by Paul Curtin
She said nothing for a minute. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Well, I could have guessed that,” he said, picking up a few pieces of split wood and tossing them toward the tarp. “You could talk to me inside, you know?”
“I wanted some privacy.”
He froze for a second and then tossed another log. “Privacy.”
“I don’t know how to have this conversation, Sean, so please don’t make it harder than it has to.”
He straightened his upper body and put his hands on his hips. For a few moments, he looked toward the house, biting on his lip, and then looked to her. “You want to know if I did it.”
She tried to say something to balm the harshness of the question, but all that came out was, “Sean, I don’t—”
His nostrils emitted vapor as dark as smoke. “You think I did it?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“But you think I did it.”
“I’m not playing games with you, Sean. I don’t know.”
“Would you still love me if I said I did?”
Her tongue searched for moisture to soothe her parched throat but found none. “Did you?” she got out.
She looked into those dark eyes she had stared into so often and loved so deeply. Each second that passed was torture. She just wanted him to exclaim that he wasn’t capable of it, that her brother’s claims were all wrong. His eyes fixed on hers, like they were piercing through her.
“Did you do it?” she asked with more force.
“No.”
She examined his eyes for a few more seconds and then felt the weight from her shoulders lift, allowing them to relax. Her head dropped, her chin touching her chest. He wasn’t lying. She could always sense it, like his eyes were giving her a peek into his soul. He didn’t have his look—the one he had when he was lying.
She didn’t realize he had closed the gap between them, but soon he had his arms around her. She returned the hug, shedding tears while he stroked her back with his gloves, the swishing sound of synthetic fibers rubbing against one another filling her ears. Her body felt lighter than it had since the start of the disaster, like a storm had come and terrorized her, but had passed. Relief spread through her bones in the arms of her husband.
And that lasted a short while before the uneasiness returned. She pushed it down. Pushed it down and down and down.
Michael
Michael lay awake staring at the ceiling as shadows from the fire danced around it. He hadn’t slept that night. In fact, he hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time for two straight weeks. Every time he grew relaxed, his body felt like it was falling, and he would jolt awake with terror pulsating through him. His first thought was always about Sean.
He imagined opening his eyes and looking down the barrel of Sean’s gun or Sean standing over him with an axe in hand. Every night, though, he would wake to find Sean in his sleeping bag or gone somewhere.
Sean had the upper hand. Elise refused to speak to Michael about it anymore, saying they couldn’t know what had caused Andrew’s death. Michael knew—teenagers don’t just die. Their throats don’t seal up for the hell of it. He was murdered, but until Elise saw the situation for what it was, Sean had control.
At least he thought he did.
Michael listened to the soft breathing and occasional snores of his family around him. He turned to look at his wife, resting under multiple layers of blankets. She had been through so much—more than he could imagine. She had been healing. Until Andrew died. Now she was back to not eating. If Sean had his way, she wouldn’t have a chance at recovery. At survival. No doubt in Michael’s mind. Sean would try something against him soon. And if he died, Kelly would no doubt follow. She didn’t deserve it, not after all she had been through. Not after being violated and then losing Molly.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Michael bided his time, the clock ticking away, using the quiet moments to build his courage. Elise wouldn’t understand why Sean had to die, but it didn’t matter. Kelly and his lives were more important. Elise and Aidan’s lives were more important. Sean had gotten a taste of blood, and now he wasn’t satisfied to let it end with just the attackers. Or the people lying in the snow pile out front. Or Andrew.
He could sense the sun rising in the thick clouds from the windows to the east. No direct sunshine, just a glow that let him know dawn had arrived. He had observed Sean’s routine for a week. Daylight would come, and Sean would rise. On the days nobody else was supposed to cut wood, he got up slowly and girded himself to endure the cold outside. It would be no different today.
Sean bent at the waist and stretched his arms. Michael kept his breath smooth and soft, flashing his eyelids open and closed to get a read on the situation. He did this every minute. Like a lagging video, he watched Sean tiptoe over Michael and Kelly toward the garage. Sean threw on a few of his underlayers before grabbing the soot-covered coat and pants just outside the door. He then shut it behind him.
Michael waited on the off-chance Sean came back. A minute passed. Two. Sean was usually out there for at least thirty minutes, so time was pressing. But patience was key. If Sean became suspicious, Michael would never get another opportunity.
He listened to his heart accelerating, trying to calm his fragile nerves by counting the seconds. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Each second bringing him closer to what he was going to do. When two minutes passed, he looked at the garage door. Shut.
Sean wasn’t coming back.
He pushed himself upwards and slipped out of his sleeping bag, noting if anyone else stirred. He kept his eye on Elise and Aidan mostly. They were closest to the stairs, and he would have to get over them without anyone waking. He could circle around the dining room and go through the kitchen, but the prevalence of creaking floorboards would guarantee someone would hear him if he went that way.
Nevertheless, each step caused a faint creak, Michael wincing at the noises. He powered through the discomfort. When he reached Elise, he looked down at her, her mouth open and wafting toxic morning breath into the air. He placed his right foot over her sleeping bag and shifted his weight onto it. No reaction. He brought his feet together. Nothing happened.
Emboldened, he crept toward the staircase and started up. The stairs were the creakiest of all. So, he kept his feet on the very edges, his left next to the wall and his right near the railing. Each step emitted a muffled noise, but it was deep in the wood, and he was convinced he was the only person hearing it. After a minute, he was at the top.
He slid into Aidan’s bedroom and froze. The rifle Sean had set up, jammed into the homemade wooden vice, hung on the window. The stock, heavier than the barrel, tipped down toward the floor and the barrel pointed outside at the sky. A bar stool sat just in front, beckoning him to sit. To do the deed. Suddenly, everything felt very real, and his gut twisted. He stared at the weapon, trying to convince himself not to do it. He dismissed the thoughts and approached it without breathing.
The window allowed him to see most of the backyard, minus a small thatch of roof covering the garage entry and part of the yard. The view allowed him to see Sean’s chopping block, but the tarp where he stored the wood was behind the roof. The block was less than a fifty-yard shot. Easy enough—he had been practicing like Sean had asked. Easy if he didn’t think too hard about what he was doing.
He settled onto the seat and took a few deep breaths, pulling the rifle up and pressing the stock against his shoulder. Rogue thoughts told him to stop what he was doing—that it was wrong. It was a sin to kill. They continued to pester him, but he ignored them. He blinked and thought about his family downstairs—not just his wife, but Elise and Aidan. They wouldn’t last against Sean without Michael doing something. He had to take care of the problem even if it made him unpopular. Even if it was hard. He could answer for his actions later. But not if
Sean killed him first.
He tipped the rifle downward and angled it toward the chopping block. He leaned his dominant eye in front of the scope and paused. Nothing. No Sean. Panic seized him. For another minute, he looked around but saw nothing except the soot covered landscape and bare trees swaying in the icy wind. He shot up from his chair, his hand gripping the butt of the rifle to keep it level, and looked out the window over the vice. Nothing.
A noise caused him to twist around. He imagined Sean marching up to him, pistol in hand, blowing his head off right there in Aidan’s room. He tugged on the gun, but it was clamped in the mount, unmovable. He had nothing to defend himself with, except for the shotgun downstairs that he hadn’t brought, if it was even still loaded. Not that there was time to get it if Sean was already aware of his plan.
He looked back toward the yard, hoping Sean was only adjusting the woodpile under the tarp. The minutes dragged on. No sound from the stairs or the first floor. “Come on,” he whispered.
He looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. When he brought the gun’s sight back over the yard, a dark figure stepped into view. Sean walking toward the chopping block.
Adrenaline surged. He put his eye behind the scope and tracked the man. Pulled back on the rifle’s bolt action and leaned his head over to watch a brass round feed into the chamber. Looked down the scope. As he steadied the crosshairs over Sean’s body, Sean grabbed a chunk of wood and placed it on the trunk. He wiggled the axe free and let it rest on the ground.
Michael only had one opportunity. One shot. If he missed, Sean would be back in the garage within seconds—and probably coming to kill him after that. Michael paused, the bead holding steady between Sean’s shoulder blades, his finger wrapping against the trigger, trying to hold it still despite his trembling, pressing his palm against the side of the gun to steady it. He was about to take a man’s life, and once he pulled the trigger there was no going back. Either Sean died, or Michael did. No other way.
He lifted his head. Taking in one more deep breath and holding it, he kept the crosshairs on Sean. He felt a resistance at the trigger like a wedge had been shoved behind it. Do it, he told himself. Do it. Do it. Do—
The gun popped and kicked against his shoulder. Smoke rose from the barrel and was stolen by the wind outside. Everything blurred. He pulled his head back from the gun and took his hands off it, the weapon thudding to its resting position. His body shuddered. He laced his fingers behind his neck and sucked in air as if he couldn’t get a breath.
A thought. A realization. He didn’t know if he had hit him. Didn’t know if Sean was dead.
He jumped back into the seat and hoped his stupidity hadn’t cost him another shot. He leaned the rifle back. Sean’s body lay face down next to the stump, a spring of blood erupting from the center of his jacket. Michael pulled his head back and shook it. He returned his eye to the scope and saw Sean’s arm move. Watched him reach up toward the stump and pull himself closer to it.
The thought never crossed his mind that the first bullet might not kill him. Bullets kill. One should have been enough. More shots were required, but he hadn’t prepared himself to take them.
He steadied his hand and pulled the bolt back, and a hot shell ejected from the side of the rifle. He pushed the next round into the chamber, locked the bolt forward, and aimed down the scope again. He looped his finger against the trigger. Aimed for Sean’s head this time. Sean scarcely moved below, only making an inch of progress toward the stump before stopping and resting. Michael squeezed the trigger.
The gun popped and the wood above Sean’s head exploded into a puff of splinters. Sean flinched and looked as though he was trying to turn around. Michael discarded the shell and put another round into the chamber. He didn’t even think the third time. Just acted. He fired again, and the bullet hit Sean in the back. His limbs went limp and sank into the snow. Michael waited. Sean’s head had collapsed onto the base of the tree trunk, unmoving. He had done it. Sean was dead. Kelly was safe. Elise and Aidan were safe.
He was safe.
And he had just killed someone.
The sounds erupted from downstairs as if the whole time he had been in a bubble that just burst. He heard a woman’s voice.
Elise.
“What’s going on?” she yelled from downstairs.
He staggered off the stool and into the hallway. He threw up. Gagged once more and threw up again. His ears were still ringing with the sound of gunshots. He felt like the room was tilting, as if the world were inverting. He reminded himself that he had needed to do it. Needed to.
No choice.
With his hand running across the wall to keep his balance, he made it to the stairs. They expanded and contracted in his vision. He shook his head, gripped the railing, and descended one long step at a time, unsure if his knees would buckle and he would tumble down. He kept himself steady.
When he got to the bottom, Elise was already there. His vision had stabilized, but he struggled to keep the scant contents in his stomach from rising up his throat again. Aidan was in her arms, his fingers shoved in his ears. He didn’t blame the kid for being scared. Every gunshot since this thing started brought new terrors, new pains. This one would be the worst of them. He remembered losing his own dad, how it hollowed out a piece of him he could never quite replace. He promised himself that he would be there just like a father for the kid. He owed him that much.
“Was that you shooting?” Elise asked, frantic.
Michael walked around her, moving her to the side with his forearm.
“Michael, is Sean upstairs? Did he shoot someone else?”
He went to the shotgun, lifted it from the ground, turned it to the side, and pulled the action back. The sound cut through the room, and he looked back at his panicked sister. He turned and walked toward the garage.
“Michael,” she shouted. “Michael, what’s going on? That was gunshots. Did Sean shoot someone else?”
Sean would shoot no one again.
He stomped toward the garage and slipped his boots on, not stopping to tie them. He leaned the gun on the wall and put his coat on. Picking his weapon back up, he turned toward Elise, feeling sorry for her, thinking about how this would crush her. He couldn’t imagine losing Kelly. But some things had to be done.
He flung the door open and rushed into the chilly garage amidst the screams from Elise for him to talk to her, to say something. He ignored her. He approached the closed backdoor to the garage. The doorknob was freezing cold. He pulled it toward himself, opening the view of the backyard. Including Sean’s unmoving body.
He took one cautious step forward, raised the shotgun toward it, and then took another. Sean lay just twenty feet ahead of him. He inched across the snow that Sean had packed down and cleared. The air pricked at his face and ears. Mild gusts of wind. Everything seemed calm except the rush of blood to his head and a chill running through his body, knowing he was about to face the man he had killed.
Snow and ice crackled under his boots, one agonizing step after the next. The area around the body was speckled with blood, and the base of the trunk was stained red. The holes in Sean’s back steamed. Michael adjusted his grip on the shotgun. He needed to see. Needed to face what he did.
“Michael,” he heard Elise scream behind him, “what are you doing?”
He came upon the body and paused. The man’s limbs rested against the wood in the most unnatural of positions, one arm below his body and the other reaching out for something. Michael lowered his weapon.
“Michael,” Elise yelled from the garage.
He bent at his waist and put his hand on Sean’s shoulder, ready to turn him over.
Elise called out, “Michael, where’s Kelly?”
He froze, his hand gripped around a shoulder that should have been broader, sturdier. His eyes shifted and for the first time he noticed the blonde strands of hair
rising out of the hood of the coat, tossed up and blown about in the wind.
Sean
A mind that fails to plan, plans to fail, so the adage goes. Michael was never much of a planner. If he hadn’t been at Sean’s house the moment of the disaster, he would have been dead long ago. But luck was good to him, and so he survived the last six months because of a man who did plan. Sean always anticipated—never reacted. Men lose their cool when they’re reacting, so he decided early to be proactive.
Michael had never understood that. He was always reactive. It didn’t matter that Michael was trying to turn Elise against him, because by the time Michael realized the threat, Sean was already way ahead. She was always the glue of the family, the bridge between everyone. Whoever won the heart of Elise, won it all. Always the way it was. So Sean just needed to convince her to look past his transgressions. Until she understood.
But Michael was too busy reacting. So his plans failed.
Sean stuck the axe into the stump when he felt his phone vibrate. The attackers had taken the generator, but the solar panels and batteries kept him with just enough juice to keep his essential devices going strong. He knew why it had vibrated before he looked at the screen. He darted into the garage, set his rifle against the wall, bit his glove at the fingers, pulled it off, and then swiped at the phone. The bluetooth video feed he had set up in Aidan’s room played back to him with a new image every five seconds. He watched Michael take a seat behind the gun. The sneaky bastard. He expected less subtlety from Michael—like using the shotgun in the living room. That was Michael’s style. The rifle in Aidan’s bedroom was the method he was sure Michael wouldn’t go for. But, Sean planned. And so he didn’t fail.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket. Michael would hear him coming up the stairs, and if he could get the gun free from the mount on the window, then Sean would walk into danger. It was a slim chance, but he didn’t want to take the risk. Ideas jetted back and forth in his brain before it settled on one.
