by Rod Glenn
Staring at the bodies of Big Joe and Lisa, through his clamped jaw, Bryce said, “This bastard is dead.” He shook his head solemnly and could not help but revisit the images of Sally and Anthony, dumped brutally on the cold cellar floor. His renewed despair dragged at him like an ever swelling gravitational force. The gun felt like a concrete paving slab in his hands.
Stepping in behind him, Jimmy’s eyes were immediately drawn to Lisa. Ignoring Bryce’s warning, Jimmy rushed over to her and dropped to his knees beside her curled up body. “Lisa … what’s he done to you?” He hesitantly touched her pallid cheek. The chill to her skin caused him to recoil immediately and his eyes grew watery. Scarcely above a whisper, he uttered, “I’m sorry.”
Sam hovered in the doorway, unable to take his eyes off Natalie’s body. She lay exactly where he had left her only a short time ago. Undisturbed. Still. It’s no biggie, her voice sighed soothingly to him. The words managed to draw him one step back from hysteria. Fully understanding this stranger’s inner torment, Bryce turned briefly to him and said, “What’s your name?”
“S-Sam.”
“Well, Sam, I’m John and that’s Jimmy. Now, you stay by the door while we take a look around.” With that, he moved through to the lounge, stepping carefully around Natalie, the barrel of the rifle leading the way.
“Jimmy,” Bryce hissed firmly as the younger man remained squatting beside his dead former girlfriend. The young man’s face was set into a grimace, but he had managed to choke back the tears before they burst forth.
Reluctantly, Jimmy slowly got to his feet and tore his gaze away from Lisa’s dead, open eyes. Once his eyes were averted, he was able to catch up with Bryce at the threshold to the lounge.
Sam waited, shivering, both from the cold and a mixture of adrenaline and fear. While he waited, his eyes drifting back to Natalie every so often, the minutes ticked away. After the two locals had disappeared into the lounge, he heard no further noises from within the pub. The breeze tickled the back of his neck and an occasional wispy flake would drift into the open doorway.
Glancing up to the heavens, he noted that the sky was still filled with a swollen, angry cloud covering, so the respite seemed to be only a temporary one. And, eyes darting up and down the street, still no other soul had appeared to question the antics of the three frantic men. It seemed that they were indeed the only survivors to this madman’s rampage.
His attention promptly returned to the interior of the pub, and inevitably, to his fallen wife. Her face was pointing away from him, but if it wasn’t for the blood, he would’ve sworn that she was just sleeping. Since awaking not so long ago, everything had happened so fast. His mind was only now starting to catch up. Natalie was dead. Murdered. And his dad … what of his dad?
As he waited, his rattled nerves dissolved still further and, along with it, the last shreds of his patience. What was taking them so long? As he stood, hugging himself against the cold and more, the thought crossed his mind that this killer, Whitman, could have gotten to John and Jimmy too. If he had indeed murdered dozens of people already, what could two more possibly do to stop him? Even if they did have a gun and one was the size of that giant, Andre, from The Princess Bride. Well, slight exaggeration there, but still … And, if that was the case, what would he do then?
What would he do then? What could he do? He was one man, unarmed and fucking useless. What the hell could he do? He was good with servers, with firewalls and routers; that was what he was good at. You need to configure administration rights on SQL Server 2005? Well, Sam’s the man. But fight a mass murdering psychopath? Forget it. He had never even been in a fight since high school, and only then, just a couple of stupid little punch-ups over his stuttering from one of the resident Neanderthals. He seemed to remember losing those too. Split lip, bruised cheek and sore ribs sprung to mind.
Maybe he should just run. Take the car and run to Blindburn to alert the police. He could be with his dad too – he needed him more than ever. Yes, that’s what he should do. He had been waiting far too long already. He must’ve gotten to them too. They’re dead already and Whitman is on his way here to kill me too. What the hell am I doing still standing here? A fucking lamb to the slaughter! Get in the fucking car RIGHT now!
As he made the decision to run, footsteps could be heard in the lounge and a shadow danced across the opening. Sam’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. His body tensed in readiness to bolt.
Bryce appeared in the doorway, gun held loosely in both hands. Shaking his head, he said sullenly, “Not there. We did find Big Joe’s wife, Martha, though. In bed with her throat slit.” After pausing to release a shaky breath, he muttered, “Fucking … evil.”
Appearing behind him, Jimmy added, “Aye, and Whitman’s room empty – no Whitman and none of his shit either, like. I reckon we can safely assume that it’s definitely that bastard behind all this.”
Walking back across towards Sam, Bryce muttered, “Certainly looks that way.”
The three men walked out into the street. The air was cold and still as they stood, looking around the seemingly deserted village. A smattering of flakes lazily drifted earthwards. As they walked towards Sam’s half submerged Fiesta, Bryce summed up their situation. “So, the landlines are out and mobile signals are a dead loss. Both me Lanny and pickup had all tyres slashed and so have the other cars I’ve come across since walking into the village.”
“He’s cutting us off,” Jimmy snorted. “So he can pick us off at leisure.”
“M-mine looks o-okay, but it’s g-g-going to be tough t-t-trying to get to Blindburn in these c-c—”
“Yeah,” Jimmy added, “that piece of shit isn’t gunna get far.”
Sweeping the gathered snow away from the window and door of the driver’s door with the sleeve of his jacket, Sam muttered, “Well, it’s all we’ve g-g-got.”
As Sam slipped behind the wheel, Bryce, with a reluctant Jimmy, proceeded to dig away the deep snow from the rest of the windows and the tyres. Jimmy’s bare hands quickly numbed and his body shivered uncontrollably. Hugging his hands under his armpits, he stamped his feet in a vain attempt to warm his chilled bones. “Picked the perfect weekend, like.”
Glancing up from the rear passenger side wheel, Bryce said, “I think that was the idea.” His own bare hands were shaking, so he took a moment to blow hot breath over the icy wet fingers. “Could do with a hand here, Jimmy.” His words were laced with fizzling irritation.
The engine groaned, but didn’t manage to turn over with the first try. Cursing under his breath, Sam waited a moment then turned the key a second time. This time, almost begrudgingly, it turned over with a splutter and the expulsion of a cloud of dirty smoke from the exhaust.
“In business,” Sam said, leaning out the open door.
Bryce and Jimmy finished clearing away some more of the snow, before piling into the car. Lifting the passenger seat, Bryce smiled and pointed to the back seat. “Get in.”
After Jimmy squeezed into the cramped rear seat, Bryce jumped in, causing a creaking groan from the suspension. He had to hunch his large frame over slightly to avoid hitting his head off the roof. Cradling the rifle on his lap, he said, “You’re gunna have to take it really slow and keep it in second to give yourself a bit of extra traction.”
Nodding, Sam put it into gear and slowly applied the accelerator. After a juddering, wheel-spin start, they slowly pulled out of the parking bay into the road. The wheels crunched through the deep fresh snow, unsteadily and frequently losing their grip with a wheel spin that would thrust gouts of mucky snow up past the side windows.
With the fan on full blast to de-mist the windows, they could barely hear the impact of a bullet striking the bonnet. It was Bryce who noticed the plume of snow thrown up by the impact.
“Hell was that?” Bryce squinted through the hazy windscreen and instinctively switched off the fan. Instead of waiting for the fan, he quickly started wiping the misted windscreen with his hand.
“We—” Sam started.
“Quiet.”
A second shot struck the bonnet just above the radiator. Without the noise of the fan, the crack of the gunshot was just audible over the idling engine.
Bryce’s eyes grew wide. “He’s shooting at us!”
“Shit!” Jimmy said, lunging into the slim gap between the two front seats. “Let me out!”
A third shot struck the front grill, releasing a jet of hissing steam from the radiator.
“Sit back, you little prick!” Bryce snapped at Jimmy as he forcibly wedged himself further between the two seats, shoulder and one leg jammed over the top of the hand brake. “Sam, man! Get us out of here!”
Sam snapped out of his daze and, on reflex, stepped hard on the accelerator. With better traction on the right side tyres, the small car lurched forward and swung around at the same time.
In rapid succession, two more bullets struck the car, one punching a penny-sized hole in the corner of the windscreen, and the second, striking the driver side door, causing Sam to shrink away.
Another bullet struck the driver side front tyre, immediately deflating it to the wheel rim.
“Shit!” Bryce snapped. “We’re not going anywhere in this! Try to get us over the other side of the Green so we’ve got a bit of cover.” After releasing the safety on the rifle, he quickly wound down the window and shoved half of the barrel out.
As Bryce stared down the sight, trying to locate the position of the shooter, Sam, pale and sweating, struggled to turn the car around. On three good tyres, the car spun and swerved, seemingly under someone else’s control.
As another bullet shattered the side window next to Jimmy, causing an involuntary scream, the car lurched into the wrought iron fence bordering the Green, next to the Haydon Oak. All three men lurched forward in their seats, Jimmy striking his forehead with a glancing blow on the back of Bryce’s seat.
“Out!” Bryce was shouting as he shoved his own door open and all but fell out into the thick snow.
Sam needed no encouragement. He was out and scrambling across towards the Post Office, without bothering to turn the engine off. Jimmy frantically struggled with the release catch on the seat, his shaking hands struggling to cooperate. “Bryce!” he cried in a terrified voice.
Bryce was out and running when he heard Jimmy’s cry. He spun and lunged back at the car as another shot rang out, punching a hole in a patch of virgin snow a couple of feet away.
Ignoring the gunshot, Bryce lent inside the car and yanked hard on the headrest. The seat tipped forward with a resounding crack and Jimmy immediately spilled out, landing on his back in the snow.
“Move!” Bryce was shouting, as he dragged the flailing man by his grubby coat collar with one hand and gripped the rifle in his other.
Another gunshot reverberated in the air. Bryce’s teeth snapped together as he felt it tear a hole in his jeans below the knee, nicking the skin in the process. With Jimmy on his feet – of sorts – they both scurried for cover down Bell Lane, where Sam was already waiting, flat against the wall and breathing heavily.
“Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry,” Whitman whispered quietly to himself. “Better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why, Hannibal is coming to town.” He allowed himself a genuine smile; the first truly honest one since the killing spree started. Disappointing as this latest development was, it was certainly no tragedy. The most irritating thing was that trying to hit anything over a distance with the Walther was nigh on impossible. He was a little annoyed that he hadn’t considered the need for something more accurate over distances; something like John’s rifle. Maybe he would help himself to that later.
After checking that the three figures weren’t moving anywhere for the time being, he gently shut the sash window and drew the voiles closed. Turning away from the window, he glanced at the bed where Moe Baxter was laying in eternal slumber with his mouth a gaping, gruesome mess. Blood had soaked into the pillow and sheet in front of his face and had dried to a crusty stain.
His head lay on one side, with a mild look of shock fixed to his ashen features.
Whitman folded his arms, with the pistol still in hand, and with a disappointed tone, said, “Ah, don’t look at me like that, Moe. It’s not my fault; the voices made me do it.” With that last statement, he laughed out loud so hard that spittle flew across the room.
He caught his reflection in the dressing table mirror, his white face contorted into a sneering cackle. The vision stayed his laughter, and he turned to stare intently at his features. His face was at once unrecognisable to him, and the shock of this dropped his jaw open.
A face slowly materialised to one side of his shoulder. As it took shape, the void where its mouth was supposed to be worked soundlessly. Gradually, a button nose took shape, then small ears with stud earrings, then dark spiky hair.
Lisa stared at him with empty holes for eyes. Whitman could clearly see the bedroom wall, complete with mounted feline pictures, through the blanks where her eyes should have been.
Lisa’s dead mouth worked to form soundless syllables. MUR…DER…ER.
Whitman blinked wildly to dispel the ghastly vision then rubbed both eyes vigorously with his free hand. When he looked again, his former lover was gone.
A chill crept through his body and he suddenly became aware of his breath hanging in the air in front of him. Unnerved, he hastily left the room.
What's a little reunion without a little drama?
The three men remained flat against the side wall of the Post Office for a couple of minutes, regaining their breath and their nerves.
Bryce, taking a deep breath, mustered up the courage to finally take a fleeting glance around the corner. Main Street was as they had left it, and no other soul had yet to appear. The only sound to be heard was Sam’s battered Fiesta as it continued to idle, combined with a soft hissing coming from the ruptured radiator.
“He must be changing positions. Now’s our chance to make a run for it,” Bryce whispered, clutching the rifle close to his chest.
On his haunches, with his back against the wall and his head in his hands, Jimmy muttered, “Run where?” Then, slowly lifting his head out of his hands, he continued, “I hate to be the voice of reason here – goes totally against me character, like – but there is nowhere to run!” His cheeks were damp from unseen tears.
“Quit griping,” Bryce retorted with marked impatience.
“I like griping.”
Bryce shot a glare towards him, but Jimmy refused to meet his stare, instead focusing his eyes on the opposite wall.
Sam smacked the palm of his hand against the icy, wet stone wall with a resounding slap. “Sh-shut up!”
Bryce and Jimmy turned their attention to him, surprised by his sudden outburst. Studying the man closer, Bryce saw that the man was trembling and pale. This man’s wife, like his own, had been abruptly stolen from him … murdered. He had spent several hours in a black hole coming to terms – if that was ever possible – with his own loss, but, for this man, it was all fresh and raw. “Sorry, Sam,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
“Well, we got to think of something,” Jimmy said. “We cannat just sit here holding our dicks.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “Nicely put.” He bent down to hesitantly touch the throbbing graze on his calf. The material around the rip in his jeans was dark and sticky and blood had seeped into his sock and boot. Mouthing a silent curse, he drew back up to his formidable height and said, “We need to get off the street so we can have time to think ’bout what to do next.”
As the three men considered this, Sam caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He snapped his head to one side to stare down the lane. Renewed adrenaline coursed through his body as he scrutinised this potential new threat. It was Carol Belmont staggering towards them along the lane. Her features were slack and emotionless and her arms dangled loosely down by her sides.
Without taking his eyes off her, Sam
nudged Jimmy and whispered, “L-l-look, wh-who’s she?”
Both Bryce and Jimmy turned to see who was approaching. They both recognised her immediately. “Carol, over here!” Bryce called to her.
She appeared not to notice, continuing unsteadily along the middle of the snow-covered lane. Her ankle boots were thick with snow and the bottoms of her jeans were soaked through from her detached shuffling. Despite the cold, she wore neither hat, gloves nor scarf, and her denim jacket was open to reveal a thin blouse. Her teeth were visibly chattering and her bright red hands, poking out of the sleeves of her jacket, were shaking.
Bryce rushed over to her, shouting to Jimmy, “Keep an eye behind us!” He slowed as he reached her and, after setting down the rifle against the wall, gradually raised his arms, beckoning. “Carol, it’s John. Are you okay, pet?” He gently placed his hands on her drooping shoulders and caught a strong whiff of brandy on her breath.
Carol seemed neither to recognise him nor even register his presence. She tried to continue her journey, so Bryce gently restrained her, forcibly halting her swaying progress. Her feet continued to shuffle in the snow for a moment, seemingly unaware that her body had halted. “Carol, it’s me,” he said again and tenderly squeezed her shoulders. This time her eyes slowly lifted from the snowy ground up to meet Bryce’s. Her teary, bloodshot eyes were glazed at first, but after a moment, they fixed on him and recognition followed.
“John?” her hoarse voice murmured.
Nodding, Bryce said, “Yes, pet, it’s me. You look freezing.”
“Steve’s dead,” she said dreamily. “So’s Janet … and Larry … and their beautiful little girl. I-I had to have a drink.”