Jack Kilborn

by Afraid (lit)

  “I’ll throw it to you,” he said, then darted to the right in case Mrs. Teller tried to shoot where she heard his voice.

  “I can’t see … in this smoke … you need to bring it to me.”

  Woof barked at Mrs. Teller. Duncan shushed him. He knew the dog was just protecting him, but he was giving their position away. Duncan went farther right, until he was against a wall. He had to get down to Woof’s level to breathe because the smoke was so thick, but even near the floor the air was getting bad.

  “Throw me the gun,” Duncan said. “Then I’ll come to you.”

  “What? Duncan … I can’t hear you …”

  Duncan filled his lungs and yelled, “Throw me—!”

  The sonic BOOM blew a hole in the smoke, and birdshot chewed into the metal first-aid kit Duncan held out in front of him. The kit jumped from his hands like it was alive, and Duncan’s hands stung. Just as bad were Duncan’s ears—it felt like someone had punched him on both sides of his head, and the ringing was so bad he actually looked for bells. He also realized he’d peed his underwear a little.

  He pulled Woof away from the wall, toward the shelves, and then put his hands in front of his face. They hurt like crazy, but there wasn’t any blood. Duncan’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry—maybe he was finally all out of tears. More than ever he wanted Mom, wanted to give her a huge hug. She’d protect him. She’d make it better.

  But Mom wasn’t here. Only Mrs. Teller. And she was going to kill him unless he did something about it.

  The room had gotten brighter, and the green light from the glow sticks was replaced by orange. A shelf had caught on fire. Duncan recalled Bernie’s lecture, about how bad it hurt to get burned. He didn’t want to burn to death. He didn’t want to get burned at all, not even a little bit. He’d rather get shot.

  “Duncan? Did I get you? If you’re hurt let me know. I can end your pain, child. I’ll take all your pain away.”

  Duncan watched the shelf burn and hugged his dog tighter. He had to do something. Anything. Or else he and Woof were going to die.

  I have to get the gun, Duncan thought. Then Mrs. Teller couldn’t hurt him, and he could keep her away until Mom and Josh rescued them.

  Duncan knew he had to crawl to her, pull the gun away. She was an adult, but she was always talking about how her bones were old and brittle, how her muscles were getting shriveled up. Duncan always had to open jars for her, and he even beat her at arm wrestling once last year.

  But he couldn’t move. His legs and arms felt stuck to the floor.

  Get the gun! he thought. Go get the gun!

  His muscles didn’t obey.

  Then, like a slap, he heard the sound of the shotgun being racked.

  Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, as tight as they could be squeezed, and waited. He didn’t want to see it coming.

  “DUNCAN! CAN YOU HEAR ME!”

  Mom!

  Mom sounded close, almost like she was in the room. Magically, he could move again. Duncan got to his feet. Mom’s voice seemed to be coming from the left, but the only thing there was a shelf stacked with supplies, and many of those supplies were on fire.

  “DUNCAN!”

  Duncan picked up the big box of toilet paper that had fallen down, and used that to knock the burning supplies off the shelf. There, on the wall, was some sort of vent.

  “MOM!”

  Duncan yelled with everything he had. Then he climbed up onto the metal shelf and stuck his hands in the vent grating.

  “Duncan! Are you okay!”

  “You have to get me and Woof out of here, Mom!” He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Teller is trying to kill us.”

  Mom didn’t answer right away, but he thought he heard her sob.

  “Duncan? It’s Josh. Are you small enough to fit into the duct?”

  Duncan squinted through the grating. Inside it was square, and not very large. But he could probably squeeze in there.

  “I think so! But there’s a metal vent in the way!”

  “Can you pull the vent off?”

  Duncan locked his fingers and tugged. The vent didn’t move.

  “It’s on too tight.”

  “DUNCAN!” Mrs. Teller yelled.

  He turned and looked behind him. She stood there, holding the shotgun. Fire stretched to the ceiling behind her. Duncan couldn’t see the expression on her face, but she looked very angry. He tore his eyes away and searched the floor, looking for …

  “Woof!”

  The beagle went straight for Mrs. Teller’s calf, biting hard and causing her to fall over. The shotgun fell from her hands, and she tried to push and kick the dog away. Woof dodged her blows and kept up the attack.

  This time Duncan didn’t hesitate. He hopped off the shelf and hurried to the shotgun. It lay there like a rattlesnake. Duncan forced himself to pick it up, surprised by its weight—it was heavier than it looked.

  “Duncan!” Josh’s voice, through the vent.

  Duncan walked back to the shelf. He put his finger on the trigger and tried to hold the gun like Mrs. Teller did, with the butt against his shoulder. He couldn’t; the gun was too long. So he held the gun at his side, at waist level, with the stock extended out behind his armpit. Then he aimed at the vent.

  The BOOM shook his whole body, and the shotgun jumped out of his hands and went skidding backward across the floor. Duncan didn’t look to see where it went. He focused on the duct.

  The grating was gone. He’d shot it off.

  Duncan ran to the shelf, climbed up, stuck his head into the hole. Yes, he’d be able to fit. Barely. But the duct went up on a slant that was too steep—he couldn’t crawl up.

  “Duncan!”

  “I’m here, Josh! I shot the cover off.” He felt absurdly proud of himself when he said that.

  “Can you get inside?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t think I can crawl up. It’s too high.”

  “I’ll look for some rope! Hang in there, Duncan!”

  Duncan wiped the sweat off of his forehead. It had gotten even hotter. The wall on either side of him was burning, the flames coming closer.

  Mom said, “What’s Mrs. Teller doing?”

  Duncan turned and squinted at her. She was on the floor, still fighting with his dog.

  “Woof’s attacking her, Mom! Woof! Come!”

  Woof barked to Duncan and then trotted over, his tongue hanging out. He looked pleased.

  “Up, Woof! Up!”

  Woof leapt up onto the shelf, and Duncan hugged his dog tight. The beagle licked his face, then slobbered all over his ear.

  “Mom’s going to save us, Woof. We have to go in that vent. Don’t be scared.”

  Woof wasn’t scared at all. Upon noticing the duct, he stuck his head inside and barked. Duncan petted Woof’s butt and told him he was a good boy. Then he chanced another look over his shoulder.

  Mrs. Teller was gone.

  “Duncan!” Josh talking. “We’re sending down a hose. Wrap it under your arms and tie it around your chest.”

  The hose made a lot of noise coming down, banging against the aluminum walls of the duct. Woof barked and bit the end when it appeared. Duncan told the dog to sit and tugged the hose out until there was enough to make a knot. Then he paused. If he went up the hole, how would Woof get out?

  “You gotta go first, buddy.”

  Duncan patted the dog’s head, then wrapped the hose around Woof’s body. He tied it tight enough to make the beagle yip.

  “Mom! Josh! Pull Woof up!”

  “No! Duncan, you come up right now!”

  “Woof’s going first!”

  Duncan listened to Mom and Josh argue, and then Woof got tugged into the hole. He tried to spread out his paws and pull back, ears flat against his skull, but he was jerked right up the vent.

  “Duncan …”

  It was Mrs. Teller. She was right behind him.

  Duncan didn’t waste time. He scrambled into the duct after his dog, forcing himself up as far as he
could go. The fit was tight. Really tight. And the smoke rose up beneath him, making it a lot harder to breathe, because there were no pockets of good air.

  Overhead, the duct clanged, and the hose came down again.

  “Wrap it around you, Duncan!”

  Duncan’s arms were up over his head, so he could grab the hose but had no way to pull it around his waist; he couldn’t lower his hands. Instead he held it tight.

  “Okay!” he yelled.

  Josh pulled so hard on the hose it got ripped from his grasp.

  “Duncan!”

  “I can’t tie it on!” Duncan coughed. “Pull slower!”

  Again the hose came down. Duncan became aware of how hot it was getting in the vent. He felt sleepy. He wanted to close his eyes, even though he knew that was a bad idea.

  “Duncan!” Mom, yelling. “Grab the hose!”

  Duncan managed to get a hand on it. Josh lifted slower this time, and Duncan held on. But after going up only a little ways he felt like he was being stretched in half.

  “Hold it!” Duncan croaked. “I’m stuck!”

  The oversized undershirt he wore had become caught on something in the vent, and the material was pulling at his neck, choking him.

  Duncan tried to shake his head to release the tension. It didn’t work, the fabric continuing to cut into his throat. Because he couldn’t lower his arms, he couldn’t get the shirt off.

  I have to let go of the hose, drop down, and take off the shirt, Duncan thought.

  And that’s when Mrs. Teller grabbed his foot.

  Duncan screamed. He didn’t want to let go now, even if he got strangled. He tried kicking but didn’t have any room. Mrs. Teller’s hands grabbed his thighs, hard, her fingers squeezing.

  Duncan knew this was the end. He wasn’t going to get away. He felt bad for his mom. First she lost Dad, and now him. Smoke filled his lungs, but he tried to talk. He wanted to tell Mom that he loved her, one last time, before Mrs. Teller pulled him down.

  But Mrs. Teller didn’t pull. She pushed.

  Duncan heard the sound of fabric tearing, and then the pressure on his neck eased up. Josh yanked the hose, and Mrs. Teller continued to shove Duncan up the vent, lifting his legs, his ankles, and finally his feet, until he no longer felt her touch.

  A moment later Mom and Josh were tugging on his arms, hauling him out of the duct.

  “Duncan! Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!”

  “I got shot, but only a little.”

  Mom hugged him, and he hugged her, and it turned out he had some tears left, after all, because he started to cry. Woof, not wanting to be left out, stood up on his hind legs and put his front paws on him, joining the hug. Duncan wanted it to go on forever.

  Then, from the vent, the sound of screaming.

  Duncan pressed away from his mother.

  “Mrs. Teller! She’s still in there, Mom!” He looked at Josh. “We have to get her out! The fire is going to get her!”

  Another scream, and then the sound of a shotgun firing.

  Silence followed.

  Josh put one hand on Duncan’s shoulder and his other on Mom’s. He steered them, gently but firmly, away from the house.

  “We need to get you both to a hospital.”

  Even though Mom and Josh didn’t say anything, Duncan knew what happened to Mrs. Teller. And it was okay. She was finally with Mr. Teller again. He imagined them both, in heaven, baking cookies.

  “I fired a shotgun,” Duncan said to Josh, beaming.

  Josh tousled his hair.

  “You did good, sport. Now let’s go make sure your mom is okay.”

  Duncan saw Josh take Mom’s hand, their fingers interlocking, and he smiled.

  Sheriff Streng sat in the back seat of Mrs. Teller’s 1992 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, a vehicle that boasted faux wood side panels and less than ten thousand miles on the odometer. Mrs. Teller had kept it in the garage and was kind enough to leave the keys in the ignition.

  Streng had pulled it onto the lawn before the house collapsed, doing so out of necessity. There were too many people to cram into Olen’s Honey Wagon, and one of them was dangerous.

  The captive had his hands tied behind him, Streng’s belt cinched around his legs, and a face that resembled a Picasso painting because Erwin had hit it so many times. He was no longer an immediate threat, but the sheriff still didn’t like being this close.

  Streng had frisked him quickly, finding the plastic zip lines they’d used to bind his wrists, assorted matches and lighters, a container filled with more of those odd capsules, a Ka-Bar Warthog knife, and another one of those high-tech electronic devices that he couldn’t figure out how to turn on. He put everything, except the knife, in an empty McDonald’s bag he’d gotten from Olen’s truck. Then he turned his attention back to the pyro.

  Like Ajax and Santiago, this man wore a black military-style outfit. And like Ajax and Santiago, he scared the crap out of Streng.

  When he began to wake up, Streng Mirandized him, and then he and Erwin put the stranger into the back seat of the Roadmaster. Streng sat next to him. He pressed the thick-bladed combat knife up against the man’s throat, but he still kept an arm’s length away.

  “Wake up. I have questions.”

  The man peeked at Streng though peach-puffy eyes. He grinned. The missing teeth and swollen face made him look like a jack-o’-lantern.

  “Hello, Sheriff Streng. I’d be happy, very happy, to answer any questions you have, as long, as long as you tell me where Warren is.”

  Wiley again. What kind of horror had his brother brought upon this little town?

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bernie.”

  “Full name.”

  “Just Bernie is fine.”

  “How many people in your unit?”

  Bernie stuck his tongue through the gaps in his teeth and made sucking sounds. He seemed to be counting them. When he finished, he said, “Enough to get the job done.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Find Warren. Finding Warren. Warren, Warren, Warren.”

  “Why do you want to find him?” Streng thought he knew the answer but wanted confirmation.

  A line of bloody saliva leaked out the corner of Bernie’s mouth.

  “Did you take my lighters, Sheriff?”

  “Answer my question. Why are you looking for Warren?”

  Bernie clenched his jaw. Streng heard a cracking sound. Without flinching or taking his eyes away from Streng, Bernie produced a broken tooth between his grinning, distended lips. His tongue pushed it out, and it slid down his chin on a wave of gory spit.

  “Why don’t you burn me?” Bernie asked. “Maybe that will make me talk.”

  Centuries ago Streng served in Vietnam, during the war. He’d seen firsthand the types of things the Cong did to extract information. It had sickened him and remained a subject of nightmares for decades afterward.

  When he mustered out and became a rookie cop in Milwaukee, criminal interrogations had been a bit … looser … than they were now. Streng witnessed his fellow officers beat a confession out of a killer using phone books. He’d also watched his squad take turns kicking a known child molester in the groin until he revealed the location of a child he’d abducted. Both times the suspects broke quickly. And both times Streng felt disgusted with himself afterward, even though he hadn’t participated in the beatings.

  Bernie expected torture. Hell, he probably deserved torture. But the willful infliction of pain on a fellow human being just wasn’t in Streng’s constitution. He decided to try another approach.

  “I saw your friends earlier. Ajax and Santiago. Did you all train together?”

  Bernie stared malevolently.

  “I bet you boys had a lot of training. You think they trained harder than you, or are just better at this stuff?”

  Now Bernie shifted in his seat.

  “That Santiago, I bet he’d never allow himself to be captured.” Streng moved closer to Bernie
. “I bet he’d die first.”

  Bernie took a deep breath, then exhaled hard through his broken nose. A clot blew out of his right nostril, and dark blood oozed out. Bernie extended his tongue and let the blood run over it.

  “I smell piss.” Bernie licked his bloody lips and grinned. “Did Santiago make you wet yourself, Sheriff? Or— hehehe—is that just old age?”

  Streng didn’t take the bait. Instead he removed a disposable lighter from his pocket and flicked it on. Bernie focused on it like a cat watches a mouse. Streng let it burn for about ten seconds, then allowed the flame to die.

  “Well, you’d know a thing or two about wetting yourself, wouldn’t you, Bernie? Pyromania and bed-wetting go hand in hand.”

  Bernie continued to stare at the lighter.

  “Was that what your childhood was like, Bernie? Setting fires? Pissing yourself? Killing little animals? I bet you did a lot of that. Let me guess—did Daddy make special visits to your bedroom at night, when Mommy was asleep?”

  Bernie’s eyes got big, and his jaw began to quiver.

  “Daddy, my daddy, Daddy burned me. All over. Mommy would help, would hold me down. Because I was bad. They knew, they knew I was bad, they tried to cleanse me with fire, burn the evil out. But they went away before they could save me. Mommy and Daddy loved me.”

  Streng fought revulsion, stayed strong.

  “Why are you after Warren? Is it money?”

  “Money?” Bernie grinned. “Want to see me light my pee-pee on fire? I’ll do it for a dollar. A dollar a dollar a dollar. Everyone, all the kids, everyone at the orphanage, they save their money to watch me do it.” He locked eyes with Streng. “Got a dollar, Sheriff?”

  “I’ve got a dollar, and I want to see that, Bernie. But first tell me how many are in your unit.”

  “They love me, love me like Mommy and Daddy. I’m important, so important, to them. Their star pupil. They found me years ago, saved me from the institution. I—”

  Bernie’s smile died, and then his eyes rolled up into his head. His head began to twitch, and Streng wondered if the man was still trying to frighten him. Truth told, Streng was frightened. This man, even tied up, exuded menace like radiators exuded heat. But the spasm went on for several seconds, and Bernie definitely didn’t seem in control. Some sort of seizure?