Endurance (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Eleanor offered a big-toothed smile. “He won’t mind at all. I can have breakfast ready for y’all at six-thirty.”

  “Are there other guests?” Letti asked.

  “At the moment, no. But we’re expecting more later tonight.”

  Florence couldn’t understand how this place stayed in business. “Is it the slow season?”

  Eleanor’s bug eyes became wide. “Not at all. We’re just very particular when it comes to who we invite into our little inn.”

  “You must get a lot of repeat business, then.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it. After their first night, some of the guests never want to leave.” She winked, then performed a clumsy curtsey. “Goodnight, ladies. See you soon.”

  The innkeeper waddled off. They watched her descend the stairs, giving the iron railing an affectionate pat.

  “I don’t like that woman, this inn, or the surrounding area,” Florence said.

  “But you can’t beat the price.” Letti put her key in the lock.

  “Tell me again how you found this place?”

  “They mailed me a letter, saying all of us won a free three-night stay.”

  Florence shook her head. “But how do they benefit from that? It’s not like all the other guests here are making up for it. This place is dead as a tomb.”

  Letti swung her door open. “We discussed this already. No matter how crummy the place was, we were going to stay. It’s saving us a lot of money, Florence. And you know we need the money for—”

  “For me. I know, Letti.” Florence put a hand on her daughter’s, which was resting on the doorknob. She lowered her voice. “We really need to talk about your husband…”

  Letti pulled her hand away. “One of the rules is we’re not going to talk about that.”

  “Kelly is right. If we don’t discuss it, if you don’t understand me, how will you ever forgive me?”

  “Where in our deal does it say I have to forgive you?”

  Letti pushed the door open and went into her room, slamming it in Florence’s face.

  Do I deserve that?

  I don’t know. Maybe I do. Maybe Letti has been right all along.

  But that doesn’t mean I would have done things any differently.

  Or would I have?

  Florence sighed. She’d raised a girl who was just as hard-headed as she was. Hopefully Letti wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Kelly that Florence had made with her.

  Florence padded to the Grant bedroom, opened the door, and stepped inside, feeling the space.

  It didn’t feel right.

  The lights were already on, illuminating the expected Ulysses S. Grant decorations plastered everywhere. Somehow Eleanor had managed to find President Grant curtains, and a bed spread that looked like a giant fifty dollar bill. But it wasn’t the Grant motif that gave Florence pause.

  It was the sense that she wasn’t alone in the room.

  Florence believed, and had been proven correct on dozens of occasions, that she could sense when others were nearby. It wasn’t any ESP baloney, or any supernatural trick. Many animals had some sort of proximity sense, alerting them to when prey or predators were close. Bats. Sharks. Whales and dolphins. Dogs. It was well within the scope of nature to sense other living creatures near you, without sight, sound, or touch. The same way you could sense when someone was looking at you from across a room, or sense that the door was about to open.

  Everyone had this ability, to one degree or another. Florence felt that she honed hers through a lifetime of travelling to different environments, coupled with her interest in meditation and the martial arts.

  Different places felt different, in a way beyond what the five senses could report.

  And in this room, Florence felt like she was being watched.

  But they weren’t friendly eyes watching her.

  They feel more like hunter’s eyes.

  The last time she’d had this feeling was during the war. She’d been with the third field hospital, 85th Evac, in Qui Nhon. The conditions had been primitive. Surgery in tents. Not enough equipment. Always low on medicine. After a full morning of plucking slugs out of a boy’s legs without antiseptic or rubber gloves, she’d gone to the latrine to wash the blood out from under her fingernails, and some instinct made her duck. A second later, a sniper’s bullet passed over her head, killing the nurse in line ahead of her.

  Florence had felt him.

  Just like she felt someone now.

  She took in the room, her eyes sweeping over it slowly. It was small, tidy, smelled strange like the rest of the house. There was a bed. Dresser. Bathroom. Window. Door.

  A closet door.

  Is that what I’m feeling? Someone in the closet?

  Florence moved to the door, slow and cautious. Her left hand reached for the knob. Her right hand drew back in a fist.

  She hesitated.

  What if there is someone in there?

  For all of her adult life, Florence took pride from her ability to take care of herself. No matter the situation, she could handle it.

  But now? At my age? In my condition?

  Running earlier with Kelly had been difficult, and hiding her pain had been impossible. The only reason Kelly didn’t notice was because she’d been so scared.

  Florence let her fist open. If there was someone in the closet, she wanted something with a little more heft than her fist. The lamp next to the bed would pack a bigger wallop.

  Florence picked it up. It was a standard ceramic table lamp, maybe five pounds, the cylindrical shade boasting a glued-on picture of Grant’s face.

  Then she raised the lamp up with one hand, and grabbed the knob with the other.

  Ready or not…

  She yanked the door open and stared.

  Staring back was nothing but empty clothes hangers.

  Florence blew out a deep breath and set the lamp back down.

  But she still felt like she was in someone’s crosshairs.

  Under the bed?

  Florence eyed it. Queen size. A large frame, up off the floor on casters.

  She watched it for a moment, looking for movement.

  It remained absolutely still.

  Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe my proximity sense is just one more thing that’s failing on me.

  Or maybe there is someone under there.

  Florence swallowed, then took a deep breath.

  Only one way to find out.

  She slowly crouched down, reaching for the dust ruffle on the bed.

  “Florence?”

  Florence jerked her head around, saw her daughter standing in the doorway.

  “Letti?”

  Letti folded her arms and leaned against the jamb. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

  Deb lashed out, striking Mal in the chin as his hands locked around her throat.

  “Down!” he yelled.

  He pulled her head toward him, toward his lap, his arms incredibly strong. The seatbelt gave some slack then locked up, keeping her in her seat. She made another fist, chopping at his balls, missing and whacking his thigh.

  “Someone is shooting at us!” Mal said, catching her wrists.

  She paused for a moment. Mal released her, pressing the catch on his seatbelt, kneeling down on the floor mat and then reaching for her again. Deb processed what he said.

  The tire blowout. Did someone shoot the tire?

  Deb killed the engine and the headlights. Then she hit the seatbelt button, draping herself over the armrest, the gearshift digging into her belly.

  “Are you sure?”

  His voice was low, harsh. “I used to be a cop. That was gunfire. Someone took out our wheel. Stay below the window.”

  Deb tried to press herself into the bucket seats. Mal opened the passenger door and spilled out onto the road.

  “Come out this way.” Mal beckoned for her. “He’s on your side.”

  Deb pulled herself toward him, and he grabbed her hands. She moved a few inches, then stopped
cold.

  My leg is stuck on something.

  She wiggled her pelvis, trying to turn her knee. But without being able to feel her foot, she had no way to know what it was stuck on, or how to free it.

  Mal tugged harder, wrenching her shoulders.

  “Hold on,” she ordered. “Let go a sec…”

  He complied, and she tore at her snap pants, her fingers ripping at the Velcro strap. Then she hit the release nozzle, breaking the suction between her stump and the prosthetic’s socket. She reached for Mal again, and he tugged her roughly, yanking her out of the car and into his arms. They fell, Mal onto his back, Deb landing on top, her chest crushing into his, their faces inches from each other.

  “What do we do?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know where the shot came from. I’m going to wait for him to fire again, then try to flank him.”

  Deb pulled away, trying to get off of him, and her empty pant cuff caught on something. To keep from falling over, she straddled his waist.

  “I thought you didn’t like me,” Mal said.

  “Are you always such a smart ass in life-or-death situations?”

  “Your hair smells nice.”

  “Jesus.” Deb shook her head and twisted around, freeing the cuff from the hinge of the car door. Then she rolled off of Mal and sat with her back to the fender.

  Mal eased the car door closed and sat next to her. The night was dark and silent. Even the crickets had ceased their song.

  A minute passed. Then another. Deb’s eyes slowly adjusted. The orange hunter’s moon overhead, pinned in a sky of stars, made it easier to see.

  “Think he’s still there?” Deb asked.

  “I dunno.”

  “Can’t he circle around and shoot us?”

  “Yes.”

  Deb frowned. “Weren’t we safer in the car?”

  “Probably.” Mal leaned closer. “But now I’m wondering why he didn’t shoot us instead of the tire.”

  They waited for another minute. Doubt took root in Deb’s head, then began to grow.

  “Are you sure that was a gunshot, and not just a blowout?” she asked.

  “Yes. Pretty sure.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “Mostly sure.”

  Deb squinted at him. “Have you ever had a blowout before?”

  “No. But I know a gunshot when I hear it.”

  “How do you know a tire blowing up doesn’t sound like a gunshot?”

  “I know.” Mal rubbed his chin. “I think.”

  Another minute ticked by. Deb was listening so hard she could make out the sounds of the night. The crickets returned. A frog croaked. Miles away, an owl announced itself.

  “How sure are you now?” Deb asked.

  “Sort of sure.”

  Deb sighed. Her mistrust of Mal’s intentions morphed into mistrust of his instincts. While she no longer felt he was a threat, she did think he was wrong about the gunshot. Deb began to crawl around the back of the car.

  “Hey!” Mal caught her remaining prosthetic leg. “Where are you going?”

  “To search the tire for bullet holes.”

  “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “So we just sit here all night?”

  “Good point. I’ll come with.”

  Mal crawled up alongside her, their sides touching. The temperature outside had dropped at least ten degrees since the sun went down, and his body heat felt good.

  At the rear bumper they both got down on their bellies. Mal produced his pen light and shined it on the tire, revealing a tangle of rubber strips and twisted steel belted radials.

  “Do you see a bullet hole?” Deb asked.

  “I can’t tell.”

  “So it could have been just a regular blowout?”

  “I guess that’s a possibility.”

  Great.

  “So, what now?” Deb asked, her irritation coming through.

  Mal dug out his cell phone. “No bars. Want to try your phone?”

  Deb got onto her knees, then used the bumper to lift herself up onto one leg.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Without answering, she hopped up to the driver’s side door, opened it up, and hit the trunk release. As she expected, no one took a shot at her. She hopped back, feeling smug, foolish, and irritated all at once. Her side was still warm where Mal had lain next to her.

  “You putting on the spare?” Mal asked. He was also standing up, scanning the trees.

  “It’s a Corvette. There is no spare.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Each tire has unique treads. They aren’t interchangeable. So no spares.”

  Deb reached into the trunk for her Cheetah prosthetics. They were easier to walk in than her cosmetic legs. Especially if they were going into the woods to look for the Inn.

  She could guess how hard it would be to find a tow truck in this area at this time of night. That was if her cell phone even worked. Reception out here was spotty at best.

  “Look, Deb, maybe I was wrong. About the gun thing.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sorry if I freaked you out.”

  “Apology not accepted.”

  “Okay, how can I make it up to you?”

  “You can carry my suitcase.”

  She adjusted the silicone end pad in the gel sheath on her stump, then fit it into the custom cup of the running prosthetic. A few presses of the vacuum button and it was form-fitted and tight. Then she took off her cosmetic leg and repeated the process. With her Cheetahs on, walking was much easier. She waited for Mal to stare at them. How could he help it? She looked like the Greek god Pan, prancing around on his goat legs. All she needed were horns and a lute.

  But Mal was staring at her chest again.

  “See anything you like?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Sorry. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  He shrugged. “I know it isn’t professional, me being a reporter. But you’re an attractive woman, and I like you.”

  Deb didn’t appreciate how that made her feel. “You’re right. That’s not professional.”

  “You think I’m a doofus, don’t you?”

  “A doofus? How old are we, twelve?”

  Mal grabbed their luggage. Deb went to close the trunk, but paused. She didn’t want to leave her prosthetics. If the car were towed, she wouldn’t be able to compete in Iron Woman without them. So she shoved them all in a duffle bag, then went into the car and grabbed her cosmetic leg, which was caught on the wire pulley system that activated the brake pedal. After putting on the hazard blinkers and locking the door, she was ready to go.

  “Let me have the light. I need it to see where I step.”

  Mal handed it over. They walked off the highway and onto the dirt. Deb flashed the beam at the RUSHMORE INN sign, with its arrow pointing ahead.

  I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

  But she knew they had to try it out, or else spend an uncomfortable night in the Vette and face exactly the same problem in the morning. That was out of the question. If Deb missed the check-in, she missed the race.

  “So what exactly is it about me that you don’t like?” Mal asked.

  “Insecure much?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not insecure at all. But people usually like me.”

  Mal shined the light on the forest floor, side-stepping a dead branch. The trail was easy to follow, even though it couldn’t be called a road.

  “Cockiness isn’t attractive,” she said.

  “Am I cocky? I thought I was just confident. Maybe not as confident as you…”

  Deb stopped and hit him with the light. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m just surprised you’re letting me carry your suitcase.”