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by Matthew Costello

  At the same time, Christie knew that she had to hurry.

  Every minute could mean that something had happened to Simon, to Kate.

  Even here, they could hear the gunshots, though they too had grown more sporadic.

  Maybe the attack had failed.

  Maybe everything was okay.

  But she knew that depending on maybes was dangerous.

  “We need to find stairs up. There has to be some stairs that go up to all the floors,” Christie said.

  “If we could see them.”

  Then, a few steps farther, they came to an opening, a dark hole to their right.

  But as Christie’s eyes adjusted, she could see the barest outline of a staircase.

  “There!” Christie said.

  She pulled Helen forward.

  * * *

  The sounds from the garage stopped.

  Got to move, Kate thought.

  Then, a command, as if her body was a machine that she struggled to control.

  Move!

  * * *

  One step at a time, Christie told herself, using her feet to feel the steps, finally reaching the landing where the steps turned.

  And somehow, they reached a door that must have led to the second floor.

  Still so dark, but at last a door in front of them.

  “This is it,” Christie whispered.

  Helen let go of her hand, and Christie heard the sound of Helen’s gun being readied, the click of the safety, checking the chamber.

  Christie withdrew the gun from under her belt.

  And together, they pushed on the fire door in front of them, and it swung open to another empty, dark corridor.

  But this she knew led to the main wing of the house, to lights, to her room. To Simon. To Kate.

  She started walking more quickly, Helen right behind her, as the total darkness changed to scant light from the outline of another fire door ahead.

  * * *

  Simon wondered if he should stick his head out.

  See if everything was okay.

  See if—

  What was it Dad used to say?

  “If the coast is clear.”

  He hadn’t thought of him for a while now.

  But now, when he wished so hard that his father was here, it felt like he only lost him yesterday.

  Simon’s fingers dug into the rug, holding on.

  He used them to pull himself forward, crawling, dragging his belly across the rug like an animal.

  Until he came out from under the bed.

  44

  Leaving

  The doorknob from this wing to the main building turned in Christie’s hand.

  Is it locked?

  She didn’t say anything to Helen, not without knowing what might be on the other side.

  The woman’s face caught some of the light.

  She’s worried too.

  With the knob turned all the way to the right, she gave it a push, and the door opened and both of them were instantly bathed in what seemed brilliant light.

  Christie blinked, her eyes having grown accustomed to the dark.

  She held her gun out. Helen had her shotgun up as well.

  Both ready.

  But the hallway was empty.

  A ghost hotel. Totally deserted.

  Christie held her breath, her heart sinking, a physical feeling, then a whisper. “No.”

  “Come on,” Helen said.

  Resuming their march to the bedroom, now only seconds away, Christie’s fear near total.

  * * *

  A few feet away, Christie ran to the open door.

  She took in the doorknob, blown away, pieces of wood and the metal on the floor.

  And a fear that had seemed immeasurable grew into horror.

  She couldn’t bear to look in the room.

  What could be an empty room.

  When she saw movement on the floor.

  Right there. At the bed. Then a head popped out, a voice:

  “Mom! Mom!!”

  Simon finished scrambling out from under the bed and sprang to his feet, a rocket, throwing himself at Christie.

  Wrapping himself around his mother.

  And for a few brief moments, everything seemed all right.

  * * *

  With Simon’s arms around her, Christie also felt the gun in his hand, and she knew that they had no time.

  She pulled him away.

  “Simon—where’s your sister? Where’s Kate?”

  His eyes looked hollow. They darted away and then returned to her.

  “I don’t know. We were downstairs.”

  “Downstairs? Where?”

  “The garage place. And I hid from her. Came back here.”

  What he did—so dangerous.

  That could be talked about later.

  Let there be a later …

  “She didn’t come up here?”

  “No. People came. Then I heard guns. I—I—”

  She pulled him close again.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, Simon.”

  Just a few seconds to get the boy steady, but her eyes were on Helen, standing at the doorway, looking at them, but also looking at the hallway.

  Christie broke the embrace and led her son over to Helen.

  “Helen. Can you take Simon to the car?”

  Working hard to keep her voice steady.

  “Shouldn’t we both go down—”

  Christie shook her head. “We have Simon. We need to…”

  Get him someplace safe. Get him out of here. Where he’ll be okay.

  Simon’s okay. But what about Kate?

  All unsaid.

  Instead: “Can you take him to the car? And I’ll go get Kate—”

  As if it was easy.

  A simple matter. Just go get her daughter. Downstairs. Sure.

  If she was even still there.

  “I need you to watch out for him. While I get Kate.”

  Helen’s eyes were locked on hers. A woman smart enough to know everything that wasn’t being said.

  Knowing that they had Simon; he was okay. But everything else was unknown.

  “Okay. I’ll do that. Then we better get going. You too.”

  Christie nodded. “Go back the way we came.” To her son. “Simon, it’s dark—but we came up that way. Goes out the back. Nobody will see you.”

  I hope, I hope, I hope.

  “Okay Simon,” Helen said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Helen looked down to the boy’s hand holding a gun, then up to Christie, as if checking … that okay?

  A boy with a gun.

  Christie didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll be with you in a bit,” she said. “With Kate.”

  Knowing that both statements could turn out to be completely false as Helen quickly led Simon away.

  * * *

  But before she left the room, Christie ran over and got the other gun, the small revolver that Kate used.

  (And how she wished Kate had it with her now…)

  The two boxes of bullets. A quick check that both handguns were loaded.

  Then, one gun in each hand, she ran full out from the room.

  * * *

  To the empty hallway.

  Noting that the gunshots had completely stopped.

  She ran as fast as she could to the main staircase, hitting the steps two at a time, nearly tripping, flying so fast.

  She heard sounds from below, noises, cries, moans.

  She told herself that nothing could matter, nothing could stop her no matter what she saw.

  She hit the bottom of the stairs, and quickly ran right to the stairs that led to the basement.

  But as she did, she saw:

  Two men on their knees by the Colonel’s office.

  One of them could have been the Colonel. Hard to tell. The heads of the kneeling men all bloody, looking blurry and out of focus, as she saw a man ram a rifle butt at one man, then at the other.

  And at the front
door to the inn, other people.

  She recognized a few of them from the inn, standing there. Ropes around their necks, tied together.

  With their kids—also tied with them.

  Huddled together.

  One of the men watching the beating turned and saw Christie.

  He yelled.

  “You! Stop!”

  And though Christie was close to the stairs—she wasn’t close enough.

  Not to risk the man shooting at her.

  So Christie had no choice.

  Got to fucking do this, she told herself.

  Coming to a near instantaneous stop.

  Had they not seen what was in her hands?

  She raised both guns.

  The men raising their rifles as they stood beside the bloody bodies kneeling on the deep maroon rug.

  She pulled the triggers.

  Again, and again, the first shots missing, then adjusting up, and over to the left, as one man took a shot in his shoulder and spun around, wounded.

  The other man taking aim with his rifle wasn’t as lucky as Christie’s unaimed shot blew right into the very top of his head.

  A brief glance at the huddled people, tied up.

  Had to be more men outside, the invaders.

  She had seen the trucks.

  There was no time to help them do anything.

  It’s all about choices, she thought.

  And she quickly turned, not bothering to lower the guns as she now reached the stairwell down to the garage, where Kate had to be.

  Had to be.

  Please.

  Racing down the stairs and not letting herself think of the impossibility of what she was trying to do.

  * * *

  Kate entered the garage.

  A few cars here. The lights bright.

  And in the center of the garage, a man face down. A bloody pool oozed out from under him.

  But there didn’t seem to be anyone else.

  No one else here.

  But then—

  With noises coming from behind, from the tunnels, Kate knew she was wrong about that.

  Men with guns had been here.

  But now, following them, maybe planned …

  … other things came.

  And she turned, helpless, hopeless, to watch three Can Heads race into the room, ready to—she knew—feast on whatever they’d find.

  Any dead bodies they’d find …

  Kate started backing up, literally running backward because the only thing she could do was watch the Can Heads run toward her, ignoring the fresh body on the floor.

  Targeting—instead—her.

  * * *

  Christie now raced into the garage, her head and body spinning wildly around looking for Kate, about to shout her daughter’s name, terrified beyond anything she had ever experienced that her cry would go unanswered.

  But in that wild spinning, she saw her—off to the side of the mammoth cave, near the rooms with the guns, the gas.

  About to say her name—since Kate didn’t look over at her.

  But then seeing why.

  Kate had her eyes locked straight ahead, looking across the room.

  The three Can Heads charging her, running so fast.

  Is this how it works? Christie had a flash of a thought.

  The Can Heads, the real animals, work with these people, these human monsters, get to come here, and have what’s left?

  Is that what this world is now?

  With the Can Heads moving so fast that she couldn’t trust her aim from here.

  And she wondered—do I need to reload? How many bullets left?

  Every second precious.

  Like the Can Heads, she ran toward her daughter.

  * * *

  Until one of them noticed her, and slowed a bit, dumbly calculating what was happening.

  Kate had turned, and she too ran to her mother, all of them three points on a deadly triangle.

  But the Can Heads had—by what … instinct?—separated. No longer an easy cluster of targets.

  Christie had to measure her shots. There would be no chance to reload.

  She watched them carefully as they bobbed and weaved like feral animals.

  And fired two shots.

  Neither hit, both wide misses.

  Kate called: “Mom!”

  Christie struggled to retain her focus.

  Two more shots. The smoke from the pistols hanging like a cloud in the room.

  Kate still racing to her, now trailed by a Can Head.

  This time, after the blasts, one of them stopped and reached for its chest.

  A hit, but would it stop it? The other shot another miss.

  Two more shots from each gun. How many more were left?

  But at least the Can Heads converged. She brought her arms together. Took a breath. Pulled the triggers.

  45

  The Car

  So dark here, Simon thought. This was worse than hiding under the bed.

  But then the woman, Helen, a good friend—Simon knew that—gave his hand a squeeze.

  Like she could tell what he was feeling.

  Then in a quiet voice, sounding so quiet in this dark hallway.

  “We’re almost there, Simon.”

  Then:

  “You okay?”

  He nodded, then realized that like everything else here, he couldn’t be seen. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  “Good boy. Just a bit ahead. And then we’re out, near the car. And we can wait for your mom.”

  But Simon had to wonder, couldn’t not think about it … was Kate okay? Would Mom find her? Could they both get back okay?

  He held Helen’s hand tighter.

  * * *

  One gun fired, and one Can Head was close enough that the shot blew a hole in its throat, and it landed to the right of Christie.

  But she also heard the sickening sound of the other gun firing on an empty chamber, and then the last Can Head, with a shoulder wound, fell on her.

  She saw the thing’s mouth open as it aimed its teeth like a weapon right at the area above her knee.

  Christie smashed at it with the empty gun, but the weapon seemed to bounce off its head, and then fly away across the floor.

  The teeth bit down.

  She screamed.

  She pointed the other gun at it, the one that had fired. But now, with another click, she knew that gun was empty as well.

  The thing had put one of its claw hands on her chest to pin her down. The pain—so intense—spread from her thigh to fill her body. The bright white lights in the ceiling turning molten, sparks shooting out of them.

  Her cries constant as though she was listening to someone else make them.

  But then, backlit by those lights, standing over her and with the thing attached to her leg, she saw a shadow.

  Amidst the screams, something eclipsed those lights.

  She remembered what she was doing down here. How she had seen Kate.

  Kate was still okay.

  A beautiful thought amidst the horror of the thing’s hand pushing her back, its mouth pulling back on—

  (Yes, tearing back…)

  —on skin, muscle.

  But there was the shadow.

  And the shadow moved.

  * * *

  Helen turned into a room, still holding Simon’s hand.

  There was a bit more light, he saw. Just a bit—but enough to see a door ahead.

  It had windows. Light from outside. From the moon maybe, or the stars.

  “See—we’re here,” Helen said.

  Simon didn’t say anything.

  “The car is just outside.”

  But Simon noticed that the woman had slowed.

  His right hand tightened on the gun that felt so heavy during this walk in the darkness.

  Helen let go of his hand and he could see her pull back the door. It wasn’t locked. They could get out.

  He wished she hadn’t had to let go of his hand.

/>   Even for those seconds.

  He waited for her to take it again.

  But she held the door open, and said, “Hold on a sec.”

  She went out first. He saw her holding her gun up, looking left and right. Then again.

  She turned back to him, the woman’s round face making a tiny smile.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  She turned, and he followed her out of the inn.

  * * *

  Christie heard a thwack.

  And the thing that had just torn a piece out of her right leg went flying to one side.

  It reared back.

  It took its hand off her chest, and turned to see what had hit it.

  Which is when the shadow, Kate, used the butt of the gun again on the thing’s head.

  Christie could see her daughter pull her arm all the way back and then let it fly right at its head.

  This time, the blow—straight to the Can Head’s skull again—knocked it right off of her.

  Christie tried to sit up, but the leg wound sent more mad spears of pain shooting through her body.

  So she got to see Kate, still over the thing, hitting it again, and again, and again.

  Until it was clear from the holes that now pockmarked the thing’s skull that it wouldn’t be getting up.

  Wouldn’t be attacking anyone ever again.

  “Mom,” Kate said.

  And it was enough.

  And Christie fought past the pain, seeing the hole in her leg, blood everywhere. Not good.

  But she fought past the pain to sit up, and say:

  “We have to go. We have to get out of here.”

  Then, using her good leg to get up to a half-crouch.

  “Give me a hand.”

  And Kate reached down and pulled her mother up.

  * * *

  Simon saw the car, parked under trees, sitting on the dirt, waiting for them.

  Helen spoke, keeping her voice low.

  “We’re going to get inside, and wait. They won’t—”

  But then in that darkness, with the trees so still, a few bushes with leaves surrounding them.

  Nothing moving …

  Until something did.

  He turned. He felt Helen let go of his hand.

  She had seen it too.

  They were so close.

  So close, he thought.

  And what happened next, he didn’t understand at all.

  * * *

  Christie turned to the main staircase out of the garage.

  “No, Mom. There are stairs back through the tunnel. No one will see.”

  Christie looked at her daughter. They both held guns.

  “Okay. Go get some bullets. From the room. Anything else they left.”