Katja from the Punk Band by Simon Logan

the hell are you doing? Fucking shooting at me?”
    “I . . . uuhhh . . .” Another pulse, another. “I thought it was a trap. . . . I thought they were waiting for me.”
    “Shit, are you okay? Your head . . .”
    “It’s okay,” he tells her. “My throbs are just templing a little. I mean . . . am I bleeding?”
    “Uhhhhh . . . yeah.”
    There is a gash across the side of his head from his brow line to his ear and it’s glistening in the low light amidst the dark swathes of his hair. When he looks at Katja he isn’t focusing properly on her.
    “The man who took you . . . where . . . ?”
    He tries to get to his feet, has to lean on Katja but he’s scrawny enough that she can take his weight.
    “He went inside the arcade.”
    “Arcade . . . ?”
    The word doesn’t make sense to him at first and he has to fight to understand it, but before he can manage it, there is a shout from somewhere nearby.
    “It’s him,” Katja hisses and her grip on Nikolai softens. He collapses again onto one knee.
    “Get up!” she shouts, pulling him to his feet with one arm and grabbing her guitar with the other. It’s a reflex action, one she’s learned from dozens of hastily abandoned gigs, and she looks across at the entrance to the arcade as Aleksakhina comes out.
    “Hey!” the man shouts, and he reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a weapon.
    “Run!” Katja cries and she’s pulling Nikolai along behind her, slings the guitar around her neck as she drags him toward the alleys that line the streets.
    A shot is fired and it ricochets off a trash can, sending it spinning across the sidewalk in front of the two fugitives, almost taking Nikolai out. He stumbles across it and they vanish into the tiny gap between two stained, crumbling buildings.
    Another shot rings out and they keep going, squeezing through the gap awkwardly, Nikolai unable to remain in a straight line for any length of time. Katja ducks into a doorway, pulls him in after her. Twists her guitar neck around and uses the same string she used to undo her cuffs to poke into the keyhole, and there’s another clunk and she opens the door, steps to one side, pushes Nikolai through and he falls to the ground inside. She takes one last glance along the alley, thinks she sees a figure at the far end, follows Nikolai in, closes the door and leans against it.
    Her throat is tight and burning from the exertion and she has to fight the urge to cough and clear out the trach tube. Nikolai is sprawled out beside her on the bare floor like a chemical party leftover.
    Through the heavy metal of the door, Katja listens for the sounds of Aleksakhina coming for them, but hears nothing. She coughs, unable to hold it back any longer, and for a few moments afterward is ready for the door to be kicked in behind her, but everything stays calm.
    Calm.
    “You okay?” she asks Nikolai finally because he’s hardly moved.
    “I can’t,” he says blearily. “Not right now.”
    “What? Are you okay?”
    “Whuh?”
    “Nikolai?”
    She leaves the guitar leaning up against the door, moves across to him.
    The flow of blood seems to have stopped and is clotting in his hair now. She checks the wound but there isn’t much light in the place. A bruise is quickly forming next to his eye socket.
    “Sit up,” she tells him and he does so, with her help.
    “How many fingers am I holding up?”
    “How many whuh?” he asks.
    “Fingers. Look at me. How many fingers? Can you see?”
    “Three,” he says without focusing properly.
    “Look at them first.”
    “I am.”
    “Nikolai, I’m over here.”
    “Whuh? Oh.”
    “Shit.”
    She decides they’ll need to stay for a short while at least; there is no way he’ll properly keep up with her if they have to split now.
    She looks around for the first time, and it’s like some sort of workshop, but one that’s not been used for some time. Metal shelving is pinned to most of the walls and the only window has been blacked out either