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by Matthew Costello

  The blue plastic laundry basket would work.

  She ran over to get it.

  * * *

  The sky turned black.

  Clear, like most nights.

  Stars visible through the windshield.

  Kate didn’t want to look at the door to the house, as if that would only delay her mother’s return. On all her other trips, she had been in and out, with the food, the plastic gas cans.

  This was taking longer.

  Maybe—she thought—

  Maybe …

  —something’s wrong?

  Should she go out? See what her mother was doing?

  Leave the car?

  Leave Simon?

  She chewed her lower lip, feeling as if she couldn’t do anything but look at the house door, look at Simon, that’s all.

  When finally, she heard a noise.

  She let herself turn to the house.

  To see her mother coming out with … what?

  Then Kate recognized it, even in the darkness.

  A laundry basket. As if she had been watching her mother carry loads of laundry down to the basement, then back up.

  Only there was no laundry in this basket.

  Filled with things Kate couldn’t make out as her mother went to the back of the car. She heard the jangly sound of metal clanging as the basket was lowered into the trunk.

  The sound of things being moved around, to make room.

  Then, the trunk being closed.

  Until finally her mother came around to the passenger side of the car.

  Not the driver’s side.

  Time for us to go, Kate thought.

  We have everything.

  Kate rolled down the window.

  “Mom—we have to go.”

  Her mother nodded.

  “One more thing. I’ll be fast.”

  “What?” Kate asked.

  But her mother turned away. Not answering the question, but now racing back into the house.

  As Kate watched, she saw her mother turn on a flashlight as she entered the now totally dark house.

  Then, the light and her mother disappeared.

  In her head, Kate started counting.

  Three hundred. I’ll give her to 300, she thought.

  That’s enough.

  Till 300, and then she’ll be back or I’ll beep.

  She started.

  One … two … three …

  15

  The Past

  Christie ran up the stairs, aiming the flashlight at the steps as she went as fast as she could.

  One last thing, she thought.

  Since—this might be the last time she would be in this house.

  Had to accept that, she told herself.

  Things might get back to normal.

  What normal used to be.

  But if not, she had to be prepared for that. She had to prepare her kids for that.

  At the top step, the last step to the narrow and dark upstairs hallway, she slipped, and fell. Her knee cracked into the carpeted edge of the stairs, right at the spot where her kneecap ended.

  She groaned.

  The flashlight slipped from her right hand, and rolled on the rug.

  The gun. The gun, though, remained tightly held.

  She wasted no time scrambling to her feet, even more quickly scooping up the light, pointing it down the hallway, then moving again.

  Her right knee ached, joining so many other places that hurt.

  She went to their bedroom.

  * * *

  As soon as she entered, she felt a physical wave crash into her.

  Their bedroom.

  The bed made. The closet doors shut. The end tables, hers with a book, Jack’s with nothing. He always, always—

  She stopped herself.

  No time for any of that.

  Turning, nearly spinning to the bookshelf to the left that faced their bed.

  Filled not with books but—God—photo albums.

  She stuck the gun into her belt, and with no time to examine these albums, to sift through them for what photos were indispensible, what images that she had decided to print … that she would now bring.

  She only knew that if there was to be a future, for her, for her kids, beyond any of this, these photos were important.

  She grabbed one, then another, then a third, so she had to tuck them under her arm, like oversized research books for a school project.

  If she put the flashlight down, she could grab another.

  A moment’s debate.

  Mere seconds for a decision.

  She stuck the flashlight into her pocket, beam up.

  And with her now-free hand, she randomly picked three more mismatched albums, grabbing randomly at years of their life from their fourteen years together.

  Precious, she kept thinking. Precious.

  * * *

  “What’s that?” Simon said.

  Kate had just been looking at the door, counting. Well past 300, but still she didn’t beep.

  Wondering where her mother was. This one last trip seemingly taking longer than any of the others.

  Maybe that was just how it felt.

  Simon’s words in the now-dark car made her quickly snap forward.

  To see the obvious.

  Down the street, down … their block, at the end.

  Two figures.

  Two people walking.

  She thought: maybe some of the neighbors stayed. Maybe they’re coming to see what’s going on.

  But as soon as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true.

  Neighbors don’t wait until dark to come out.

  A quick look to the front door, for her mother, for salvation.

  Then, despite her own immense fear, a new thought.

  Mom. Inside.

  And they were coming.

  She didn’t answer Simon right away.

  Instead, she checked for what must have been the tenth time … the door locks.

  Buttons down.

  Then her grip tightened on the gun.

  “Kate, who are—”

  She snapped her head back to look at Simon.

  His eyes caught whatever scant light was there.

  Her look said everything.

  Back to the windshield.

  The figures. Now more of them.

  Her heart raced. She felt like she might start to cry, to whimper.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead—she leaned over and pressed down on the horn, once, again … and again.

  * * *

  The flashlight that she had stuck in her pocket made a jerky searchlight hitting the ceiling of the hallway as Christie hurried, then shining above the stairs as she took care going down.

  The reflected light only gave the slimmest of hints as to where a step ended, and the plunge to the next step began.

  And no free hand to grab the handrail.

  Awkwardly making her way down, so slowly, step after treacherous step, she questioned her decision to take so many photo albums.

  But leaving those birthdays, Christmases, big turkey dinners, days at the beach when people still went to the beach—the idea of leaving that all behind had seemed impossible.

  But now?

  Navigating this.

  Step by step.

  She couldn’t quite tell how close she was.

  Soon, she thought.

  At the front door, then out.

  To the car. To pull away.

  Back to a place where there would be people.

  And not letting her mind wander past that point. Staying as focused as she could be.

  Step …

  Then—she heard the car horn.

  * * *

  Not two, Kate saw. But four figures.

  Not moving fast, or slow, but steadily, cautiously. Walking together. There was a streetlight way down at one end, but none of the lights had come on here, near their house.

  Broken? Power out?

  Smashed?


  Kate was frozen.

  She was stone.

  All she could think to do was look straight ahead, with the figures now only three … two houses away.

  Simon vanished from her mind. She might as well be alone.

  She looked to the house, the door, wondering why her mother wasn’t racing out, getting to the car before they got here.

  * * *

  Christie moved as fast as she could.

  The horn—could be Kate trying to get her to hurry up.

  A dark pool awaited her at the bottom of the stairs, the dark end of the front hallway.

  It would be darkest here, though the flashlight now at least hit a flat ceiling, and the reflected light let her see.

  She had thought there would still be some twilight outside, enough so the open door would be clearly visible. But this black moonless night had arrived.

  Had she taken that long?

  She tested that she was truly past the staircase steps, moving one foot ahead, testing.

  Flat. She started walking toward the door.

  Again slowly. Because there were still obstacles.

  A table just past the entryway, facing the living room. She couldn’t see that. And a coatrack, a small bench to slip off shoes, a mirror for a last look.

  So—still slowly.

  But amazingly, breathing a little easier since she was only feet away.

  * * *

  Then—they were there.

  Four of them, just dark figures.

  Kate had expected them to be hunched over. Weren’t the ones they saw last night all … hunched over?

  Or was that because they had been hurt?

  Because some had been shot, and—

  And I shot one, she reminded herself. One went down and didn’t get up.

  Finally, Simon couldn’t resist anymore, keeping his voice to the faintest of whispers …

  “Kate…”

  Speaking volumes.

  The four figures stopped at the house, her house—a pause, seeming confused—then, still in a group, a pack … they moved to the open door.

  16

  Trapped

  Christie froze.

  Though the house was dark, the night a perfect black and the flashlight pointing almost uselessly at the ceiling, the scant light let her see that there was someone at the open door.

  The shape hesitated as if frozen by the darkness within.

  Christie took a step backward, then another.

  She thought of her hands, full with the photo albums.

  The gun tucked absurdly in her belt, the cool metal digging into her midsection.

  If she dropped the albums, she could get the gun.

  But would that make the figure hurry, knowing there was someone there?

  Another step backward. Another.

  The even darker kitchen behind her.

  Christie’s eyes locked, straight ahead.

  Then—she almost gasped—another figure, slightly behind, the two black shapes mere outlines, blurring together as one thing.

  But now two of them.

  They were still cautious.

  The rug muffled any squeaks.

  Soon she’d hit the wood floor of the kitchen. Would that be as equally quiet?

  The albums, the memories, the past—now so heavy, the foolishness of coming back for them so clear.

  And then another thought, as if a tremendous oversight.

  The kids.

  Outside. In the car.

  Locked up.

  Safe.

  Then a more accurate thought …

  Safe?

  Another step. She felt the slight bump where the rug ended and the kitchen floor began.

  In seconds, she’d have no choice.

  She heard a deep inhale of breath coming from the two dark shapes.

  An inhalation, as if bracing, as if getting ready.

  Christie dropped the albums to the floor.

  * * *

  Kate quickly looked once more at the door to the house, at the Can Heads gathered at the front door as some disappeared inside, as if swallowed by the dark house.

  She reached under her mother’s seat and grabbed a gun, a small one that could fit a small hand.

  She spun around to Simon, holding the gun out to him.

  “Simon!” she said.

  She kept her voice low and level, as calm as she could. But she also had to get him to move.

  It would be bad if the Can Heads heard her.

  “Take the gun.”

  A whisper.

  He shook his head.

  “Take the gun now, Simon!”

  He shook his head again, but slowly reached out, his small hand almost too tiny for even this small handgun.

  Kate looked at him through the open space between the front seats.

  “You throw this switch here.”

  She reached back and gave the safety switch a flick, just like her dad had taught her.

  “Then you can shoot. Just hold it up, point straight ahead, and slowly—”

  She heard her father’s voice in her ears.

  “—slowly pull the trigger. Look at what you want to shoot, then pull the trigger.”

  Simon shook his head.

  But he still held the gun.

  She flicked the safety back on.

  Then:

  “Lock the door after me.”

  More shakes, his eyes watery.

  “Just do it, Simon. Lock it.”

  She turned around.

  Another shape had entered the house. Only one still hovered at the opening.

  Three inside. A fourth on its way.

  Kate pulled up the lock and popped open the door.

  * * *

  The albums clattered to the floor, some tumbling onto the rug, others falling behind her, making smacking noises on the wood floor.

  Her hands in motion.

  One pulling the gun out from her jeans, the other grabbing at the flashlight.

  To aim the light first.

  To see that first face.

  Smeared. Cracked dark stains on it. The mouth open, teeth blackish, eyes wide trying to see—but now the light in this gloom blinding it.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Of course.

  The safety.

  The thing came at her as she brought her flashlight hand close and flicked the safety off with her thumb, the light swirling left and right in the room.

  Then, to fire.

  A bullet to the head, she thought.

  But so scared, so shaky, she saw the first shot blow a chunk out of the thing’s shoulder.

  And as that Can Head hesitated, the other came from behind it, then around it, heading toward Christie, who raced backward, firing wildly into the darkness.

  She bumped into the kitchen table, and the angle sent her flying forward, ricocheting toward the Can Heads.

  She stumbled, nearly falling forward onto the floor.

  Getting her balance.

  Firing.

  More blasts. Two, three.

  How many does this gun hold?

  She had put bullets in all the guns.

  Did she count, did she even have a goddamn idea?

  The first Can Head, so quickly recovered from its wound, crouched and then leaped at her.

  All of a sudden—Christie was back at the camp.

  Only now, all alone.

  Cornered in her own kitchen.

  And what was going on outside?

  God, what was going on outside?

  17

  Outside

  Kate popped open the door.

  The one Can Head left outside the house heard the sound. She watched it turn slowly to her even as she checked that Simon had pushed the lock down.

  She heard the click.

  Good boy.

  Then:

  The others were in there, going after her mother.

  She took a step toward the Can Head.

 
Just a dark shape. Like someone trick or treating, an oversized kid wearing a gory mask and knocking on a house where no one was home.

  She needed to pull the trigger, but her finger wouldn’t move.

  Then—a shot from inside.

  And that was all she needed.

  She pulled the trigger, and shot the Can Head.

  The thing near the door turned, moving down a step, another step, on level payment, coming right at her.

  Kate’s aim so off.

  She wasn’t even looking at the gun, the length of the barrel in front of her.

  Ignoring what she had been taught.

  Her eyes locked on the thing.

  Another shot, hoping she’d hear a similar blast from inside.

  Had her mom missed too? Were they starting to circle her?

  Again, the idea—her mother trapped, and then she and Simon all alone—propelled another shot.

  This time, she hit it in the chest.

  Too low to kill it, and it now started hurrying toward her.

  Only one more chance, finally looking at where the gun barrel was pointing, and firing—no slow squeeze this time, but a quick jerk back on the trigger.

  Doing her very best to aim at the head.

  After the blast, she didn’t know whether she had hit the thing at all.

  But it fell on the ground at her feet.

  The way inside clear now, she could help her mother.

  More blasts.

  Thinking: Mom’s okay. Still shooting. She’s all right.

  If I can just get in.

  Then, from what seemed so far away, she heard the horn, honking over and over, like those alarms triggered in parking lots.

  Only this was no broken car alarm.

  She turned.

  Kate made out Simon, who had crawled up into the front seat. Throwing his body into all those honks, over and over.

  Because … down the street, only houses away, actually rushing this way.

  So many of them, coming right toward Kate, toward the car, toward this trap.

  And though she held the gun out in front of her, she knew, as much as she had ever known anything, that it was hopeless.

  * * *

  Shots outside. Then a second blast.

  Kate, Christie thought.

  The gunshots from outside seemed to make the three Can Heads grow cautious, pausing a moment as they made their way deeper into the kitchen.

  Christie had moved away, and then around the table, putting the heavy wooden table between herself and the three Can Heads.

  The Can Head she had wounded lagged behind. The wound enough to slow it.

  With only seconds of protection, Christie picked another one to hit.