“Seriously?”
“Why not? They’re mine.”
“Some of them are Chrisman’s and Barton’s, or whatever their real names are.”
“They’re dead, so what’s theirs is mine now.”
“Is that how this works?”
“Absolutely.”
“Bowman…”
“What?” he said, not trying to hide his annoyance with the way she was talking to him.
Emily smiled inwardly. That was the reaction she had been hoping for.
“You can’t carry everything,” she said. “You’d be an idiot to try. Take any more than you need, and you’ll just slow yourself down. Do you really want to be slow out there, with those dogs and psychos running around?”
Again, he didn’t answer her nearly as fast as he could have.
Finally, he said, “You got a point.”
Of course I do, you idiot.
But Emily said, “So let’s go downstairs and get you your stuff. And whatever else you think you want to take with you.”
He grinned at her. “What if I might want to take the girl, too?”
She almost rolled her eyes. Instead, she did a half-roll. “Really?”
“What?”
“She’s seventeen and just lost her boyfriend. And you want to drag her along with you? You really think she’s going to be of any help when you get attacked out there?”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
He smirked at her. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”
“No, but I know what I want—for me and my baby to survive this—and I’m going to help you do whatever you want, so you can leave me be.”
“Here? In this house? You’re really intent on staying here?”
“Yes.”
“You sure about that? Those dogs might come back. You don’t exactly have lots of doors and windows anymore, you know.”
“Doesn’t matter. I have the backroom.”
“How long can you last back there?”
“Long enough with the food and water you won’t be able to take with you, because they’ll become a burden if you tried.”
“You have seen your first floor, right? All those bodies down there?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“And you still want to stay here?”
“I’ll redecorate when all of this is over.”
He chuckled. “Goddamn, woman. You got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
Mostly, she thought, but said, “Do we have a deal?”
He shrugged and lowered his rifle back down to lay it across the front of his legs. “Sure. I guess.”
She turned slightly to show him her bound hands. “Can you cut me loose?”
“I don’t think I will. Not until we’re downstairs and in that backroom.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You’re damn right I will,” he said, and turned around. “Now, stay back while I make sure there’s no fucking dogs out there. Fucking Cujos were all over this house of yours earlier.”
She chuckled.
He glanced back at her. “What’s so funny?”
“Cujos.”
“What about it?”
“That’s what I immediately thought, too. From the Stephen King book.”
“There was a book?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I only saw the movie. It kinda sucked. I’m guessing the book was better?”
“That’s a given.”
He grunted. “I guess great minds think alike.”
“Or something.”
He smirked. “Smartass, huh? You always this much of a smartass?”
Or that was what Bowman was going to say, anyway. He got You always this much of a smart out, but before he could end it with ass, the door in front of him crashed open and a figure lunged inside and barreled into Bowman and knocked him back.
Emily just barely managed to sidestep as the two figures—the attacker driving Bowman literally back, back, back—rushed past her and slammed into the shower stall at the back. If the glass door had been closed, they would have smashed right through it, given how fast they were both moving—or Bowman was being driven.
Something that looked like a gardening hoe flickered against the streak of sunlight coming in through the small window as it flashed in the air.
It was Don Taylor, and he was maybe four or five seconds away from gutting Bowman like a fish.
And when he was done with Bowman, it would be her turn…
Chapter 22
…it was Don Taylor, and he was maybe four or five seconds away from gutting Bowman like a fish…
…And when he was done with Bowman, it would be her turn…
She had two choices that she could see: Help Bowman, or run. It was a decision she had to make within seconds. In another place, another time, Emily would have thought through every possible scenario and come to a workable solution.
Step one: Know your objective.
Step two: Gather intel.
Step three: Formulate a plan.
And finally, step four: Execute that plan.
But she wasn’t in another place, another time, and she just didn’t have the time.
She wasn’t even sure when she made her decision. Maybe it was about the same time she rammed her left shoulder into her neighbor Don, knocking him sideways and off Bowman, even as the former CPA was about to plunge the already-blood-covered end of his hoe into the fake deputy. She would have used her hands, but stupid Bowman had bound them behind her back with duct tape. Emily made a mental note to let him know that after she saved his life.
If she managed to save his life. And hers.
Don didn’t see her coming and lost his balance, more out of surprise than her initial impact, and careened sideways and crashed down to the back corner inside the shower stall.
Emily whirled on Bowman, spilled on the floor on his back. He was holding onto his stomach with one hand, blood seeping through his fingers. Pain covered his face.
“Get up!” Emily shouted at him.
Bowman’s eyes snapped from his stomach and to her face. His expression told her he didn’t quite understand what she was doing—or why she was screaming at him.
“Get the fuck up, Bowman!” she screamed. “Get the fuck up now!”
He did, scrambling to his feet—
And so did Don.
Emily turned and backed up as the forty-something man picked himself up from the tiled shower floor, his eyes—bloodshot, tendrils of red wetness dripping down his cheeks—zeroing in on her.
Uh oh. I think I made him mad.
Don’s clothes were splashed with blood from the legs of his tan golf pants all the way up to his collared white shirt. More red speckles had dried around his neck, and the parts of his exposed chest that she could see where someone—or maybe something—had torn loose the top two buttons.
“Bowman,” Emily said.
He didn’t respond, but she could see him trying to get up, using the back wall of the shower stall for support, out of the corner of her eye.
“Bowman!” she shouted.
Screaming Bowman’s name seemed to snap Don out of it, and instead of moving toward her, he spun and went for Bowman again. It helped that the jewel thief was closer to the psycho and there wasn’t much room in the stall for them to completely ignore one another.
Bowman was reaching for his holstered pistol even as he tried to steady himself against the wall when Don sank the hoe into his neck. Bowman let out a bloodcurdling scream as the first half of the by-now-dulled point of the almost-5-inch stainless steel blade pierced flesh.
Then Don shoved Bowman into the wall and pushed the other half of the blade in.
Clack! as the Glock clattered to the stall floor next to Bowman’s twitching legs.
For a second—just a second—Emily thought about diving for the gun, but that would mean getting too close to Don. It wouldn’t have taken her neighbor very long to notice
her, spin, and use that gardening tool on her next.
Instead, she turned around even as Bowman continued screaming, letting out a shrill that befitted a terrified young woman more than a grown man who had, she was sure of it, killed more than a few psychos on his way to Arrow Bay. She couldn’t get her hands on Bowman’s Glock, but there was something else he’d lost that she could recover.
There, near the door that was now hanging off just one of its hinges.
The SIG716 rifle!
Emily ran for it—
And nearly did a header as her legs slipped on the suddenly wet floor.
Wait. How’d the floor get wet?
Oh.
Blood. Bowman’s blood, from when Don had gotten him in the beginning. There was a long, jagged trail of it leading from the door all the way to where Bowman and Don were struggling against one another now, inside the shower stall in the back.
It didn’t help that her hands were still bound behind her, and achieving any kind of balance was difficult. She slid forward and purposefully aimed for the counter.
Got it! as she collided with the smooth edge, and remained upright.
She gathered her breath, then took a second to glance back over her shoulder.
Bowman had gone silent. Probably because he was dead. His eyes were wide open, and he was staring up at nothing as Don struck him in the cheek with the hoe, the blade sinking easily into Bowman’s flesh and pekking off the bone underneath.
Don didn’t seem to care that Bowman was no longer fighting back. He pulled the gardening hoe out and struck again, and again, and again. There was a large gathering of blood on the floor around both men’s feet, the liquid flowing smoothly toward the drain in the middle. Most of it was coming from Bowman’s neck and face, but plenty was joined by the wounds in his stomach.
She stared at Bowman. She wasn’t sure why. She’d seen dead men before, sometimes up close and personal. More times than she cared to admit. Certainly, more times than any normal human being should have to see, never mind a housewife in the suburbs.
And yet, watching Don brutally slice what was left of Bowman’s face, Emily almost gagged.
But she didn’t.
Somehow, she didn’t.
Get ahold of yourself.
Get ahold of yourself!
She did, and turned, and slipped and slid her way toward the SIG716 across the bathroom. It seemed to have moved farther away from her since the last time she spotted it. Was that possible? Had she kicked it? Had—
Wait. Her arms. Her arms were still bound behind her back.
Goddammit, Bowman!
What was she going to do now? How was she even going to pick up the rifle? She supposed she could grab it from behind, but how was that going to work with both hands fastened tightly against one another?
Then, a fatigued grunt from behind her.
She glanced back, even though she already knew what it was and shouldn’t have. But she couldn’t help herself.
God, she should have resisted.
Don, glaring at her, his face and more of his polo shirt covered in a fresh, almost sparkling coat of Bowman’s blood. There was a stoic look on his face that belied the heaving chest underneath his torn clothes. His cheeks and nostrils flared, his irises seeming to pulsate. The latter made more blood drip, drip, drip to the floor from his eyes.
Then the corners of Don’s mouth tugged sideways and carved upward in a Joker-esque grin.
Emily had been acquainted with killers that enjoyed the killing more than they should have. She was looking at one of them now. Don Taylor didn’t have to butcher Bowman, but he had done it anyway, and enjoyed every second of it. Every single second of it.
“Don,” Emily said.
His head cocked slightly to one side at the mention of his name.
Did he still remember who he was, she wondered? Or was he just curious that she’d spoken instead of turning and running, which was exactly what she had done?
“Don,” she said again.
He grunted. Was he still capable of talking? Did he even understand her?
“Where’s Nancy?” she asked.
His eyes bulged, and more drops of blood flicked loose. That told her he recognized the name. He remembered his wife.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don, don’t do this.”
For a second—maybe two seconds, possibly three—her neighbor didn’t do anything. He stared at her, his head still slightly cocked to one side as if he’d forgotten how to right it.
Something small and metallic skidded across the floor.
What…?
A knife. It was a pocketknife.
And it slid along the wet blood between Don’s spread legs and toward her, perhaps even aided in its forward momentum by the liquids gathered on the bathroom floor.
Don looked down and stared after the knife, maybe just as mystified as Emily was at what she was seeing. Where had it—
Bowman. He was still alive.
How was he still alive?
The man sat against the shower stall wall, blood dripping from maybe a dozen or so holes in his face and neck and chest and…
Where didn’t he have blood coming out of him?
And yet he was alive.
Somehow, he was still alive, and staring between Don’s spread legs across the bathroom at her.
And he had thrown the knife.
Was it because she’d told him she was pregnant? Was that why Bowman had, with his dying breath, decided to do the right thing at least once in his life? Not that she really knew the man’s history, but she didn’t think Bowman had much good karma stored up.
Thank you, Bowman. Thank you!
As if he could hear her inner thoughts, a ghost of a smile appeared on the man’s lips. Then again, it might not have been that at all since Bowman’s face was so shredded and covered in blood and hanging flesh that it was barely recognizable. He might have been frowning at her, and she wouldn’t have been able to tell.
But she felt gratitude anyway. He hadn’t had to do it. He hadn’t had to do any of it, but he had.
Thank you, Bowman, she thought again. Thank you for my baby’s life.
Then Don was turning. Slowly, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Emily didn’t blame him. She couldn’t, either.
Then her neighbor walked back toward Bowman and lifted his blood-covered weeder again.
Now now now!
Emily fell to her knees and skidded forward and turned around. She fumbled along the floor, her fingers suddenly covered in thick red blood.
The knife. Find the knife!
Bowman had tossed her a lifeline, and she needed to take advantage of it. Because poor Bowman wasn’t going to last forever. He wasn’t—
The thwack! of Don’s hoe breaking through flesh.
Emily blocked it out.
Ignore it!
Thwack! as Don struck again.
Don’t look! Cut the duct tape! Cut the duct tape as if your life depended on it, because it goddamn does, woman!
Thwack!
She grimaced at the sound and fumbled along the pools of blood with her fingers—found it!
Emily opened the blade, not giving a damn as the sharp edge pricked her skin and drew some of her own blood to mix with Bowman’s. Poor Bowman. The thief didn’t have any reason to save her—or to try to save her, anyway—but he had done it. Even though he should be dead.
But he wasn’t. Somehow, he still wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
That wouldn’t last.
That wouldn’t last for very long.
The click! as the blade came out of its housing and Emily angled the tool and began cutting. She was on her knees and could have turned around, but she didn’t. She didn’t need to. All she had to do was listen to the thwack! of stainless steel going into flesh.
Over and over.
And over.
…and over…
Her hands were free!
&nb
sp; Finally, she allowed herself to look back.
Don was picking himself up from the shower stall floor. There wasn’t much of Bowman left. In fact, his head was almost decapitated and hanging off his neck by a few strands of tough, sinewy muscle. His eyes, thankfully, were closed and couldn’t stare back at her.
Then Don turned.
She got up just far enough to twist around and dive for the rifle even though the soles of her sneakers were slipping, and she didn’t get nearly the running start or jump she’d hoped for. She landed woefully short of the SIG716.
Sonofabitch!
Emily hopped onto her hands and knees and began crawling toward the weapon. She would have gotten up on her feet if she thought it would have helped, but it wouldn’t have. She probably would have fallen right back down because there was too much blood on the floor.
Closer…
Closer…
There!
She snatched up the rifle and spun around until she was on her back, just as Don ran toward her. The maniacal grin on his face hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it might have gotten wider as he closed in for the kill.
Emily pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
What?
The rifle didn’t fire.
There wasn’t even a click.
There was just…nothing.
Why didn’t the rifle fire?
No.
It wasn’t fair.
No, no…
She’d gotten to the gun.
No, no, no…
Despite the odds, she’d made it. She was holding the SIG716.
NO NO NO NO NO!
She wasn’t sure if Don knew the weapon had failed to do what it was designed for or if that was just the same pure, murderous glee on his face he’d had since all of this began. She was only sure of one thing:
Don was coming and he was going to kill her, and he was going to enjoy every second of it—
Her neighbor stopped suddenly, and his eyes shifted from her to—something else behind her.
What’s he looking at?
A black shape, dark matted fur bristling in the stale bathroom air, appeared above Emily’s head. She would have ducked if she could, but she didn’t have to, because she was already on the floor flat on her back.
The sight was followed by a low, rumbling growl, like something ancient from the pits of hell, rising back up to Earth.
Fall of Man | Book 2 | Homefront Page 18
