by Keith Knapp
GO AWAY NOW!!!
Real Brett’s mind was quiet once again as he opened his eyes. Jimmy may have been gone, but his trick still worked. He had left Brett with that. He smiled and thanked Jimmy in his head.
But the voice, Other Brett, had succeeded in one thing. Brett no longer wanted to go downstairs and fight the dog-things. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted to do. They scared the living shit out of him.
So far all he’d found in the closet was some women’s undergarments, three unused candles and a broom. Then his hands fell upon a bag in the back of the closet. It was coarse, like denim, and by the way it sagged he figured it was empty. Backing out of the closet, Brett dragged the bag (it was a green duffel) into the light. Untying the knot at the top, he opened it up and pulled out three revolvers.
The guns were all of the same make and model. He didn’t know what kind they were, all he knew was that they looked like guns straight out of the old west just like everything else. They were half-rusted and worn from time.
He held one up for Rachel to see.
“Jesus, Brett,” she said, grabbing it from him.
“I don’t believe it,” Mike whispered.
Rachel eyed the barrel of the gun. Then she seized the rest from Brett, handing one to Mike and the other to Sophia.
* * *
Mike inspected the firearm. The metal was cold to the touch and he could feel that bits and pieces of the handle had been chipped off. It had seen some action, that was for sure.
“Colt Bisley S.A. Revolver,” Mike said.“This is the first time I’ve ever held a gun.” He stared at the weapon, awestruck. “I don’t know the first thing about guns.”
“Then how did you know?” Jillian asked.
“I wish I knew,” Mike said, but he did know, he just didn’t want to admit it out loud.
Alison had told him about the guns in his dream in the shed. In fact, she had told him where they’d be, exactly what kind they were and how many they’d find. She didn’t say anything about them being in a duffel bag, but that was splitting heirs. The truth of the matter was that his dead wife had told him about the guns.
“That all that’s in there, Bretty?” Rachel asked.
The kid reached back into the closet and produced the broom. “There’s this.”
“That’ll probably just piss ‘em off,” Mike said. He had to forget about the dream for now. There were more pressing matters.
“And this,” Brett added, pulling out the lingerie.
They all looked at the underwear, hanging from Brett’s hand like wet newspaper.
Mike said to Brett, “Drop the undies. Take the broom.”
Rachel moved away from the window and flipped the cylinder open. Her shoulders sagged. “Three bullets,” she said.
Mike looked inside his own. “Three.” Then he marveled again at his sudden knowledge—he’d never popped open a revolver before, but he had done it just now with no problems. Like a pro. Weird. He closed it.
Sophia pushed on her gun’s cylinder. “Can’t get it.”
Grabbing it from her, Mike snapped the latch on the left-hand side and pushed the cylinder out. “Three,” he said as he swung it closed and handed it back to Sophia.
“Nine bullets, three doggies,” Mike said as he slowly walked to the nearest window and pulled it open. Outside, the two dog-things immediately jumped up from their slumber and stared at the mechanic. Rachel pushed Mike to the side and aimed her revolver at one of the dog-things.
“Wait!” Mike said. Without thinking he put his hand in front of the barrel. Rachel released the trigger.
“That’s the worst place for your hand, mister. Now move it. Those things need to go.”
“We know nothing about ‘em, have limited ammo and I’m betting none of us could hit one of them from up here,” Mike said. He stared at Rachel, locking eyes with her, and removed his palm from the front of the barrel of her Colt. “Could you hit them? For sure?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Our best bet is to wait it out, let them come to us. We can…” he searched for the right word, “…herd them in here.”
“Are you completely fucking insane?” asked Rachel. “I don’t think so, man. I say we try just offin’ ‘em from here.”
“We get them in closed quarters, then deal with them,” Mike said. “We can’t afford to waste any ammo. And shooting is no doubt going to make a ruckus and who knows what else is out there. So maybe we, you know, herd them in here, into the hotel, and maybe we can get out the back. Or at least have better shots at them.”
“Sounds like a death trap to me,” Rachel said. “And a lot of ‘maybes’.”
Mike slumped against the wall and let the gun dangle at his side. He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache the size of Texas coming on. Then a new plan came to fruition in his mind. He began walking toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Rachel asked.
Mike didn’t stop walking. “Came up with a plan that will make us all happy, I think. I’m gonna go down there, kill the fat slob in the window, open the front door, kill the two outside, then go home.”
Rachel gritted her teeth. “I’m comin’ with.”
She really wanted a hand in killing these beasts, didn’t she? Mike couldn’t blame her. He’d feel the same way if a loved one had been killed by dog-things in a weird forest. But her hands. Oh, how her hands shook. The woman was primed to explode.
Jillian stood by Mike’s side and shared a nod of the eyes with him; they were in silent agreement that the woman named Rachel needed to cool off and calm down for a bit. She then held out her palm to Sophia.
“What?” asked Sophia.
“Gimme the gun.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you three are gonna stay up here where there are no monsters, and I’m going downstairs where there are monsters.”
Sophia handed over the weapon.
Mike looked back at Rachel. “If anything goes wrong, go ahead with your plan to shoot them from up here.”
“I want to go with you,” Rachel said, her voice shaky with anger.
“I know,” Mike said as he walked out the door.
Jillian followed him. “Stay with the kid.”
30.
Jillian closed the door behind her and joined Mike at the top of the staircase.
“You really think this is such a good idea?” she asked.
“No,” Mike sighed.
They looked down at the lobby. The skylight let in more than enough moonlight. They could see the fat one still stuck in the window. It had given up trying to squirm free. Instead it hung there, waiting to lose a few pounds so it could squeeze itself through.
Diamond Patch caught their scent and lifted its head. Another growl emitted from its throat, but the sound was a bit more labored than it had been before. It was getting tired. Maybe dying. Good.
Please let the ugly thing be dying, Mike thought.
He started down the stairs. “This shouldn’t be so tough.”
Diamond Patch watched the two of them as they walked down the staircase, slowly approaching, slowly getting closer. It didn’t move its head at all, it just followed them with curious yellow eyes that Jillian could now see were, in fact, glowing.
When they got to the ground floor, Mike raised his gun and trained it on the dog-thing’s head.
“Get closer,” Jillian said.
In order to make the best of what few shots they had, each one had to count—that meant being as close to the nasty thing as possible. Getting right up to the animal and placing one bullet between its eyes would guarantee that they had some bullets left over for its friends outside.
In no particular hurry—the dog-thing wasn’t going anywhere—Mike inched nearer to the beast. With each step he got a little more nervous. Not only had he never fired a gun before, but he’d never killed an animal before. Sure, there was that time on I-95 during a road trip where he had run over a turt
le (Alison had been asleep and Mike had decided to not share that bit of an otherwise perfect vacation with her), but he couldn’t be sure that the turtle had died. But it probably had. It sure felt like it had—there was an audible crunch under the tires as Alison’s Honda hatchback rolled over it—but he couldn’t be sure. And even if he had, did that count? It had been a mistake, he hadn’t had the chance to think about what he was doing at the time, hadn’t had time enough to steer clear of the animal, he didn’t even see it. It just happened. A mistake.
But this would be no mistake. This would be one animal taking the life of another.
Survival of the fittest and all that, right?
Passing one of the decrepit couches, Mike was pleased to see Jillian right by his side, her gun aimed forward at the dog-thing. They shared an eyes-wide-opened glance. Mike’s heart was pounding, he could hear it in his head, and he bet Jillian’s heart was doing the same heart attack dance, too. The hell with coffee and energy drinks; all you needed to get yourself going was to face one of these fucking things and your heart was sure to race for hours.
Ten feet from the animal. Diamond Patch hadn’t uttered a peep since its first sad-sounding growl. Its eyes kept on Mike.
“Stay here,” he told Jillian. “If it gets free, you’ll have a better shot than me.”
Jillian seemed fine with that and halted between the two couches.
Mike was now within spitting distance of Diamond Patch. Was this really such a brilliant idea?
Pointing the muzzle at the dog-thing’s patch, Mike suddenly became fairly confident he could do this. Just pull the trigger and it was done. It was so easy it was ridiculous. The two outside would be a different story, but one thing at a time.
The dog-thing’s eyes narrowed, daring Mike to do what he’d come to do. The auto mechanic edged closer, ensuring he’d hit the mark. The thing’s breath smelled like rotten corn and stale beef, which Mike thought was probably what death smelled like.
Mike’s finger, poised on the trigger, shook. I’ve never seen anything like this. What on God’s green fucking Earth are these-
The dog-thing snapped at the weapon, grabbed the muzzle between its teeth and yanked it from Mike’s trembling hand. Diamond Patch flicked its head and the Colt arced through the air and landed on the floor ten feet away.
Mike instinctively started to back away. But before he had taken one step, a shot rang out behind him and a quarter-sized hole appeared in the dog-thing’s skull, ruining the nice little patch of fur there. Down went its head. Blood seeped from the wound and collected on the floor. A dark black circle began to grow on the already stained carpet.
Mike turned to Jillian, who still had her gun aimed and ready for another shot. A look of utter surprise was on her face like she hadn’t been planning to fire, it had just happened.
Letting the gun fall to her side, Jillian remained silent. From the look on her face, Mike gathered that she had never killed an animal, either. She moved the gun from her right hand to her left and flexed her fingers. “That hurt.”
Taking the long way around the dog-thing—going as far as to swerve around the couches and table in the middle of the room—Mike knelt down to pick up the Colt the hound had seen fit to throw. His eyes landed on Diamond Patch’s head, void of life. He heard the plick-pluck-plick of blood dripping from its wound. He grabbed the gun and moved away. Quickly. He’d seen enough.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Sure.”
“You ready for this?” Mike asked, turning to face the front door.
“I don’t think so,” Jillian replied, but faced the door with him anyway.
“Same here.”
Staying side-by-side, Mike and Jillian crept forward, bringing them closer to Diamond Patch than either of them wanted. Its head moved forward and down again as its body rested and relaxed itself in death. One of the giant teeth that stuck out of its mouth touched the pool of blood on the floor.
Mike’s hand fell on the knob. He looked over his shoulder, and Jillian nodded. He turned the knob but didn’t pull the door open. They listened outside for running, growling, maybe some yammering coming from the other hounds out there.
When they heard none of that, Mike opened the door.
* * *
It was brisk outside. Gone was the summer warmth of an L.A. evening. Had they been in L.A., it still would’ve been in the 80s, but to Jillian it felt more like the lower 60s. She shivered.
There was no breeze to be either felt or heard. Just the sensation that they were in incredible danger and acting incredibly stupid. Mike’s breath was rapid, succinct. Much like her own right now.
They had come out of the hotel with their guns drawn, ready for a shoot-out, prepared to let the two dog-things out here have it. But they wouldn’t need to.
Both of them looked left, then right. Their eyes met.
The street was deserted.
“Where did they-” she started, but Mike cut her off.
“Shh.”
His eyes were almost closed, but Jillian could see he was keeping them open a slice. He stayed focused on the road in front of them, swiveled his head around, listened. Finally he opened his eyes all the way.
“I think they’re gone,” he said. He didn’t look pleased.
Jillian let out the breath she was holding. “And how do you know that?”
“I don’t see or hear anything.”
“Neither do I,” she said, “but you were all tracking like some scout or spy or hunter or something. Were you in the military?”
“No, my dad was and he-”
Mike froze. His eyes opened wider, then wider still, much too wide. He pursed his lips together and began to say something, then stopped. He was looking over her shoulder, behind her.
Turning to follow his eye-line, Jillian saw the ass-end of the dog-thing they had just killed. As she was about to ask Mike what his deal was, she saw Diamond Patch’s hind legs twitch. Then the limbs broke into a little run, once again looking for something to help push itself through the window.
“I shot it,” she said.
“I know.”
“It was dead.”
“I know,” Mike repeated.
“It was fucking dead.”
“I know.”
Jillian dashed back into the hotel. The dog-thing was still stuck in the window, but its eyes were open and it was looking straight at her. The hole in its head was now the size of a dime. Its eyes were watery and glazed over, rotating in their sockets, trying to focus.
“But I shot it,” she said again as Mike studied the formerly dead dog-thing from over her shoulder.
And then she heard a sound she hadn’t wanted to hear: heavy paws slamming into the ground—running—and coming their way. Fast.
Mike and Jillian stuck their heads outside to see the fat one’s two friends barreling toward them from the north, silent except for their paws. Those paws. Running, running, running. Pit-pat. Pit-PAT. PIT-PAT!
Grabbing Mike by the collar, Jillian yanked the man back into the lobby. She shut the door behind them and locked it.
Pit.
Pat.
Pit-Pat.
PIT-PAT.
PIT-PAT-PIT-PAT.
BOOMPH!
The dog-things rammed into the door, growling and snarling viscously. The fat one (that hole in its head was getting smaller, how could it possibly be getting smaller?) tried to look behind itself but couldn’t. So instead it focused its attention on Jillian and let out a gargle—that was as good a growl as it was gonna get out right now.
“Back up the stairs, back up the stairs, back up the stairs,” Mike chanted.
Jillian didn’t argue as she followed him back up the stairs.
* * *
“They’re not there anymore,” Sophia said.
Rachel moved next to her and looked out the window. “What?”
“Those other two, they’re not there anymore.”
Brett watched his sisterlaw peer ou
t the window and down both sides of the street. She didn’t say anything but her body language told all. The two dog-things that had been waiting outside were no longer there, and she couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Brett thought that it was probably a bad thing.
“We should go down there,” Sophia said. “You think we should go down there?”
Turning away from the window, Rachel sat next to Brett. He leaned against her shoulder, she leaned against his. They held each other up.
“Did you hear me?” asked Sophia.
“I heard ya,” answered Rachel. “But…just wait a second. A minute.”
“Those are people down there, you stubborn-”
“And I didn’t hear any screaming or gunshots, so just hold up a minute, lady.”
“Don’t ‘lady’ me, lady,” Sophia shot back. “We need to make sure-”
The snap of a gunshot shut Sophia up. Although they had all been expecting to hear one—actually kind of hoping for one—it still took them by complete surprise. When the shot rang out, Brett felt Rachel jump and inch closer to him, almost pushing him over.
“Rach,” he said, worried.
“It’s alright, Bretty.”
Somehow it wasn’t alright, he felt. But Rachel was just doing her sisterlawly job: trying to calm his nerves. And usually it worked, but not this time. This time his heart sank with anxiety and fell to his stomach. He could feel Other Brett in his head, looking down at the place where his heart used to be, laughing.
They sat in silence and time stood still. All eyes were on the door. Sophia sunk from the window. No words were exchanged on their thoughts as to whether or not Mike and Jillian had done it, or what they were doing now, or if they should go down there and see why only one shot rang out and now…silence.
Down on the street below, the sound of running broke that silence. It sounded like the dog-things were making a fast break for something or someone. Snarling, snapping, growling. There was anger in those growls.
Then feet galloping up the stairs.
Brett leapt up and ran toward the door.
“Brett, no!” Rachel screamed as she shot to her own feet.
But Brett was fast, faster than Rachel, making it to the door before her hands could grab his t-shirt, yanking the door open and seeing Mike and Jillian swinging around the banister, coming his way. Brett gave them ample space as the duo rushed into the room. Mike closed the door behind him and locked it.
