by Andrew Dudek
Terence was on the landing between the first and second floors. His eight-year-old son had been torn open, squeezed like a grapefruit, and left on the floor to wait forever. Blake threw up, managing to turn away in time to avoid puking all over his son.
The upstairs was untouched. No sign of Jane but he didn’t feel hopeful. Really, he didn’t feel anything. His kids were dead. There was no emotion that could match that knowledge.
Giving up on the second floor, he stumbled down the stairs, passing Terence without much comprehension.
Jane was in the garage. At least most of her was. She’d been pulled apart, but her head, torso, and most of her limbs were there. Blake wasn’t sure where his wife’s left leg was, but he supposed it didn’t matter. It seemed like a minor detail.
Blake stepped over the collapsed remnants of his wife’s chest and went to the little locker in the corner of the garage. He took out his keyring and selected the tiny one, the one he hadn’t used since he first bought the safe after his dad had given its contents to him.
The revolver was still in the safe, as Blake had known it would be. He had the only key, and the lock hadn’t been busted. He tucked the weapon into the pocket of his pants, noticing as he did that they were stained with blood, and something darker that he thought might be intestines. He headed back to the house, pausing just long enough to kneel next to Jane. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, a look of despair on her face. He kissed her on the forehead and whispered, “I’ll see you soon, okay, honey?”
Not sure where else to go, he went back to the kitchen. It seemed as good a place as any to die. This way, his blood, at least, could join with his family’s.
Blake pulled the gun out of his pocket, sat down at the kitchen table, and stared at his daughter’s severed hand. He’d dropped it some point and it was mostly submerged in the blood. He was surprised to realize that he wasn’t crying. Except for those first few tears when he’d discovered Caity’s severed hand and the nausea when he stumbled on Terence, he hadn’t really felt anything. He felt like he was dead already. Maybe the tears would come later.
Not that he intended to find out.
He loaded the gun. He put it to his chin, pulled back the hammer, and put his finger on the trigger.
It was purely chance that he took one last look around the kitchen and saw the overturned chair. There had been someone in the house when he’d come home, right? He’d heard the chair creak, which meant…
Whoever had killed his family was still in the house.
Now Blake felt something. Rage boiled his blood and he stood up, knocking over the chair.
As if on cue, the pantry door burst open and a man stumbled out. Blake spun, waving the gun wildly, and he pulled the trigger. The shot ripped into the wall next to the pantry door, missing the killer completely.
Now Blake was facing the man who’d destroyed his world. He was big, tall and bulky like a linebacker. His well-tailored black suit was drenched with blood, as were his hands. But there was something wrong with him, Blake realized. His skin had a grayish pallor, like a piece of old meat. Bits of flesh were peeling off his face and hands, and his eyes, milky and unclear, didn’t blink.
“Why?” Blake cried.
The man didn’t answer.
“Why?”
Again, no response.
Deciding that it didn’t matter and that five bullets was plenty to destroy this monster and then take his own life, Blake fired. This time the bullet struck true and put a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest. He went down.
Blake nodded. If he had failed at protecting his family, at least he’d managed to avenge them. He put the gun back to his chin and was about to pull the trigger, when he stopped, staring in astonishment.
The man was climbing to his feet. Blake gaped, unsure what was happening. He’d hit him center-mass, right in the heart. It should have killed him.
Sirens were wailing in the distance. Someone must have reported the gunshots. The cops would be here soon. Maybe they could deal with this thing.
His family’s killer took a step forward and Blake retreated a step, raising the revolver again. The other man kept coming and stepped out of a shadow and into a patch of light from the kitchen ceiling fixture. Blake recognized the face.
“Johnny Two-Blades?” he said in amazement.
The other man grunted once, a guttural sound that should have been coming from a wild boar, and charged.
Blake fired again and again. He pulled the trigger until it went click. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the end.
It didn’t come.
Blake opened his eyes. The killer was on his back now, as if one of the shots had picked him up and thrown him backwards. His head was mostly gone. One or more of the shots had struck home. Blake stared at the headless body. He was a lot less frightening without a face.
Gently Blake placed the gun down on the table and walked over to stand above the dead man. It was hard to be sure now, of course, but that nasty scar on his chin was still visible. Yeah, it was Johnny Two-Blades. But that didn’t make sense.
“I don’t understand,” Blake said to the corpse. “You were already dead.”
Also by Andrew Dudek
Dave Carver series:
First Kill: A Dave Carver Novella
Thicker Than Blood
To The Dogs
Sword For Hire (Coming Soon)
About the Author
Andrew Dudek is the author of the Dave Carver series of urban fantasy novels. Currently he lives with his family in that most terrifying of places: New Jersey. Sometimes he hangs out in abandoned houses in the woods. He’s also really not as mentally disturbed as he may seem. Promise.
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