One rainy night, p.28
One Rainy Night, page 28
She laughed softly. Then she sat down on the carpet and crossed her legs and gazed at her lacerated feet and wept.
18
The dresser rammed Denise’s back.
It’s like being in the bathroom again, she thought. Trying to keep Tom out.
But now Tom was beside her, helping to hold the door shut.
The dresser wasn’t much of a barricade. Too lightweight. The first smash of the door would’ve toppled it over if they hadn’t been bracing it up. Had it been any heavier, though, she and Kara might not have been able to push it to the door in time.
She was glad they’d done it. At least the dresser put a little distance between her back and the door – and the two crazy bastards on the other side.
They hit it again. Hard. The dresser’s top edge jammed against Denise’s back, shoving her forward, bending her knees. A drawer slid out. It pounded her rump, hitting her wound and sending a throb of pain down her right leg. She thrust her heels into the carpet. Wincing, she drove the dresser backward.
The door slammed.
Her right leg started to jiggle. She grabbed her thigh and tried to hold it still.
‘We can’t keep this up,’ she whispered.
‘We have to,’ Tom said.
‘Look what I found,’ Kara said. A tube of frosty light suddenly appeared in front of the girl. She waved it. The tube carved a twirl of brightness through the air. ‘My Star Wars light sword,’ she explained.
Some weapon, Denise thought. It looked like a cylinder of translucent plastic attached to a flashlight. But she was glad Kara had found it. Better than being in the dark.
‘I wish it was a real laser sword like Luke Sky-walker . . .’
‘See what else you can find,’ Tom gasped.
As Kara vanished into the closet with her light, the door bashed the dresser forward. Denise winced and shoved herself back. Her right leg gave out. The door banged shut, and she dropped. The open drawer caught her rump. Wood splintered. The drawer broke away and she found herself sitting on a soft cushion of clothes. She flipped over, got to her knees, scurried forward and pushed her shoulder against the dresser just as the boys hit the door again.
The blow shook Denise, but she stayed on her knees. The dresser tipped for a moment before she and Tom could force it back.
‘Buddy!’ Tom suddenly called.
‘Yeah?’
‘Let’s talk.’
‘Nothing to talk about, dickhead.’
‘Who do you really want?’
‘Huh?’
‘Can we make a deal?’
‘Like what?’
‘I can make it easy for you. I’ll let you have the girls, but you’ve gotta promise to leave me alone.’
He’s conning them, Denise told herself. Stalling for time.
Isn’t he?
God, what if he means it?
‘Yeah, sure, okay,’ Buddy said.
‘How do I know you won’t try to nail me if I let you in?’
‘You got my word, man.’
‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’
‘Yeah, fuck. Cross my heart.’
‘And hope to die?’
‘Yeah yeah yeah. Cut the stupid games and open up.’
‘OK. Just a second.’ He put a hand on Denise’s head. She winced. He gently stroked her hair and whispered, ‘Get ready for another hit.’
Denise turned her head as Kara came up behind her. In the glow of the sword, she saw that the girl held a small leather bag and a thick, foot-long pink pencil in her left hand. Clamped against her side was a metal baton.
‘Your second’s up, asshole,’ Buddy said.
‘Just hang on.’
Kara handed the pencil to Tom. She gave the baton to Denise. It had rubber bulbs at each end.
‘He’s just shitting us.’ Someone else’s voice. Lou?
They hit the door. The dresser rocked. Denise shoved her shoulder against it. Kara threw herself at it. Tom grunted as he pushed. The dresser dropped back and the door crashed shut.
Denise twisted the rubber bulb off one end of the baton. It popped off with a hollow, ringing sound.
‘Let ’em in and try to take ’em?’ she whispered.
‘Jesus, I don’t know.’
‘I think the smart thing to do,’ Kara said, ‘is to go out the window.’
‘We’d get wet,’ Tom muttered.
‘Better wet than dead,’ Denise muttered.
‘Maybe.’
Kara helped at the dresser as the boys struck the door again. Then she ran to her bed. She tore the top cover off, rushed past the end of the bed and threw the blanket on the floor beneath the window.
So our feet won’t get cut, Denise realized.
Kara dropped her light saber onto the blanket. She stepped to the broken window, unlocked it, and shoved up the lower sash. Some glass fell off, clattering when it hit the sill.
Denise got to her feet. She dropped back against the dresser. Her right leg felt rubbery, its muscles still trembling but no longer twitching out of control.
She hoped the leg would carry her to the window.
The door jumped, slamming the dresser against her back. She dug her heels into the carpet. This time, the door didn’t rebound and crash shut. Buddy and Lou were giving it all they had. She heard them grunting with effort. She felt the dresser start to scoot on the carpet.
Twisting her head around, she saw the dim shapes of fingers clenching the edge of the door. She shoved herself upward, the dresser’s rim digging into her back. Then she was high enough to get her right elbow over the top. With a flick of her wrist, she whacked her baton against the fingers.
Somebody yelped. The hand jerked out of sight and the door slammed shut.
‘Go!’ Tom whispered.
Denise raced across the room. Ahead of her, Kara was shoving at the window screen.
19
Trev led the way through the Chidi house, Sandy and Rhonda close behind him. In the hallway, he glanced into the dark rooms until he came to a closed door.
He pressed his ear against it and heard soft mumbling sounds.
He looked over his shoulder. He nodded.
‘Let’s take him,’ Sandy whispered.
With his left hand, Trev turned the knob and gently swung the door inward. Smoke, fanned by the opening door, rolled and swayed away in front of him. He smelled a terrible stench. He held his breath and tried not to gag.
He’d encountered the same odor last night. At the stadium. It had come from Maxwell Chidi. The reek of burnt hair and flesh. But Maxwell’s stink had been mild compared to this.
What’s the old bastard doing in here?
Trev could still hear the low, incoherent mumbling. It came from somewhere ahead and to his right. Through the swirling smoke, he saw the tongues of candle flames. Dozens of them. All around the room. In the direction of the voice, he saw a blur of slow movement. And a blaze too large for a candle.
He stepped silently toward it. He jerked to a halt as something brushed his arm. Turning his head, he saw Sandy beside him. She was squinting in the direction of the voice. Her eyes were red from the smoke, tears cutting pale streaks down her black face. Her left hand was clasped against her mouth, pinching her nostrils shut.
Trev blinked tears from his own stinging eyes. He looked again toward the side of the room. Though he tried to hold his breath, what he saw made him gasp.
Much of the smoke had cleared away. Probably poured out through the doorway. A murky, orange haze remained. Thin enough to let him see too much.
He gagged once, but the white-haired man didn’t seem to notice. Maybe in a trance, Trev thought as he willed his throat to relax. Sandy suddenly hunched over and vomited. Still, the man paid no attention.
Trev wondered where Rhonda was. Maybe she’d stayed in the hall. Lucky her.
Grandpa was crouched, facing the wall. He was naked. His brown skin gleamed like polished wood. As he chanted softly, he ripped pages from a book that lay open on the floor. He rolled the pages into a tube, held them over a candle until they ignited, then raised his blazing torch to the charred and runny flesh of the corpse on the wall.
A female. Rather small, but not a child. Old enough to have breasts. She was nailed upside-down to the wall, her arms and legs stretched out wide. Trev could see no skin on her that hadn’t been burnt. Her hair was gone.
On the floor beneath her head and shoulders was a plastic tub brimming with black fluid. Bits of gray ash floated on its surface. So did small, white globs of congealed grease.
As Trev watched, disgusted and amazed, the old man filled his mouth with something from a golden urn in his left hand. He raised the blazing roll of pages to his lips, then spewed a fine spray through the fire. A gust of burning fluid swept across the girl’s crusty black midsection, spread out and streamed down. Flaming rivulets slid over her breasts and between them, down her neck and face. Trev heard sizzling, crackling sounds, saw streamers of smoke rise from the fiery streams. When they ran off her shoulders and head, their fires died. Black drops fell like rain and splashed into the tub.
Grandpa, still mumbling, crumpled the remnants of the burning pages and snuffed them in his hand. He let the ashes drift to the floor, then reached down to the book. He flipped through several pages. Trev glimpsed a color plate of Jesus surrounded by lambs.
A Bible.
The old man ripped the pages from their binding. He started twisting them to form another torch.
Trev turned to Sandy. She was still doubled over. Her hands were on her knees. Trev dropped his knife, reached through strings of hanging mucus and took the revolver from her right hand. She made no effort to keep it.
He walked slowly toward the squatting man, who had already lit the Bible pages and filled his mouth from the urn. As fire sprayed at the girl, Trev pressed the muzzle against the base of the old man’s skull and pulled the trigger.
For just an instant, he wondered if Sandy had turned the cylinder to the correct position.
She had.
The blast jerked the gun in his hand. The old man’s head lurched as if it had been clubbed. Still squatting, he pitched forward. The top of his head smashed against the upside-down face of the girl. His knees hit the floor. He slid down, the wound above his neck pumping blood, his head rubbing the girl’s face. The charred mess came apart like a shattered jigsaw puzzle, sliding down over bloody bone, bits of it clinging to his white hair.
His head splashed into the tub.
It went under.
The girl had lost her lips. She seemed to be grinning at the old man’s fate.
20
Lou rubbed his shoulder.
‘Come on, man,’ Buddy muttered.
‘It hurts.’
‘Now!’
Together, they rammed against the door. This time, it wasn’t shoved back at them. Something on the other side scooted away, then crashed to the floor. Buddy squeezed between the edge of the door and the jamb. Lou followed.
Saw Buddy hurl his spear. Its dim, fleeing target dived through the window, and the spear stuck in the wall just beneath the sill.
Lou scanned the dark room. Nothing moved. Had they all managed to get out?
He caught up with Buddy. Side by side, they raced for the window. He whipped the barbecue fork from side to side, relishing his memory of stabbing its tines into Denise’s firm rump, aching to sink it into her breasts.
Outside the window, a girl sprang up. Her arm shot over the sill. She flung something from a small bag, then dropped out of sight.
Buddy gasped, ‘Fuck!’ One of his legs flew sideways. He tumbled, crossing in front of Lou, tripping him. Lou fell over Buddy’s back. His forehead bumped the shaft of the spear. The long fork in his right hand whapped the blanket spread under the window. His other hand pounded down, something like a small rock jamming its heel.
He picked the object up.
A marble!
Is that what the bitch had tossed into the room? A bunch of marbles?
Lou scurried off Buddy. He crawled onto the blanket. Beneath it, glass crunched. A tiny, hard ball dug into his knee. Another marble.
He got to the sill and pulled himself up. Poking his head out the window, he caught a glimpse of Denise, the girl and Tom dashing alongside the house.
He crawled through the window and jumped. Standing on the fallen screen, he saw the three disappear around the house’s corner.
And realized that the night air was clear. The rain had stopped.
He tipped back his head, scowling, wanting to feel the hot rain on his face, wondering where it had gone. Above him, the clouds parted. The glare of the full moon hurt his eyes and made him squint.
Buddy, spear in hand, leaped from the window. ‘Let’s nail ’em, man! Which way’d they go?’
Lou nodded toward the front of the house.
They ran over the slippery grass, Lou longing for the rain to come back but knowing he would soon have Denise – and that would be great.
21
John knew he’d blown it. He shouldn’t have taken the cop’s revolver. He shouldn’t have gone on the quick rescue mission to save Carol. He’d made the crazies too damn aware of him. In spite of his bloody face and the wet, black jacket he’d taken from the old man in the kitchen, they seemed to realize he wasn’t one of them.
Twelve, fifteen – maybe more – were converging on the corner of the foyer where he knelt with Lynn and Cassy.
Should’ve just played along. Might’ve made it.
Lynn and Cassy had given up their act. They were crouched on either side of him. They held their knives ready. The waitress cowered behind Lynn, hanging onto her shoulders and gazing with terror at the approaching mob.
At least the crazies were holding back.
None eager to get shot.
But John knew he only had three rounds left in the gun. He could feel the weight of the extra cartridges in his shirt pocket.
A lot of good they’d do.
He wouldn’t have time to reload.
Three bullets left.
Take out the ones with the best weapons: the bearded guy with the axe; the woman in panty-hose who had the hatchet; the fat naked guy with the meat cleaver.
That would still leave people with knives, hammers, screwdrivers, crowbars and one crazy bastard with pruning shears.
They’d all be on him the instant they realized his gun was empty.
John knew he was good. In hand-to-hand combat, he could take any of them.
But not all of them.
He glanced at Lynn. ‘When I start shooting, run for it.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving without you.’
‘You’ve got to. You’ve gotta get out of this.’
‘John.’
‘Just do it. Get home to Kara.’ He elbowed Cassy. ‘Run for it when I open fire. You and Lynn.’
‘Right,’Cassy said.
John aimed at the axeman, two yards away, and fired. The bullet knocked a hole through his chest. He staggered backward a few steps, bumping into those behind him. ‘GO!’ John yelled.
He got to his feet, sweeping his gun from side to side. The crazies, muttering and snarling, glared at him but stayed away. A few of them flung up arms to shield their faces.
He glanced to his right. Lynn was beside him, standing there, scowling at the black faces.
‘GO!’he shouted.
She shook her head.
‘Damn it!’
On his left, Cassy stood hunched over, jostling the knife in her hand like some kind of fifties delinquent eager to join in a rumble.
This is mad, he thought. We’ll all be killed.
Three of us against the mob. Cornered.
They’re still not attacking.
Let’s at least get out of the foyer. Maybe make it to a window.
He sidestepped, nudging Cassy, taking quick aim at the nearest crazy, who gasped and ducked. Lynn stayed with him. They made their way to the entryway between the foyer and the main dining room. Cassy checked the rear.
Then they backed out of the foyer. The crazies came toward them, but none was foolish enough to charge.
‘We’ll try for a window,’ John muttered.
It felt better, being in the big, open room. A little better, anyway.
They stepped past overturned chairs and abandoned tables. Some of the tables had been swept clear in the melee. Others were still cluttered with the remains of interrupted dinners: plates, glasses, silverware and wine bottles shimmering in the soft glow of the centerpiece candles; some plates loaded with food, others nearly empty.
As John and his women (he realized the waitress was still with them) backed their way through the room, the crazies fanned out.
Can’t let them circle us.
Cassy tripped over a body. Her back pounded the floor. The fat man with the cleaver, maybe pushed beyond caution by what he saw as Cassy swung her legs up to roll clear of the body, rushed at her. Bellowing. Waving his cleaver overhead.
John fired. The bullet struck him under the left eye. The eye popped from its socket. The man veered away from Cassy, his piles of flesh flopping like a bloated bag of pudding. He crashed down on a table top.
Cassy scrambled to her feet as the table overturned.
One shot left, John thought.
‘Go for the window!’ he yelled.
A woman with a steak knife rushed in from the right. John swept his revolver past the others and put a bullet into her chest.
That’s it.
But the others held back, not realizing his gun was empty.
Lynn was still beside him. John glanced toward Cassy. Saw her squat by the fat man and snatch up his cleaver. The guy was half buried under the linen tablecloth. A pile of linguini in red sauce was sliding slowly down his back.
Flame licked up from a corner of the tablecloth that had fallen into the shattered chimney of the table’s candle.
Cassy, cleaver in hand, rushed over to John’s side.
He ached to reload. The weight of the cartridges in his shirt pocket pressed against him like a cruel joke. The instant he broke open the cylinder . . .
He looked past Cassy at the fire. Half the tablecloth was blazing. The dead man’s hair steamed. Flames leaped around his massive torso. His skin crackled and bubbled.
