Page 28 of Collateral Damage
I pull on my robe, my skin prickling as I pad out to the main room. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s a heavy, acoustic void, the kind that only comes when the world’s buried under three feet of snow.
The kitchen light’s a harsh, clinical yellow against the shadows. Silas is at the sink, his back to me. The soft sweater from last night is gone. He’s back in full tactical gear—fitted black nylon, a sidearm holstered at his hip, and a heavy, serrated blade strapped to his thigh.
He looks like a part of the architecture, a lethal extension of the prepper’s logic that built this place.
"Morning," he says. He doesn’t turn around. He probably heard the friction of my slippers on the floorboards three rooms away.
"Morning." My voice is a rough, disoriented rasp. "Is that?—"
"Cinnamon rolls." He glances over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a threat. "They’ll be ready in about twenty minutes."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile the smell of yeast with the gun on his belt. "You can bake?"
"I can follow instructions," he says shortly.
I gravitate toward the coffee pot, my hands shaking slightly as I wrap them around a mug. Outside the window, the world has simply ceased to exist. The trees are buried in a drift that’s already reached the deck railing. It makes the cabin feel like a submarine, miles beneath a frozen sea.
Silas dries the last dish, the fabric of his tactical shirt straining against his shoulders, then turns to face me. The domesticity ends there. "I was thinking it might be a good time to go over some basic self-defense."
My stomach drops. The "cozy" morning evaporates. "Self-defense?"
"Nothing intense," he says quickly, reading the alarm on my face, though his tone’s as hard as the steel on his hip. "Just a few things that might help if—" He stops himself. "If you need them."
I take a slow sip of coffee to buy myself time. The thought of learning to defend myself—of admitting I might actually need to fight back physically—makes this whole nightmare feel more real than the weapons do.
But he’s right. I need to know something. Anything.
One hastily drunk coffee later, I’ve changed into leggings and a sweatshirt, and Silas has moved the coffee table to create space in the living room. He’s removed the weapons strapped to his thigh, leaving just the sidearm at his hip.
"First thing you need to understand," he says, his tone calm and professional, "is that the goal’s never to win a fight. The goal is to create space and get away."
I nod, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Most attackers rely on surprise and intimidation. They expect you to freeze." He moves closer, but not threateningly. "So we’re going to work on breaking that freeze response first."
"How?"
"By giving your body something to do automatically." He gestures to the space between us. "The most common attack you'll face is someone grabbing you. Wrist, arm, shoulder. They want control."
My skin prickles at the thought.
"I’m going to show you a few simple releases. Nothing complicated. Just enough to break contact and move." He meets my eyes. "But I need to actually hold your wrist to demonstrate. Is that okay?"
I swallow hard and nod. "Yes."
He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull back if I want to, then wraps his hand around my right wrist. His grip is firm but not painful.
"This is how most people grab—thumb on top, fingers wrapped around." He doesn't squeeze. "First instinct’s to pull straight back, right?"
I nod.
"Don't. That’s where they expect resistance, and they’re stronger than you." He shifts his stance slightly. "Instead, you’re going to rotate your arm—turn your wrist toward their thumb. That’s the weakest part of their grip."
He demonstrates in slow motion, guiding my arm through the movement. "Rotate, then pull down and away. Sharp movement. Like this."
My wrist slips free easily.
"Again," he says, taking hold of my wrist once more. "Rotate toward the thumb, pull down and away."
