by Kate Morris
“Hurry,” he encouraged and released her hand to jam his looted bottles of pills into his jacket pockets. Jane took a second to do the same. She placed her grandmother’s pill bottle in her jeans, though. She couldn’t afford to lose that one.
“There’s an exit,” he exclaimed, pointing to a glowing red sign.
Jane kept up with him, and a second later, they were blasting out into broad daylight, leaving the pharmacy of mayhem and darkness behind. They literally ran for the Range Rover, which he’d thankfully parked a block away, and got in.
Roman didn’t waste time talking, he whipped the car in a U-turn and sped away. Someone in a white truck nearly hit them, and he swerved to get them away from it.
“Idiot,” he swore under his breath. “You okay?”
She nodded shakily and turned to look out the rear, tinted window. She could just make out the pharmacy fading into the distance. It was definitely on fire, which explained the smoke she’d seen. She could also see dead police officers on the ground and a cop car on fire.
“What the heck is wrong with people?” she whispered.
“They’re panicking,” he said.
She shook her head with confusion as they passed a grocery store that she and her grandmother used to shop at. It was small, not one of the big chain stores. The front windows were all broken, and the red brick façade was spray-painted with strange graphics and words. It was mostly vulgar, so she looked away.
“Here, drink this,” he said and offered her a bottle of Gatorade.
“Thanks,” she replied and drank a few swallows. She took a deep breath and tried to go to that place she used to go when her mother was having another one of her mondo fight matches with her boyfriend of the moment, and she would try to hide in a closet and put her fingers in her ears to block out the awful noises. Jane wished she had access to a closet right now.
“We’re okay,” Roman said, picking up on her anxiety and rubbing her shoulder gently but firmly. “We’re okay, Jane. We’re safe now.”
“But I didn’t get an inhaler for Connor,” she told him with worry for his little brother. “What are we gonna do?”
“I’ve got some ideas. He’s got about twelve puffs left on his last one. Don’t worry.”
“What if…?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
He looked over and smiled at her, and Jane could tell he was trying to convince her. She returned it with a half-hearted attempt of a smile of her own. She couldn’t help the guilty feelings from washing over her, though.
“Let’s go to the barn and get done,” he said, to which she nodded again.
They pulled into the lot, parked near the first long horse barn, and Roman shut it off.
“Looks like they got almost all of that truck unloaded,” Jane remarked as she glanced over at the semi-trailer. “Maybe twenty bales left to unload. That’s good.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, give me whatever you got from the pharmacy. Let’s put it all in the console storage here. I don’t want anyone to break a window to get to it if they see it on our seats.”
She handed it all over, and they stored it away. Jane thought he was being paranoid but didn’t tell him so. Who the heck was going to steal random pills from his car? Mrs. Goddard couldn’t even get her boarders to come and visit their own horses anymore.
When she got out, a few of the horses in the front pasture whinnied to her in greeting and came running. The farm was quiet today, even quieter than it had been for the past week. The horses seemed restless and eager, although they should’ve been content since they were getting so much time outside. Apparently, they, too, liked their routines and recognized the absence of normalcy on the farm.
“I don’t see Mrs. Goddard’s car. They must be in town.”
He nodded, “We might as well get to work. The sooner we can finish, the sooner we can get back home.”
The sliding doors were shut, which was strange because Mrs. Goddard liked the ones on the end open to help circulate air. Roman followed her in and flicked on the lights that lit the main aisle.
“We should fill the water troughs outside first,” she said. “Then we’ll grain the horses in the front and get hay to the rest. Unless Charles already gave them the round bales.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll start the water in the back. You collect grain since you know what you’re doing better than I do. Try to hurry. It looks like it’s gonna rain.”
“Got it,” Jane said and turned the corner toward the grain room while Roman went straight on ahead.
She passed the tack room, noting how dusty the leather saddles and bridles were becoming already. That was going to be a lot of work someday when this all got sorted out. She first laid out some food for the barn cats, Luther included, who ruled lord over the food bowl. Then she began scooping the designated amounts of supplements and grain for the older, geriatric horses in the front pasture. Not tipping the balance in their feed to supplement ratio was important, even now. She didn’t want any of them to colic, especially without a veterinarian available to make a house call. She placed the plastic tubs in a wheelbarrow because the cart was missing from its normal spot. Then she turned off the light to the grain room. Movement to her right caused her to jump in fright as she was crossing the threshold.
It was only one of the barn cats. He scurried past her and squeezed through the doorway to get to the food bowl. She turned the light back on.
“You’d better hurry,” she told it. “Luther finds out, you’ll be in trou…”
Jane looked closer at the orange tabby cat. The side of it was covered in a smear of blood. It was injured.
“Aw, poor kitty,” she said and stepped toward it. The cat hissed and took off. “Crap.”
Jane pushed the wheelbarrow into the aisle and peered around looking for the injured animal. There was antibiotic salve she could treat it with. She didn’t want it to suffer or get an infection.
“Kitty-kitty-kitty,” she called out and went down another aisle. “Here, kitty-kitty.”
The wind outside picked up, causing the window pane nearest her to rattle in its frame.
“Come here, kitty,” she repeated, trying to find the cat. She even looked near the hay stack where the cats usually hung out waiting for a nice petting or a scrap of someone’s sandwich. “Kitty…”
Jane stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes took a second to adjust to what she was seeing. She blinked a few times. Then she gasped as she drew closer to the massive stack of hay bales. At the base on a pallet covered with rubber sheeting were three cats. All of them were dead, including Luther, Mrs. Goddard’s favorite feline. There was blood, dried blood all over the mat, and what seemed to be innards laying there. Jane shook her head as tears sprang to her eyes. What could have done this? Or who? Was it an infected animal mad from disease? Were animals now getting this?
She backed up a few steps until the corner of the wall bumped her shoulder. Her mind racing, she spun to go and find Roman. He needed to see this.
Jane jogged toward the end of the barn to fetch him. She couldn’t stop seeing the image of the gutted cats, their glassed-over eyes terrified even in death. Just as she was passing the tack room to turn left toward the place she knew Roman would be, someone stepped out and swung something at her, taking her down. Her arms came up to partially deflect the blow, but Jane took most of it with her shoulders and chest. It knocked the wind out of her, and she went down hard. Jane tried to roll to her side and bring her knees up into a fetal position, but the man who’d hit her dropped onto her. That knocked her senseless, too. She couldn’t even draw a breath. He was twice- if not more- than the size of her. He grunted a guttural series of sounds and ripped at her jacket like an animal.
“Mr. Goddard? Charles?” she gasped as she tried to fend off his groping hands, the man she recognized as Mrs. Goddard’s son.
Dear God, his eyes. He was so close to her. She could see the redness of them, so bloodshot and strain
ed, the blue color nearly gone, replaced by a foggy cover of gray. He sweated down onto her forehead. He was fevering and insane. His intent was violence. Jane tried to cry out for Roman but couldn’t find her voice. Mr. Goddard began choking her. Then he grabbed her breast with one hand before placing both back around her throat. She had to fight him.
She clawed and fought hard with all her might, trying to hit his face or gouge his eyes. Nothing worked. She kicked and attempted to scream. It was completely ineffectual. She kneed him in the crotch. It caused enough pain that she could get out from under him. Her escape was short-lived as he dove onto her back as she crawled away. It knocked the wind out of her again.
“Get off her!” Roman raged from somewhere in the distance.
A second later, Mr. Goddard was gone. Roman had fired a shot toward them. She didn’t think he was trying to hit him because it could’ve hit her instead. It pinged with a decided snap against the metal barn wall far away. She crawled on all fours and got up to her knees, using the wall for support. She turned in time to see Mr. Goddard lunge for Roman, who fired off another round, hitting the man this time.
It didn’t stop him, however. Charles Goddard, shot and wounded, took Roman to the concrete floor of the barn and began pummeling him with both fists like she’d seen in documentaries about gorilla behavior. He wasn’t going to stop until Roman was dead. He was trying to fight back, but it wasn’t working. The man was unstoppable and certainly weighed a lot more than Roman. Jane had to do something, had to help.
She staggered over to the piece of wood that Mr. Goddard had used to strike her and picked it up. It was heavy. She ran toward them, trying to keep her balance while taking a deeper breath than what seemed possible. She swung hard and hit Mr. Goddard over the back. It didn’t do much. He barely paused. She swung it again three more times. Then she hit him against the back of his skull. It slowed him down. He turned to focus his rage on her, and Jane hauled back as far as she could and swung with all her might. It clocked him right under his jaw. He fell over off of Roman and landed on his side. She pursued and hit him three more times in the face. She was panting by the time she was finished.
Roman got to his feet and pulled her back.
“Jane, stop. Get back,” he said. “Go over there.”
He pointed toward the open doorway that led to the riding arena. Jane stumbled toward it, her body shaking and weak.
“Stay back!” he shouted angrily. “Stay over there and don’t look!”
Jane did as he instructed. She jumped a few moments later when she felt his hand on her upper arm.
“What’d you do?”
“I killed him. I think he was dead actually from your hits, but I made sure of it,” he told her. She glanced down at his hands. In one was a short knife covered in blood. “Hurry.”
“Where?” she asked weakly.
He grabbed her hand and led her toward the bathroom and changing room where girls would get ready for shows or practice. She stood there numbly as Roman scrubbed her hands and face for her while doing his own at the same time. She couldn’t help but stare at the door while he helped her. She was terrified Charles Goddard would come through it and kill them both.
“You’re okay now,” he repeatedly said, although Jane could not believe him. “Here, rinse,” he ordered. Jane didn’t look at the faucet, though. She kept her eyes on the open door behind them. “Jane!” he said more forcefully. “Rinse your hands, honey.”
She looked at the water stream just long enough to locate it, then craned her neck to watch the door as she rinsed her hands.
“Good,” Roman praised softly as if talking to a child. “Dry them.”
He handed her a towel from the stack near the sink on a glass shelf. Jane spun all the way. She could certainly dry her hands as she watched that door.
“Let me look at you,” he said and threw his towel onto the counter with irritation. “He hurt you. Let me look. Jane!”
Her eyes darted to Roman’s but only momentarily. He strode to the door, shut it and locked it.
“He’s dead. He can’t hurt you now,” he said and ushered her over to a padded chair. “Sit. Let me look at you.”
He ran his hands over her skull, pressing with his fingertips. Then he touched her face, and Jane flinched and brought her own fingers to her cheekbone.
“Ow,” she said stupidly.
“He must’ve hit you,” Roman assessed.
She just absentmindedly nodded as she kept vigil on that door. When his fingers touched her throat, Jane jumped.
“Sorry,” he apologized and let his fingers skim over her skin softly. “He was choking you when I came in. Your clothes are ripped. Did he do this, too?”
She nodded weakly and whispered, “Yes.”
“Why? Why would he do that?” Roman asked as if he weren’t actually talking to her but thinking aloud. He pulled her shirt closed. “This is ruined.”
Jane looked down and instantly grew self-conscious. Her shirt was hanging agape, her pink bra exposed, as well as her stomach. She tried to clutch her shirt, but her hand hurt too much to close fully around the material.
“Damn,” he remarked and took her hand in his. He’d held her hand so many times during the last three weeks, but this was much different. He examined it, turning it up and then back over. “This doesn’t look good. I don’t know if you have any broken bones or not, but this looks really bruised.”
He rose and went to the cupboard and opened it. He didn’t find whatever it was he was looking for, so he opened an antique armoire. He came back a second later with a stack of clothing.
“Here, Jane, let me help you,” he said.
She couldn’t even function. Her mind was numb, moving in slow motion. Roman removed her jacket carefully. Jane winced when he pulled the end of her sleeve, and the material brushed her hand.
“Sorry,” he said with a hard, angry frown.
Once her jacket was off, Roman tossed it on the ground and helped her out of her flannel shirt and t-shirt. Sitting in front of him in just her bra was strange, but she didn’t even care anymore. Her mind and body were in so much pain she was actually numb. She looked up expecting to see him gawking at her like most teen boys would, but Roman was too intent on the task of helping her. It was then that she noticed the bruising on his face.
She reached out and cupped his cheek, “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” he said and dodged her hand.
“Roman,” she said, “your face. It’s bruised. You could have broken bones.”
“Let’s just get you dressed, okay?” he suggested and pulled a white long-sleeve tee with the logo and name of the riding academy on it over her head. He stopped halfway through pulling it over her chest, though. “Hey, did he…did he grab you…your…here?”
She nodded, trying to hold in tears. His face was tormented but also puzzled as he swore under his breath. Instead of dwelling on it, Roman pulled the shirt down over her torso. It hurt her hand to pull it through the sleeve again. Then he helped her into a green wool sweater. She realized she was shaking. “Better?”
She shook her head with unconcealed honesty. She didn’t want to lie to him. She didn’t feel better, not at all.
Roman pulled her into his arms and down onto the concrete floor with him. She sat in his lap and clung to him.
“We need to check on his mother,” Roman finally said after a long time of stroking her hair and telling her that she’d be okay.
“Mrs. Goddard,” Jane remembered and nodded.
“You can wait…”
“No!” she blurted without thinking. “No, please don’t make me, Roman. I can’t wait here.”
“He’s dead. He’s…”
“I think he ate the cats,” she told him and received a dubious look in return. Her voice rose in pitch and sounded hysterical. “The cats are dead, most of them, by the hay.”
“That’s not all he ate or killed and ate,” he told her with a sigh.
�
�What do you mean?” she asked, not sure if she wanted to know.
“Two of the horses in the back pasture. They were definitely killed by something. Someone.”
Her eyes drifted off to stare at nothing as the image he described flashed behind them. She shuddered.
“How?”
“I’m not sure,” he explained. “I think he caught and killed them. Maybe with a knife or something sharp. They were cut open.”
“I tried to get him to stop. He wouldn’t listen to me,” she told Roman.
He nodded and rose with her. “I need to look for his mother.”
“Maybe she left, got out, ran away or something. Her car’s gone.”
His mouth pinched as if he didn’t believe this. Roman drew his pistol as they walked toward her stately old home. It was a two-story former mansion in its glory days before she converted the farm into a place for horse boarding and lessons. She’d told Jane once that she’d inherited the place from her grandparents.
Roman turned and looked down at her before ringing the doorbell. “Be careful in here, Jane. We don’t know what we’re going to find.”
She nodded in agreement as he rang it again. Nobody came.
“See? Maybe she left,” she offered up, trying to give hope to a bleak situation.
He took a deep breath and turned the knob. It was locked. “Let’s find another way in.”
“She always kept this door locked and the side door unlocked. She went in that way so she could drop her dirty shoes.”
“Show me,” he said.
Jane took him to the door she meant on the side of the house that faced the outdoor riding arena. The door opened, and they were in. She went to call out, but Roman stopped her with a hand on her arm and a shake of his head.
“Stay close,” he said quietly. “We don’t know if any more of those things are in here.”
It felt cruel to speak of Mr. Goddard that way. He’d always been very kind to her. However, she tried to be as silent as possible because the idea of one of them coming out of the many shadowy corners of the old house made her want to flee to a deserted island and never come back.
