“So accept it.”
Clarice swung her body quickly around itself and the fire poker stem hit Jason with a beautiful blow, the crack from the clash echoing in the silent house as wood breaking apart. Jason dropped onto the floor, groaning and yelling in pain, his hands on his face and Clarice walked towards him, the poker still in hand, trying to find the gun on the floor under no good lights.
That was definitively the final stage of theirs.
VI
Jason used his hands as support, like a wounded dog, while his face dripped blood on the floorboard. Now he not only showed a terrible laceration in his face, but his whole countenance seemed distorted by the injury and the hatred that burned inside. Clarice was on her feet, poker in hands, puzzled by Jason’s imagery, trying to pull himself together and get up. The biggest wound, she knew, was his ego’s. The pain of being subdued by a woman.
“You…” He huffed, which seemed a painful laughter. “You won’t leave this house alive.”
“Was that what you told Michelle that night?”
She heavily brought the bar down to his backs, forcing him to the floor again.
“Before killing her in cold blood, before abandoning her like a Jane Doe? Like a roadkill?”
Jason crawled across the wooden floor, his hands slipping due to the blood, his breath failed due to the attack.
Before Clarice could even notice, Jason tossed something at her. On trying to protect herself, she dropped the fire poker, unable to see Jason’s improvised projectile until she heard a shattering sound. Perhaps a vase of the room, something she hadn’t paid attention to, let alone in such candle enlightened darkness.
Unable to find the poker, Clarice resumed her original search. She had to find the gun, just then she would be in charge of the situation and could go away as planned. She just needed to find it. Even in darkness, even under the dim light brought by the fireplace and the candles, she scavenged, seeking for anything sparkly.
Clarice shoved away both the sofa and the armchair, trying to hear Jason’s noises, who seemed about to get up, or at least he tried to do so. His steps, heavy, announced his position, while she tried to find… it could be near the fireplace, it could be near him, it could have bounced and slid towards the main door. She couldn’t find it.
When Clarice ran to the stairs, near the kitchen, suspicious of having found her gun, she heard an overly loud moan of Jason’s, as if he was on a tough struggle. By turning around, she saw him lifting the torture chair, throwing it against Clarice.
The strength wasn’t enough, the effort only caused a brief thunder noise and further damage to the furniture. Clarice keep on searching, now on the floor, trying to locate the pistol. Jason was coming, he would soon be all over her, with his disgusting body, his dirty blood, his violent hands.
No, the gun wasn’t there. She got herself ready to run, when she heard the wood resonate, indicating Jason’s presence and his being right behind her.
Jason grabbed her by the shoulders, in a not so steady pressure, and Clarice threw herself against him, knocking Jason down and falling over the man, astounding him. That was her cue. When she tried to put herself up again, he locked his forearm around her jaw, trying to squeeze her neck, but Clarice was on top now and it simply took her an elbow against his stomach and a punch to his testicles for him to let her go, shouting obscenities and names by which she preferred not to be called.
Clarice came up, after some trouble, but the endeavor gave her a glimpse of the gun. It was right under the armchair, near the fireplace. It had probably fallen there when she attacked Jason, but her attempts on finding it only concealed it more. Between the stumbles, staggers and the unseen gaps on the floor, Clarice snaked to the armchair and shove her hand under the piece of furniture, taking the gun from there.
Armed by the professional dexterity she had acquired, she removed the empty clip from the gun and neglectfully trashed it away, removing the full one from the shaft of her knee-high boot, boots that once had belonged to Michelle. She moved up, while reloading the gun, and just when she put herself straight up, with the gun ready to be cocked and shot, a fast cutting buzz passed by her head, not hitting her for half an inch.
The arrow, in a declined curve, sank into the armchair, still vibrating after the speed, force and impact. Clarice turned on the jump, holding the gun ahead with arms straightened forward, when she saw Marco, dripping blood from his face, arms, hardly staying up, almost dying down. He was at the bottom of the stairs and the basement door was wide opened, Marco holding the crossbow in hands, already nocked and ready to shoot.
Marco raised the crossbow, his disfigured face showing no recognizable features or expressions, but Clarice could swear he whispered “bitch” before shooting. And when Marco shot, scared by the movement of both the arrow and the crossbow, Clarice shot too.
The second arrow disappeared into darkness, but Clarice heard a dry thud, as if the arrow had met the reinforced glass that composed the house’s façade.
Her projectile, though, hadn’t gotten lost and Marco, with his hands a little below his chest, let his body drop, coughing, trying to breath, spitting blood through his lips. The stomach probably punctured, gushing blood, killing him not that softly.
Clarice barely had time to be touched or rejoice, Jason jumped at her like a quarterback, his shoulders lifted and arms stretched, throwing her to the floor with all his strength. The gun was set free once more when Clarice felt her head hit some piece of furniture and, in the struggle to get away from Jason, another object was attacked – the glass coffee table in the middle of the room, whose glass top slid and fell to the floor, reverberating without breaking, bringing all it had on its surface along, including the candleholder that laid on the fur rug.
Clarice stood up, ignoring the pungent smell of burning fur that burned with the candle flames, ignoring a much bigger fire that could soon start while she tried to recover her full conscience and balance. She no longer had the gun nor time to look for it. Jason, fallen beside her, also tried to come up in a way even worse than hers, way worse.
Looking at Marco, who was already about to take his last breath, agonizing in his last few seconds on Earth, she reminded herself he still had the crossbow. She gathered all her force, ignoring Jason’s yells at the floor, and took the arrow from the armchair, running towards Marco. She had what she needed right there. It wasn’t as agile as a firearm, but it would help.
She didn’t stop to help or close Marco’s eyes and say it would all be fine. She took the crossbow and climbed up the stairs, disappearing into the darkness of the upper and not enlightened floor.
“You die here today, Clarice!” She heard Jason shout, his voice muffled by the altitude and the door she closed behind herself.
She was in the bathroom, the same bathroom she had faked the suicide, knowing exactly what to do. Now she only needed to survive, even if it meant killing Jason too, with the purest of the intentions. The smell of soap came unannounced, while she tried to place the crossbow on the floor as Jason had taught her. She should press her foot onto the stirrup and pull the string… with the help of one of those metallic cords Jason had taught her to use.
Clarice held the resistant string with her fingers and tried to pull it up, bringing her shoulders and the whole body up in the movement, but the string didn’t cave nor did it curve the way it was supposed to do so that she could nock the weapon. On the attempt, the string suddenly escaped her fingers and the abrupt reaction thrusted Clarice back again, her fingers burning even when protected by the gloves.
She didn’t have much time. Downstairs, Jason was ready to come up, perhaps even bringing her gun.
She heard his footsteps.
Clarice put herself upwards and stuck her foot into the stirrup again, trying to pull the string once more, holding the carbon arrow between her teeth. Her struggle on trying to pull it to the nocked position was so hard she felt her teeth waver, pressing the arrow in between. Before she could
give it up a second time, the string escaped again, once more hurting her fingers.
Clarice dropped the crossbow in anger and kicked it, enraged. She felt her face burn just like her fingers, while her heart pumped fast, Jason was coming.
A boom in the hallway. Maybe Jason kicking doors open, trying to scavenge and seek for her.
“Come out, come out, Clarice.” His muffled voice yelled and she held the doorknob, positioning herself against it.
There was no cocked crossbow, she only had an arrow that would do nothing special.
There was also a light scent in the air coming from the hallway, something smoky, maybe wood, maybe that rug that had been burned.
And she didn’t hear Jason anymore. Clarice held on and moved down, casing the arrow in the shaft of her boot and now grabbing the crossbow as a bat. It may not shoot, but it would attack and, in such darkness, Jason would need proximity to see her.
She waited. She heard nothing anymore, no more creaks besides the noises coming from downstairs.
Carefully, she put herself behind the wall and turned the knob, allowing the door to open slowly and calmly, all by itself.
No attacks, no surprises.
Outside, just the pitch hallway, with all of its doors which led to rooms and other places, nobody else. Maybe a ghost.
Clarice opened the door a little more and let it reveal to her the whole corridor, completely opened, the bathroom ceasing to be her safe place. With the crossbow standing in her hands, almost touching her face, Clarice jumped outside.
And Jason’s eyes sparkled in the darkness.
Her body acted on instinct and she wielded the crossbow against him, hitting either his shoulder or neck. She heard a tired moaning, followed by a grunt of shut lips, but she had no time to think, only to run.
By reaching the stairs, Clarice halted for a second, watching the warm, orange glow that came from downstairs. Smoke started spreading on the ground floor, coming up the stairs, too, while the room started to be devoured by flames. In a usual scenario, that would take longer to happen. Being in a chalet basically adorned by fabric, fur and wood carefully treated and polished with flammable material, the task wouldn’t take longer than a matter of minutes.
She knew, though, that the flames would soon give away the emergency state. It would only take one smoke sign in the mountains for the area to me flooded by red and blue police sirens.
She heard a shot, but didn’t what Jason had hit this time, for before he could come up, she had already started climbing down the steps, trying to picture the best escaping route. By instinct, she felt her body, checking if the phone was still in her. It was. As she reached the last step, Clarice felt the click of the gun against her nape.
Jason would ask her to drop the crossbow, he’d ask her to turn around, he’d shoot. Clarice thought about attacking him again and turned around. As she did, they heard an explosion. The glass top finally gave up to the heat and blew away, shards bursting and flying everywhere. The sudden sound made Jason recoil and withdraw, seeking his own protection. Clarice, used to the violence and being hit by whatever available, saw in it an opportunity and ran.
The room was covered by flames. The fireplace wall burned fiercely, the fingers of fire swallowing the layers of oils and chemicals that once existed in there and that, in a not long past, had given a delicious smell to the house. The carpet was burning in bright shades of ember, burning and crackling, hissing and letting off a dark smoke that gathered under the high ceiling of the room. Even the armchair was already in flames, just like Marco’s body, at the bottom of the stairs.
Clarice ran to the kitchen and jumped onto the counter, landing on the other side and pressing herself against the shelves. She had to prepare, to defend herself.
She heard Jason shout once, twice, three times. And then he called for his son. Clarice dropped the crossbow and stood up, watching the scene at distance.
Jason had removed his own coat and tried to set off the flames that came towards his son. Marco, about to let go off his last breath, tried to raise one hand for help, while the other was pressed against his stomach, perforated, which still bleed the little blood he had at that point. His lips were pale, both men already covered by the soot that already spread and flew away, just like the dark smoke that now ran towards the kitchen.
Clarice felt her eyes itch and her throat burn. She had to go.
She stuck her foot into the stirrup again and tried to pull the string, unsuccessful. She needed something to help, she had to get away. She watched the room again, where Jason had already dropped the coat and tried to remove Marco from the fire. In a unthought reaction, he tried to set the burning coat away and the sleeves of his flannel shirt lit up as well, burning his hands and arms. Jason shouted in desperation, trying to get away from the flames, while Clarice opened drawers in the search of something that could aid. Knives, forks, cups, dishcloths.
Clarice removed, then, from one of the drawers, a beautiful silver knife with a wide and short blade Jason probably had used for peeling fruits or something. It was resistant and, at the same time, easy to carry. She locked the knife between her belt and the pants and just then she ran for the other drawer, removing a small cloth from there, while watching Jason from above her shoulder.
Marco was partially eaten by the flames and Clarice doubted him to still be alive. He didn’t respond anymore, he had already lost almost all of his blood and his eyes, petrified, stared at nothingness. Jason dragged him away from the stairs and tried to bring him back, trying to put the flames out. Jason’s hands also looked black, charred, covered by soot. Clarice had no time left.
She put the cloth around the string and, rolling it around her hands, she firmed the crossbow and pulled it up. This time, although she had put the same effort and struggle on it, she managed to latch the string and nock the weapon. Clarice dropped the cloth and removed the arrow from the shaft of her boot, putting it on the flight groove just the way Jason had showed her how to do.
Still down and carefully, she put the crossbow on the counter and lifted her head, ready to shoot at Jason.
Clarice raised her head…
And Jason’s hand grabbed her by the hair, pulling her from the other side of the counter, while she tried to hold on to the dark marble borders, without moving. Jason pulled harder and Clarice yelled, grasping his hands, which relieved her weight and made it easier for Jason, who dragged her and tossed her to the kitchen floor, on the other side.
Jason’s hands were severely injured, burned, with red bloodied blisters, his fingers as black as coal and so were his arms, burned, scorched. The anger in his eyes burned brighter than the whole living room.
Clarice coughed, trying to recapture the air she had lost with the fall, while Jason took the gun out of his pocket. He was going to shoot and he wouldn’t shoot only once. He would shoot two, three, for times, he would empty the clip just to make sure she was totally dead. And then he would let her to burn in order not to make the same mistake he had done with Michelle.
Clarice brought herself up, spinning on the floor, and grabbed one of the stools, thrusting it against Jason’s legs, who didn’t fall, but lost his balance for a few seconds. It was all she needed. She completely came up, still holding the stool, a simple piece with long wooden legs and a round upholstered seat, and she swirled it in the air, hitting Jason again, not sure where.
He fell, the gun still locked between his fingers, but Clarice didn’t care. She hit him again, trying to aim his face, but Jason used his forearm as a shield, although still suffering from the pain of the attack.
Clarice abandoned the stool. The flames were coming into the kitchen already and the smoke was turning the place inhospitable to breath in. She could barely keep her eyes open and she felt choking, both by the sudden blow, but also by the lack of clean oxygen. The soot was spreading, invading her nostrils, covering her face. She had only time to grab the loaded crossbow and run before Jason stood up again.
Clarice now had only one way out and that way was the door that no longer existed, door which gave her access to the suspended deck from where she could reach the garden and run to the woods.
She threw herself into the freezing dawn and felt the cold air cut her airways. At least she could breathe again. With crossbow in hands, she moved forward on the wooden deck, covered by snow, searching for her route again. She snaked around Jason’s small tables and reached the deck’s limit, where a small set of stairs stretched itself to the lower backyard ground, invisible under so many layers of ice. She was protected, although her hair still danced around her head as if they were also in flames themselves.
Clarice cleaned her face, removing the rebel strands, and rushed down the stairs.
And Jason shot. He didn’t hit her, but she heard the boom.
Despite not being hit, the jump made her fall, sinking into some inches of snow under her body, swearing she had been hit on the shoulder. Clarice kneeled on the garden, ignoring the snow and touched her arm, confirming it to be intact.
She had to run now, even when she was not at the top of her energies, even amidst so much snow, which seemed to cover the entire region as an endless thick and treacherous sheet. Jason was coming for her and if she weren’t smart enough to make him her prey, she would become his.
On the positive side, she thought, the snow wasn’t falling anymore ever since a few hours ago, she would just have to deal with the negative temperature and the snow on the ground, which could be hiding gaps, traps, even death. She was dressed for it, she had prepared herself to such outcome. She was still winning.
Before getting into the woods, Clarice cast a glance to the distant horizon line and another one backwards, watching the chalet enlightened in the middle of the absolute darkness of the mounts. Behind it, the dark skies didn’t show anything besides seeming to reflect the flames that came from the house. That smoke would tell her off, that smoke, that unplanned fire would destroy all her plans.
The Woman Hidden Page 42
