove at me. I threw an instinctive punch. It was not a mighty punch, but
the momentum of her face moving toward my fist, combined with the momentum of my fist
moving toward her face, combined with the fact that I got her right in the middle of the nose,
made for one splattery smack. I couldn't quite see the results, but I could feel them on my
knuckles.
She let out a howl and began to flail around on the floor. Positive descriptions of my blood's
flavor and consistency were replaced by barely coherent, profanity-laden cries of rage and pain.
I couldn't quite tell what the other woman was doing, but I hoped that her partner's wails
were keeping her attention. I scurried away from there, yelping as a clawed hand grab my ankle.
I slammed my other foot into the hand. The crack sounded like it hurt.
I scrambled to the other end of the room, hoping I was out of chain-range. In theory, if the
Vlad's administrative assistants had thrown me into the "Pit" with the intention of letting these
women devour me, it wouldn't make a hell of a lot of sense for their chains not to give them total
access to anywhere in the room.
After pausing to pluck part of a fingernail out of my ankle, I stood up and pressed myself
into the corner. Okay, there had to be a way out of this little pickle. If I ran across the room at top
speed (ably avoiding the women with my astounding dexterity) and bashed into the door, I'd
either break open the door or the left half of my body. Or maybe both, in which case I could at
least drag my mangled frame to safety.
I kind of wished that the woman would stop wailing. It was distracting me from figuring out
whether the potential mangling was worth it.
The woman stopped wailing.
Much better.
Then she started giggling, which was less noisy but a lot more unnerving. The other woman
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