Deadly Eleven

by Mark Tufo

  I remove the shotgun shell from the chamber as I climb back onto the porch. I am going to have to break the windowpanes and supporting slats with the butt of the shotgun. Not the best idea with a loaded gun, safety on or not. The business end will be pointed in entirely the wrong direction. Chamber open and ready for a shell – yes; holding a shell – no. Silently, I walk back to the wall beside the front window.

  “Okay, well, I guess the covert and silent approach isn’t going to work. It’s going to get a bit noisy from here on out,” I breathe.

  I was hoping to be able to find a stealthy way in and get the kids out without whatever is in there knowing, but as I guessed and dreaded, that is just not going to happen.

  The plan is to break out one entire side of the panes ─ Det cord would be especially handy right now, but I seem to be fresh out ─ reverse the shotgun, slamming home a shell, use the tip of the barrel to lift the curtain rods off on my end, bringing light into the room, crouch away from the window on the porch covering the room, and see what I see. That is the entirety of Plan A. Once again, I think about playing ‘climb on the roof and check every window’ for a stealthier entry point, but am fairly certain that whatever is in there already knows I am here. Plus, my knees again cast their vote for Plan A and seem to have the majority vote in this instance. I’ll have to take care not to let the barrel poke inside after drawing the curtains down so that it can’t be grabbed.

  Adrenaline has me pretty keyed up. That is good for reflexes, but if it is not kept under a semblance of control, it can lead to mistakes. My Arrid XXXtra Dry is getting a workout trying to keep pace.

  A deep breath, another one, and I feel my nerves settle into place. I step in front of the window with the butt aimed upward at the first cross intersection of slats, hoping to take out several sections both to the side and upward. Generally, these are only glued together, so I figure three good shots, with each shot focused on the intersections above the previous ones, should cave the entire side of the window in. Game on.

  I thrust forward and up with my arm and shoulders. The forward momentum of my shifting weight is focused entirely on the intersection of the two slats. A flash of a second before the butt meets my aim point, I shift my head down to protect my eyes and neck from flying glass and wood. I feel the contact first with my forearms, then shoulders, and continue to drive forward.

  Go through the point of impact, I remind myself.

  The sheer volume of noise is enormous from the glass and slats breaking. Especially considering the silence I was engulfed in, it sounds like a glass bomb went off. Pulling back quickly, I instantly refocus on my next aim point and thrust forward. The momentary glimpse I catch of the window is of broken glass and slats either missing or turned up and in. Some of the glass is still falling, catching prisms of light. More noise comes from the second blow but not as loud. Finishing the third blow, I step back and bring the pump action forward, chambering a shell and fully expecting a tidal wave of action. Nothing. The window is completely demolished on the right and silence once again dominates.

  A warm breeze picks up, reminiscent of those lazy summer days. The days when a breeze would carry the sounds and smells of summer: Lawnmowers lazily chugging along leaving the sweet smell of cut grass, the smell of BBQs wafting from backyards, the sounds of kids playing, the ringing of a bike’s bell, or the music of an ice cream truck as it makes its way through the neighborhood. Outside of the city, the breeze would bring the smell of trees, a feeling of peace, and the simple joy of just being outside in the sun. I realize those days of peace, joy, and warmth were not that long ago, but this breeze, although, carrying the feeling of summer, also carries a slight, sharp, pungent odor to it. It’s almost too faint to notice, but it’s there. It stirs the curtains, but not enough to allow a view within, other than to let me know that darkness reigns inside.

  I glance around to see if my festivities have drawn any attention. The only thing I see is a dog standing in the street a short distance away looking in my direction. Not directly at me, but toward me. It must be a neighborhood dog. Although hard to tell, it appears to be some sort of German Sheppard/Lab mix. That is another thing to think about. The pets are most likely going to migrate to their wilder, feral side as they integrate themselves back into the survival-based food chain.

  I wonder how, and if, they will be affected by what is going on? Will their DNA be susceptible to the change or will they have immunity?

  Apparently satisfying itself that all is right in the world, the dog continues across the street and disappears between two houses as I refocus on the window and the task ahead.

  Rising, I step toward the now open window. I am focused on any sound that might emanate from within and tense for anything that could possibly erupt. My muscles are loose, but the adrenaline is wrapped around me. With the light tan curtains still wafting in the breeze, I raise the barrel of the shotgun to the curtain rod and lift it off its bracket. I feel the release of pressure against the barrel as the rod lifts and the curtains begins its fall to the ground. I step back into a semi-crouch to begin the final step of the ‘Plan A’ entry, to see what I can see.

  The curtains land at a downward angle as the rod is still attached to the left bracket and light floods into the once darkened room. A high-pitched shriek breaks the silence.

  “Holy shit!” I exclaim. The hair on my arms stands straight up, and my neck hair comes to attention.

  I cannot even think about what it sounds like except that it is bloody loud. A large, startled cat is the only thing that comes to mind. It also has a growl-like quality. The shriek is accompanied by the sound of footsteps moving at high speed. A flash of movement from my right to left vanishes past my line of sight. The movement didn’t seem to be to my immediate front and leaves the impression that it was farther back in the room.

  I switch on the flashlight to get a better view but can’t see what moved so hurriedly in the room just moments before. The light confirms my earlier assumption that this is the living room. Still holding the shotgun, I lean in to see what I can around the angled, hanging curtains. The curtain rod is caught on a console-style TV against the front window. I was wondering why the curtains didn’t fall all of the way down like they should have and still had a significant angle to them. The front door is to my right with some sort of contraption blocking it. However, the lighting is not good enough to identify what it is. Two couches sit facing each other and are piled high with clothes. One couch is in front of the door and the other against the wall to my left.

  Where in the world would you sit? I think, and glance at a coffee table covered with glasses, plates, and various magazines.

  Next to a La-Z-Boy recliner, sitting in the far corner, stairs climb upward to an intermediate landing before continuing to the right.

  To the right and across from me, a hallway stretches toward the back of the house with a kitchen opening up to the right. I don’t know how far the hallway extends from my angle, as the light can’t penetrate that far. I can’t see anywhere in the living room where something as large as the shadow I glimpsed could be hiding. There is a faint panting coming from the direction of the stairs. I am actually wondering if perhaps there isn’t a mountain lion in there.

  I use the end of the barrel to remove the last bits of glass from the bottom of the window and what is still hanging above. This noise causes a stirring, and the sound of something shifting gives me the impression that whatever is inside has gone upstairs, possibly at the top. I step into the room to the sound of glass crunching beneath my boots. Laying the shotgun on the TV with the light on, I aim it at the stairs; I want to keep that illuminated full time. I slide my 9mm out and pull the slide back verifying a round is chambered. Given the confines of the house, I prefer to have my Beretta at hand for speed of movement.

  Withdrawing the larger flashlight, I click it on and flash it around the room to verify that the room is clear. I pull the rest of the curtains down allowing more light to flood in
. The panting is louder now that I am inside and I can locate it better. It’s definitely coming from upstairs.

  With the light from the shotgun focused on the stairs, I shine the flashlight to the contraption by the door. A smile briefly crosses my face. Boards are wedged under the knob with more boards against those, everything terminating against the back of the couch. It’s something an architectural engineer might be proud of, not so much from the aesthetics of it, but more from the structural stability. I was right not to try the front door. I would still be there working on it. Even if I used the shotgun to blow off the hinges, I am pretty sure that door would still be standing. In fact, I am sure that it could withstand the best that a cruise missile has to offer.

  Stepping to my right, I crouch by the sofa to get a better picture down the hallway. The light penetrates most of the way to the back. I told you it was a monster, one of the six D-cell battery jobs. If I missed with the Beretta and something was able to get close to me, I could probably melt its retinas with this light. It would also substitute as a bat should I find a pick-up game of ball. Nothing moves, nor can I see anything down the hall except a door ajar at the end, but I can’t see inside it. There is a door to the left side of the hallway across from the kitchen which I assume leads to the basement. I get the impression that another door is about halfway down the hall on the left. Perhaps a bathroom?

  I move at a crouch toward the front door, making sure to keep as far from the stairs as I can. My head is again on a slow swivel with my light and gun following, barrel always in line with the eyes. At the front door, with my attention between the stairs and the hall, I try the light switches, readying myself for an increase in light. A faint ‘snick’ as the switches fall into position is the only response I get. There is no electricity here.

  I look at the mechanical engineering marvel and determine basically where to start taking it apart. At least, I see which board to remove first. Setting the flashlight on the back of the couch, I balance it so that it casts its light down the hall. The stairs are still lit, although less brilliantly, from the shotgun light on the TV. I glance down long enough to get a grip on the board, and then focus back on the interior. I tug and the board comes free. Setting the board down, I find the next one, and in less than a minute, the door is free from its bonds.

  I turn the multiple dead-bolt locks from the door and open it so that it sits ajar, making sure it is not blocking any line of sight nor impeding any movement. The stairs are almost at a right angle to me and almost out of my line of sight. The panting from the stairs has not changed, and I am not all that interested in finding out exactly what is causing it. Well, actually, I am, but the kids come first, and, the old “be careful what you wish for” adage comes to mind. My thinking is that, with whatever is here, and seeing it’s upstairs, I should be able to get the kids out without having to engage it. A part of me thinks I should, but the light from the windows seems to be keeping it at bay. I like that idea equally well and just want to get the kids out safely.

  I step toward what I think is the basement door dislodging one of the boards from where I set it. It skitters across the wood floor.

  Damn, I must have lost my touch. That would never have happened before.

  The sound of the board moving triggers another cat-like shriek from upstairs, which reverberates through the house. It is followed by shuffling and growls. Something big is moving up there. Based on the sounds and apparent size of whatever is up there, I have an idea of what it could be. The panting, growling, and movement continue.

  Sure hasn’t improved your disposition much, I think.

  I focus my 9mm to the left of where the stairs empty into the living room, ready for anything. Pointing straight at the entry point will miss whatever target emerges. Instead, I aim to the approximate position where it will be if it enters the room.

  “Sure wish I hadn’t kicked that board,” I mutter.

  Nothing emerges. I want to go to what I think is the basement door, but if I do, I will lose visual with the stairs, and I don’t really want that to happen. I move back by the front door, set the light on the back of the couch again, and take out my cell phone. Still bars and service.

  Very cool! I press the green ‘send’ button twice and “Dialing Robert” appears.

  “Dad? Was that you?” he answers in a whisper.

  “Yeah,” I whisper back, “I’m inside. Is the basement door the one by the kitchen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. You and the girls come up the stairs as quiet as you can, and I mean quiet. Open the door slowly. I’ll be almost right in front of you. Don’t just run out. Wait for me to wave you out. Then, all of you come and head out the front door.”

  “Okay, Dad. We’re moving now. Shouldn’t we stay on the line until we get to the door?”

  “Good idea,” I breathe back to him.

  I hear sound coming from the basement door and the knob slowly turns. The door creaks as it is pushed out slightly. Through the crack in the door, I see my son’s eyes peeking out. He looks around, taking in his surroundings to the extent he can see them. His eyes lock on mine and the sound of movement and panting increases from upstairs. Footsteps come down the stairs…stop…and run back up. There is a growl each time it stops and a feeling of agitation in the air. I almost want it to come all of the way down just to end this tension one way or the other.

  Looking to Robert, I wave him over. He opens the door and the hinges protest their movement. The growling increases and the panting grows louder making me want to look behind me as it feels like this thing is right next to me. I hang up the phone and grab the flashlight. Robert steps into the kitchen with Nic and Bri right behind him. The sounds of feet running up and down the stairs increase. The rise in agitation is obvious.

  Swinging the front door open, I yell firmly, “Out! Out now!”

  Whispering is moot at this point. Without pause, they run past me and out the front door.

  “Get to the Jeep!” I yell.

  I back out of the room and onto the front porch and, stowing the flashlight, take another look around to ensure we are alone. We are still the only ones. It seems safe enough for now, but I wonder how long that will last. We have just been moved down the food chain a notch and entering the survival-based food chain ourselves.

  I walk to the front window to retrieve the shotgun. There are still sounds of agitation, but I don’t see anything. I turn and walk down the porch stairs holstering my handgun.

  Batteries, I think, turning off the flashlight attached to the shotgun. That and so much more to think about in the very near future. Food, water, safety, Lynn, future.

  With a heavy sigh, I walk over to my kids standing at the front of the Jeep. Handing Robert the shotgun, I give them all the biggest hugs I have ever given. And that is saying something because I have given some pretty big hugs before.

  “I love you all so much,” I say.

  “I love you too, Dad,” they all reply.

  We step back from each other. Bri is wearing her plaid, blue flannel pajama bottoms and an Abercrombie t-shirt. Her fine, golden hair hangs down close to the middle of her back and her blue eyes stare back at me. She doesn’t have to tilt her head far back as this year has given her quite the growth spurt.

  Nicole’s thick, dark hair hangs down to her shoulders and her plain-green pajamas accentuate her hazel eyes. Robert holds the shotgun and is wearing blue jeans with his black Navy JROTC sweatshirt. His close-cropped hair has turned a darker shade of blond over the years, but his eyes retain that same blue intensity. The thought crosses my mind, as it sometimes does, of how neither Bri nor Robert has my dark hair or my hazel eyes. Okay, perhaps my hair is not so dark anymore. The years have replaced some of the black with gray. I like to keep my hair short, and the barber I go to has a peculiar knack of only cutting the dark hairs. I have heard the word ‘distinguished’ used, but I am sure it is only others being courteous.

  Nic has her flip-flops on, but Rober
t and Bri are barefoot. I consider going back in to gather some of their clothes from the pile I saw on the couch, but I have some at my house and we can gather other clothes for them later. Right now, I want to head back, try to wrap my mind around what has happened, and start putting a plan together for the future.

  “Okay, guys, into the Jeep,” I tell them.

  They climb in with Nic and Bri in the back and Robert in front. Robert has the barrel of the shotgun pointed toward the floor between his feet.

  Good job.

  My hand shakes from post-adrenaline as I put the Jeep in gear.

  We start the drive home, retracing my previous route. There is only the wind as it whips against the soft top of the Jeep and our minds are all working through the situation in which we find ourselves, kind of numb and working furiously at the same time. In my peripheral, I see Robert looking around at the total lack of people. Through the rear view, I see Bri doing the same thing while Nic is staring at her hands folded in her lap.

  “Dad?” Bri says from the back.

  “Yes, hon?” I say, wondering what question is coming and worried about it at the same time.

  I am not sure where her mind has ventured, but her question should ascertain that for me. As I said, her mind is always working. So does Nicole’s and Robert’s, but they are more silent and contemplative.

  “Was that Mom? I mean, in the house? Making that noise?”

  Sighing heavily, I answer, “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

  I pretty much know the answer given the fact that the front door was sealed and locked from the inside, but I don’t know for sure. One of the windows upstairs did seem to have been broken, but honestly, my answer came more from a protective-dad place. Robert gives me a sideways glance from the passenger seat but says nothing.