by Mark Tufo
“Wait!” Jerrod yelled.
Bridger mashed the communication button next to the door. “Don’t open this door for anybody but me. Got it?”
“Y-yes. But how will I know it’s really you if the video is down?” he asked, his head throbbing.
“How do you think, pinhead? I’ll fucking TELL you!” Bridger took off down the hall.
Jerrod sat in the safe room and began trembling. If they cut the video feeds, then they could have disabled any of the other security features…they could have disabled the alarms, they could have disabled the door and window sensors…well, of course they did if they were in the house.
Wait….they were IN the house? Jerrod began to panic. What if they got the better of Bridger? He could be trapped in the safe room for…ever? He glanced to the corner and saw the small stack of sodas and chips, junk food that he had stacked in there first before bringing in any other food. He saw the chemical toilet…and no toilet paper.
“Oh, no…” He thought about the ramifications and shook his head. “Not just no, but hell no.”
He began punching buttons on the keyboard and tried to bring the video feed back up, to no avail. “No, no, no.” He jumped up from the chair and stared at the monitors. “No!” He stared at the door and wished he hadn’t let that big brute Bridger take his pistol. He could have protected himself if he had his pistol. “I have other guns,” he said, suddenly stiffening.
Jerrod Miller squared his shoulders and went to the large vault door. Placing his shoulder against it he pushed and slowly the huge door swung open. He glanced into the hallway then crept out toward his study. When he reached the open hallway that led to the living room, he paused and peered down the length of it. Quickly, he shot across and entered his study. He shut the door behind him and went to his desk drawer. Pulling open the file drawer, he pulled out his standby cowboy action shooter and checked that it was loaded. As he stood and tucked it into his waistband, he turned and saw a shadow cross under his study door.
His heart rate went through the roof and he slipped over to the sliding glass door. He pressed the button to disarm his ‘extra’ security and slipped out the sliding glass and into the yard. If the killer was in the house, he would be OUT of the house.
Jerrod stood in the backyard and peered up at the moon. It was full and the clouds allowed enough light to see by, but not enough to see clearly. Shadows were everywhere and he saw killers sneaking around in each of them. The scotch played with his imagination and his paranoia was like throwing gas on a raging fire. He saw the door to his study open and without waiting for the killers to come after him, he took off across the manicured lawn toward the rear of his property.
He wasn’t one for aerobic exercise, but when one is scared for their life, one can make good time when running. Jerrod Miller dove behind a small stand of bushes just as the sliding glass opened and a head stuck out of the study. He was too frightened to try to see the killer, but he heard the door shut and lock. Apparently the killer intended to keep him locked in the house so they could systematically hunt him down and kill him. He smiled to himself as he imagined Bridger and the killer going head to head with him safely out here hiding behind the bush. He sighed and sunk to the ground, the barrel of the .45 biting into his groin.
He felt a welcome breeze pick up and blow across his skin, instantly cooling him. He sighed again and turned to face the wind, feeling it pick up and blow across his face and neck, drying the sweat that he’d worked up as he sprinted across the yard. He breathed in the dry Texas air as the wind blew. He coughed as the sand and grit was blown into his face and became inhaled. Turning his head, he covered his mouth so as not to make any noise and tried to cough a little harder. The wind gusted, rustling the bushes and blowing his hair about as he attempted to free the foreign matter from his throat.
Jerrod squinted to keep his eyes shut and free from the dirt and dust being blown about and turned his back to the onslaught. The wind ebbed and flowed about him, sweeping past and around him as a dust devil began to form where he sat.
Jerrod bent down and tried to pull his undershirt up from under his sweat covered button-up shirt to cover his mouth and nose, but it was tucked too tightly into his trousers and the pistol barrel held it tightly in place. He staggered back on his knees, coughing and blinded by the dust stinging his eyes.
Crawling to his feet, he reached out for something to help pull himself up and found a limb from the brush next to him. The jagged trimmings from it puncturing his palm as he gripped it to pull his large frame up.
The wind gusted again, blowing past his ear, carrying a voice that whispered in his ear, “N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w-w-w!”
“Who is that?” he yelled into the din, but the wind blew more dry dust into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat with dust from the dry Texas hardpan. He coughed and fell back to his knees, his hand going to his throat. “W-who…”
With another gust the wind whispered, “R-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-n-n!”
Jerrod scrambled to his feet, his lungs burning for air as his throat threatened to close off, but his feet didn’t betray him as he stumbled away from the bush and back to the yard. Blinded by the dust and sand, he staggered about, coughing, spitting and trying to forcefully suck air into his lungs. His eyes burned as his own tears betrayed him, causing more pain and more distraction to his already miserable form.
He forced a hand out in front of him as a blind man might, searching for anything that may hinder his movements. Staggering through the lawn, he stumbled and threatened to fall more than once, but he kept moving, coughing and sputtering as he fought to find a safe place to get away from the biting wind.
In his blind state, he had no idea which direction he was moving but he knew if he stayed still, he was dead. The wind, the choking dust or the frightening voice would get him. He wiped at his eyes to try to clear them, but the muddy crust from his tears served only to scratch the hide away from his tender eyes and drive more grit into his eyelids. The tears flowed freely with the continued onslaught and he paused to jerk his undershirt up, pulling the revolver from his waistband, but he finally freed enough material to cover his mouth and nose.
He paused to cough and blow the sand out of his nostrils and bent over to hack the grit from his throat. He clenched his eyelids tight as he forced great gulps of air into his lungs and fell to his knees as he continued to cough. The damp shirt acted as a filter, though, and allowed him to finally breathe.
He felt around on the ground trying to find his lost revolver, but he couldn’t seem to locate it. He knew it had fallen, he felt its weight leave him when he tugged the shirt free. He knew it hit the ground by his feet, he felt it through the ground, but damned if he could find it now. He didn’t dare let go of the t-shirt as the dust would invade his nose and mouth again.
“Fuck it.” He got to his feet again and staggered on. One problem solved, another yet to be solved…how to see.
He strained to listen, anything that might give him a clue where he was at, but the wind was overpowering. Sand blew into his ears, the bite of the particles into his skin like insects invading his dermis. He cringed and tried to turn his back to the worst of it. Jerrod fought back the overwhelming desire to scream as he staggered on. He tried to crack his eyelids enough to see and faint shadows appeared, but he was forced to quickly shut them again as the dust blew past his face and lashed into the soft, sensitive tissue.
He steeled his reserve and tried one more time, cracking his eyes open to try to see something…anything. He saw a light. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was something. He turned toward the light and moved toward it as quickly as he could, hand outstretched to protect his movements. He quickly increased his speed until he was almost jogging.
A thought raced through his mind…something…important. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but it was definitely important. The scotch impeded rational thought, and he moved entirely on instinct. Just before he realized what it was he
was trying to remember, he tried to slow down but his momentum continued him in a forward motion, carrying him into his newly installed eight foot chain link perimeter fence. The electrified eight foot chain link perimeter fence. That was what his muddled mind was trying to remember. The security lights that were installed along the perimeter of the fence so that anybody who stumbled upon it at night could clearly read the warning signs mounted five feet high at ten foot intervals.
Jerrod threw his other hand up at the last possible moment before he impacted the fence with all of his weight, the resulting jolt knocking him back in a rain of sparks.
37
Bobby Bridger went room by room, clearing each one. He systematically cleared the bathroom, closet, bedroom, broom closet, storage rooms…even the pantries. As each room was cleared, he sealed the room, placed a remote monitor on the door, keyed it for his cell phone and went on to the next.
By the time he secured the entire expansive ranch style home, he was stymied. How could anybody breach the place, reset the security system and not still be in the house? If Miller was the target…he paused and stood in the foyer of the house, his .45 dangling in his hand.
“Son of a bitch.” He turned and ran back to the safe room.
As he got to the end of the hall and turned right, he slid to a stop, cursing as he saw the vault door standing wide open. “You stupid son of a…”
He holstered his pistol and slid into the seat of the computer monitoring station. Pulling the keyboard to him, he began entering commands. He pulled up the main menu and began entering administrative passwords. He looked at the access logs.
“Motherfucker,” he swore and slammed his fist down on the table. “I’m such a dumbass.”
He entered key commands again and almost immediately the cameras began popping back on one by one. He scanned the numerous cameras and used the arrows to jump from camera to camera faster than their automatic function would allow.
“The son of a bitch turned them off himself,” Bridger muttered, “But why?”
He kept scanning the camera feeds then paused. He was looking at something in the backyard, but had no idea what it was. It looked like smoke blowing through the back yard. He hit the zoom and tried to stretch the picture out further. Whatever it was, the wind was blowing the hell out of it.
Bridger switched to another outdoor camera and checked it. Front yard, near the driveway. The tree was still as a statue. No wind. Side yard, rose bush…no wind. Other side yard, honeysuckle. No wind. Back yard, smoke…wind blowing like a tornado.
Bridger pushed the keyboard away and took off for the kitchen. He’d exit out the side and come across to the back yard at an angle. Surely there was something screwy going on back there. As he got to the kitchen entrance, the doorbell rang and someone began beating on the door. Bobby paused. He stared back toward the front door, then through the kitchen.
He narrowed his gaze and pulled his .45 again. Whoever was at the door had better have a damn good reason for being here at this hour.
*****
Ben rang the doorbell, then beat on the solid wood doors. They were locked or he would have pushed them open already. He turned and glanced over his shoulder to see Denise slide to a stop right behind his cruiser, Zimmer was already approaching the house with Sanders right behind him, weapons drawn. Ben turned back to the door and beat on it again. He looked back to Denise and motioned for her to take the back. She nodded and took off at a run, Scott going the other direction with Sanders falling in behind him. Justin turned and took off after Denise.
Bridger threw open the door with his pistol leveled on Constable Gregory. “Identify yourself.”
Ben leveled a glare that would have peeled paint had it missed Bridger and hit the wall instead. “Constable Gregory,” he barked. “And if you don’t put that pea shooter away, you’re going to look funny with it shoved up your ass.”
Bridger hiked a brow as he measured up Gregory. “Seriously?”
“There are three deputies converging on your rear plus the county Sheriff himself. And then there’s me.” He walked past Bridger and into the house. “You may be good, but you ain’t that good. Where’s Miller?”
Bridger holstered his weapon and shut the door. “Good question. Our security system went tits up and I shoved him in the panic room.”
“Good move.”
“Yeah, except the dumbass bolted on me. I was about to check a disturbance in the back when you rang.”
Ben nodded and motioned for him to lead the way. “After you.”
Bobby took off at a trot and hit the kitchen at the same time Justin began kicking at the kitchen door. “Hold up!” Bridger yelled. He ran to the door and unlocked it. “Solid core steel door, Deputy. You’d blow your knee out trying to kick it in.”
Justin started to come in, but Bobby motioned him back out. “I’ve cleared the house. It’s just me and the housekeeper in there. Miller bolted.”
“Any ideas, Bobby?” Scott asked stepping up to face him.
“Not really, but I saw something that looked like smoke way back in the back yard.”
“The other doors are secured,” Denise said. “How’d he get out?”
“It’s his house. Maybe he locked them on his way out?”
“Or maybe you secured them after he left?” Sanders asked.
Bobby shrugged. “Possible, but highly unlikely. I secured them right after I put him in the safe room. He would have had to be right on my heels.”
“Let’s just see if we can find him before it does,” Ben said.
“It?” Bridger asked.
Scott paused. “Long story, buddy. Reader’s Digest version is…guns aren’t going to do us much good with it.”
“What? Like a giant anaconda or something?”
“Worse,” Ben said as they turned toward the back. “Fucking ghost.”
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say so.”
*****
Jerrod groaned as he rolled over and coughed, smoke rolling off his body. He patted at his body and swore he saw smoke coming from his chest. He distinctly smelled burnt hair. Reaching to the top of his head he patted it. He felt some of it crumble and break off in his hand. He blinked numerous times trying to clear his eyes of the grit crusted in the corners.
He coughed again as he got to his hands and knees. Jerrod stayed on his knees and was so thankful the wind had died down so he could breathe. He leaned up and sat back on his knees. “Why did I want the highest voltage electric fence again?” he asked himself. “Oh yeah…those drug heads.”
Feeling lucky that he was still alive, he slowly got to his feet. He turned toward the house and began working his way back towards the lights of home. He heard voices and could just make out shapes at the corner of the house by the kitchen. Panic rose in his gut and he looked around for a place to hide, a weapon, something…anything.
He bolted toward the same stand of bushes that he had originally hid behind and hunkered in the darkness. His eyes were still blurry from the grit and from being scratched by the sand, his throat was dry and coated with dust and he felt like he had been sandblasted. His skin burnt by the constant barrage of particles as he fell to the ground and strained to listen.
Jerrod felt a tightening in his chest and a vague memory of something he had read years ago…something about people who had been electrocuted…lightning? Plug-ins? Whatever the cause, they thought they were fine afterward only to go about their regular lives then drop dead days later from the after-effects. His eyes grew wide as he clutched at his chest and wondered if his heart would stop at any given moment.
His ears were still ringing and he could hear the buzzing of people talking, but he couldn’t discern who or what was being said. He knew only that it was a group of people and only he, Maria and Bridger should be at the house…the rest were uninvited. He scanned the ground…it was near here that he had dropped the pistol. If only…
He saw shadows moving through the bushes and panic rose th
rough him once more. As the shadows fanned out through the yard, Jerrod worked his way around the bush, keeping it between him and the interlopers until he had the house to his back and the bush between him and the intruders. He turned and ran for all he was worth, heading straight for his study. He’d break out Wyatt Earp’s Henry rifle! That rifle had killed more than its share of evil doers in the past; it could damn sure do it again now.
The wind picked up again and Jerrod slowed, glancing about, fear rising in his throat like bile. It gusted past his face once more and blew past his ear, whispering, “N-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-W-W!”
Jerrod froze and turned in circles looking for the source of the voice. “Where are you?”
A slight breeze blew past his ear, carrying the voice once more, “H-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-r-r-e,” it whispered.
He spun quickly and stared behind him. He couldn’t see anything but shadows and blurry objects…until a shadow moved. He could just make out the fuzzy edges of the darkness moving, taking shape, pulling itself together into the form of a person…a misty person. At first, Jerrod had no idea what he was seeing. Was it a fog? But then it began to turn, to spin, to tighten its’ shape until the edges became more defined and the eyes formed…red, burning with the very fires of hell.
Jerrod felt his bladder let go and he began stumbling backward toward the house. “No,” he mumbled. “Please, God, no. You stay away from me!”
Miller turned and ran the last few steps to the house. He reached for the handle to the sliding glass door of the study and tried to pull it. Locked!
“No!”
Dark figures were running toward him from across the lawn, yelling and screaming for him and the ghostly figure was quickly closing the distance. Miller turned and saw all of this at once and the panic he felt became hysterics. He beat against the door, kicking it, clawing at it. He looked to the ground and saw a patio paver that he quickly pried from the ground, bloodying his fingers as he pulled it loose. He hefted it over his head and smashed it into the acrylic bullet-proof sliding glass door.
