by Jack Kilborn
The grenade launcher had a sling, and Stubin wrapped it around his shoulder and continued hunting. He found two MRE rations, considered leaving them, but realized he didn’t know how long he’d be in the woods. They went into his jacket, along with some compact binoculars with one cracked lens. The binocs also had a compass on the top, and amazingly it still worked.
Stubin found north, tried to picture the map of the area he’d seen briefly while riding in the chopper, and deduced he was east of town. He whistled again for Mathison, got no response, and then headed west, toward Safe Haven.
The instant Taylor looked up, Jessie Lee scrambled forward. Her knees banged into the joists, and the mousetrap still pinched her fingers, but she moved as fast as possible while still maintaining her balance. After getting two body lengths away from where she’d been, Jessie Lee held her breath and tried to listen, straining to hear anything other than the hammering of her heart.
She heard nothing.
He won’t shoot me, she thought. Too loud. He wouldn’t want to arouse the suspicions of the mob in the gym. Besides, Taylor hadn’t been holding a gun. He did have a stun gun, and Jessie Lee was a cornered target. She had to get out of there, fast.
Noise, directly beneath her. The unmistakable clang of a metal locker opening.
She gingerly pulled off the mousetrap and tried to move forward, but there wasn’t anyplace further to go—she hit the wall. Turning around while balancing on one-inch sections of board would take more time than she had. She could hear Taylor climbing up the locker, and any second he’d be pushing up a ceiling tile, reaching out with the stun gun.
Jessie Lee chose to move backward. She couldn’t see behind her in the dark, but the joists were spaced evenly apart and she could sense where they were. Fast as she dared she began to crab backward, heading for the girls’ locker room.
Ahead of her light surged in from where a ceiling tile used to be. She squinted at Taylor, less than three feet away, poking his head through. Could he see her in the dark?
Apparently he could. The killer stared directly at her and offered one of his cold smiles.
“I like the feisty ones. Maura Talbott was feisty. She was my sixth girl, in Madison. I tied her down with baling wire and bit off all of her fingers.”
Jessie Lee remembered the TV special, which showed the autopsy photos after the obligatory parental discretion advised warning. The victim’s fingers weren’t all he’d chewed off.
She moved even faster, feet missing the boards and sometimes slipping between them and hitting ceiling tile. She banged her elbow—the same one—and then the thick gold Omega anklet that Erwin bought her became caught on something. One of the wires, holding up the tiles. She tried to pull free, without success. It held her like a claw.
Ahead of her, Taylor crawled up onto the joists. He still had the smile on, and he pressed the button on the stun gun to show her what was in store. A burst of white light crackled across the two probes.
Jessie Lee pushed with her free foot. No good. She crawled back, bending the knee of her trapped leg as she got closer, and then her handhold slipped and her butt fell directly between two boards, breaking through the ceiling tile. Her upper body followed.
She cried out, hands grasping at the air, and for a crazy moment Jessie Lee was free falling to the floor of the boys’ locker room, headfirst. But her leg stayed stuck. So instead of falling through, she hung there by her knees, upside down like a child on a jungle gym.
She swung back and forth, the bright lights in the room and the blood rushing to her head adding to her disorientation. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, for things to come back into focus. When they did, she freaked out.
Bodies. Dead bodies. Stacked ten high, like cordwood, in the showers directly beneath her. At least fifty people. Neighbors. Friends. Jesus—her cousin Rachel. Seamus Dailey. Mary Porter. John Kramer. Sarah Richardson, the head teller from the town bank.
A sob tore loose from Jessie Lee’s throat. On top of the pile, close enough to reach out and touch, was her best friend and maid of honor, Mandy Sprinkle.
Blood coated every inch of the showers like paint, so thick Jessie Lee could taste copper. It brought back a long-ago trip to a turkey-rendering plant, to placate a boyfriend who worked there. The blood inside the slaughterhouse flowed knee deep—a swirling river filled with bits of tissue and swarming with flies.
Creaking, above. Taylor.
Jessie Lee tried to pull herself up, to free her leg, but she couldn’t get any handholds through the hole she made. She reached ahead of her, sticking her fingers around a square of ceiling tile, and it tore away without supporting her weight.
She lifted her other leg—the one that wasn’t caught—but that put too much weight on her trapped knee, causing instant pain.
The creaking got closer and all she could do was hang there, like a piñata waiting for the stick. She tried to scream, but her breath came in shallow pants and all she managed were squeaks.
Control yourself, she thought. Stop panicking. If you scream, you can save yourself. Someone in the gym will come and investigate. Just fill your lungs with air.
She tried. She tried harder than anything she’d ever attempted in her twenty-eight years of life. But every time she sucked in a bit of air she saw someone else in the mound of death, someone else she recognized, and the oxygen whooshed out of her.
If she couldn’t pull herself up, and couldn’t scream, there was one more possibility for escape.
Not wanting to, but not having any choice, Jessie Lee reached out for her best friend, Mandy, atop the pile. She didn’t look at her friend’s face, frozen in wild-eyed terror. She didn’t look at her throat, which had a cut so deep you could see inside of it. Jessie Lee concentrated on Mandy’s hand. The same hand she held when they spied on the boys taking showers so long ago, giggling madly.
Mandy’s fingers splayed out, as if expecting to be given something. Jessie Lee stretched, but she was inches away from touching them. She tried to swing by her knees, remembering the school-yard trick known as the penny drop. The first pass, she barely touched Mandy’s finger. The second time, she grasped her hand but couldn’t hold on.
Third time was the charm. Jessie Lee entangled her fingers in Mandy’s, then she brought her other hand around and locked on to her friend’s wrist.
Dear God, she’s still warm.
Jessie Lee reflexively let go, panicked to the point of hysterics. This couldn’t be happening. Less than an hour ago she’d been planning her wedding, thinking about the extra things she could do with the lottery money. And now she hung upside down over a stack of her dead friends and neighbors while a psycho tried to kill her.
She made fists and pounded her thighs several times, trying to focus, trying to force courage. Then she began to rock back and forth again. This time when she caught Mandy’s hand she held on and pulled. She pulled for all she was worth.
But instead of freeing herself, all Jessie Lee did was drag Mandy off of her roost. Her friend slid across the corpse beneath her and then headed face-first down the pile. Jessie Lee tried to hold on, but the strain on her knees became too great, and then Mandy tumbled to the floor. She landed in the pool of blood, arms and legs akimbo, her eyes staring up at Jessie Lee accusingly.
Jessie Lee again tried to scream, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
Not even when Taylor began to bite her knee.
Fran kicked Erwin in the stomach and he released her arm, which allowed her to also twist away from Josh and run back to the blazing house.
The second floor had collapsed onto the first, blockading the doorway with smoking debris. But Duncan was still alive. She felt it. All she had to do was get to him.
Fran ran through grass wet with sewage, around the side of the house, eyes scanning for window wells. She found one and hurried over. It had been filled in with concrete.
Damn Mr. Teller, the paranoid lunatic. Toward the end of his life he’d lapsed into
dementia, thinking people were out to get him. Mrs. Teller had mentioned the bomb shelter he’d built in the basement, but Fran had never asked for a tour. She should have. What if there wasn’t any other way in?
She ran to the back of the house, saw another concrete plug, and swore. Maybe they could dig, break through the walls …
There! A few feet away from the filled-in window well. A metal grating, about half the size of a manhole cover, set into the foundation at ground level. Smoke billowed out. Fran slid across the grass on her knees and banged on it. The square duct was covered with wire mesh, bolted to the concrete.
“DUNCAN! DUNCAN, CAN YOU HEAR ME!”
Josh came up next to her, then Erwin.
“Must be the ventilation for the shelter,” Josh said. “Stand back.”
He carried the sledgehammer Fran had dropped. Fran leaned away, and Josh made easy work of the grating with two big swings. Fran pried it away, then stuck her head into the opening.
“DUNCAN!”
Smoke poked at her eyes, but the heat was bearable. She could crawl down. Fran shoved one arm in, alongside her head. But she couldn’t get her second shoulder through no matter how hard she pushed. The hole just wasn’t big enough.
“Mom!” Duncan called, faint but frantic.
“Duncan!” Fran stretched, splaying out her fingers as if she could touch his voice.
“Mom! There’s something wrong with Mrs. Teller!”
The smoke, Fran thought. Oh, God, no, the smoke.
Then came the thundering BOOM of a gunshot.
Duncan jumped to the side just before Mrs. Teller fired the shotgun at him. It was the loudest noise Duncan had ever heard in his whole life, making his ears hum. The pellets hit the concrete floor, and one of them bounced off and hit Duncan in his leg. It stung, like someone had slapped him hard. He looked and saw some blood on his calf.
Then Duncan heard the sound of another shell being racked. Mrs. Teller walked through the smoke, looking very calm except for her eyes, where black soot clung to the tears on her face. She pointed the gun at his head.
“Mrs. Teller! No!”
“I’m so, so sorry, Duncan. It’s time.”
Duncan’s voice cracked. “Time for what?”
“Time for us to go to heaven, Duncan. It will be okay. I promise. It won’t hurt at all. And we’ll see Mr. Teller there, and we’ll all bake cookies.”
Duncan’s hand darted up and knocked the gun to the side, then he crawled away from her as fast as he could, hiding in the smoke.
The shotgun BOOMED.
“I won’t let us burn, Duncan.”
Duncan couldn’t see her through the smoke, and her voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. He hugged his knees and tried to make himself smaller. Why were all of these bad things happening? Where were Mom and Josh?
“Please, Duncan,” Mrs. Teller said. “It’s better this way.”
The shotgun fired, to his left. A large box of toilet paper fell off the shelf and onto the floor, spilling its contents. Woof continued to bark, then growled deep.
“Woof, come!” Duncan yelled, as scared for Woof as he was for himself.
His dog kept snarling. It was too smoky to see what was going on. Duncan thought he heard Mom calling him again, but he couldn’t tell. The flames were crackling really loud, and Woof was barking at the fire like it was the neighbor’s cat. Three of the four shelves were burning, and the smoke was so bad that every breath hurt.
Then the shotgun BOOMED again, and Woof was silent.
Duncan’s heart ached, 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.
That man, Bernie, had scared Duncan. But he was even more scared now, of Mrs. Teller. She was supposed to be looking after him. How could she do this? Duncan buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking, wishing none of this was happening, wishing it was a dream.
Then Woof barked.
He’s alive!
“Woof!” he called. “Woof, come!”
Woof whimpered. Duncan had heard him whimper only once before, when he got a rabies shot at the vet.
“Woof?”
“I’ve got your dog, Duncan.”
Woof whined again. What was she doing to him? He couldn’t see.
“Please, Mrs. Teller. Josh and Mom are going to save us.”
Mrs. Teller coughed. “I know they are. Come over to me and your doggie. We’ll all wait for them together.”
Duncan wanted to believe her. He wanted so bad to believe her. Mrs. Teller never lied to him before.
But then she never tried to shoot him before, either.
“Come over here, Duncan. Your little doggie wants you.”
Another cry from Woof.
“Give me the gun.” Duncan’s voice was tiny, almost a whisper.
“Come here, Duncan. Hurry.”
“First you have to give me the gun,” he said, louder.
“I’ve been watching you for years, Duncan. I’m telling you the truth. I want what’s best for you. For all of us. I’m your babysitter. And I’m an adult. You need to listen to adults, Duncan. Isn’t that what your mother told you?”
Mom did tell him that, all the time. And Duncan ached to hold his dog. He began to crawl toward Mrs. Tel-ler’s voice. But the pain in his leg reminded him that he shouldn’t believe her.
“Let Woof go, and give me the gun, and I’ll come over.”
“Duncan—”
“Let Woof go!” Duncan was almost yelling now. He’d never yelled at an adult before. It felt strange, wrong, but he needed her to know how serious he was. “And let me have the gun, Mrs. Teller!”
“You little brat!”
His dog snarled, and Mrs. Teller cried out. Then—so fast it startled him—hot breath bathed Duncan’s face. He recoiled, surprised, and Woof licked his cheeks and nuzzled his neck. Duncan hugged the beagle to his chest, wiping his runny nose in Woof’s fur. The beagle looked fine—he wasn’t hurt at all.
“Duncan …”
Mrs. Teller’s voice made Duncan tremble. He crawled backward, behind the fallen box.
“Duncan … your dog bit me … I need your help …”
Duncan stayed put. The smoke hung low in the air, thick as storm clouds, and it was getting hard to breathe without coughing.
“I’m bleeding pretty bad, Duncan … I need … the first-aid kit …”
Woof growled at Mrs. Teller. Duncan wrapped a hand in his collar, holding him back. He wanted to shrink and disappear. Why wasn’t Mom here yet?
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Duncan … I need your help … please, boy … the first-aid kit …”
Duncan remembered all the times Mrs. Teller watched him. The cookies they baked together. The twenty dollars she gave him every year for his birthday. She was a nice old lady. She shouldn’t die.
But what if she was lying? She was talking slow, but she might be faking. What if she just wanted him to come close so she could shoot him and Woof?
“The … first aid … it’s near the box of canned peas …”
Duncan found himself looking around for it, even though he didn’t want to, even though it might be a bad idea. It wasn’t on the shelf behind him, and that was the only shelf he could see.
“Help me … Duncan … be a good boy …”
Could he trust her? Should he trust her?
“Duncan … please …”
“Woof,” Duncan whispered to his dog, “stay.”
And then he crawled off to look for the first-aid kit.
Fran struck the concrete foundation with the sledgehammer, the wooden handle stinging her palms like she’d pressed them next to a belt sander. She struck again. And again. And again. Chips of stone flaked away, the ten-pound head digging divots into the cement.
“Fran, we have to find another way.”
She ignored Josh, ignored a
ll the pain, ignored everything except the task at hand. Swing. Smash. Swing. Smash. If she had to pound a hole all the way to hell to get her son, she would.
Josh put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and raised the sledge again. He tried to wrestle it from her, but she refused to let go.
“It’s a steel vent.” His eyes were glassy but firm. “Even if you break up the foundation around it, we can’t make the vent wider.”
“You heard Duncan! You heard that gunshot! That crazy old woman is trying to kill him!”
“We need to find a rope or something, pull him up. But trying to dig through ten feet of dirt, rock, and rebar is just wasting our time.”
Fran nodded quickly, letting Josh take the hammer. A rope. If they had a rope, they could snake it down the vent, Duncan could tie it around his waist …
Another gunshot echoed out through the grating.
Fran dropped to her knees and screamed her son’s name.
Duncan found the first-aid kit next to the peas, right where Mrs. Teller said it would be. It was a large white box, made out of metal, with buckle clasps on the front and a big red cross painted on the lid. He clutched it to his chest, unsure of what to do next.
“Duncan … please help me … the blood …”
“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.
