“Just for that, I’m gonna cut off every one of Eleanor’s fingers and shove them up your ass. Sounds like a good time, doesn’t it?”
The others were screaming, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I heard snippets of my name and Eleanor yelling for Mikey and Stone saying, “Behind you! Behind you!”
It was no secret I was no match for Bob. He possessed some strange power that gave him strength I couldn’t fathom. So, if I were to get out of this alive, I would need a weapon. The knife, maybe, but preferably a gun.
Currently I had neither.
“Grady! Grab that shovel!” Stone shouted, his voice cutting through both the ringing in my ears and the clamoring of the others.
At first, the words didn’t register. The shovel? I thought. What the hell does that mean?
The term was completely alien.
Then it hit me…almost at the same time as Bob. He swung his meaty right fist. I dodged most of the blow, but he grazed my chin. The punch rattled my bottom teeth, and more than a few of them came loose, though they remained in their sockets.
The shovel.
Stone meant the shovel leaning against the wall to my right, the one with neighbor Ruth’s blood crusted on its edge.
Bob raised both hands and went for my throat, and I knew if he latched on, that was it. Game over.
I didn’t let him.
I snagged the handle of the snow shovel. It was heavier than I had anticipated. When I lifted it over my right shoulder like a baseball bat, I felt the tendons in my arm twang.
Then I swung.
The sound of the metal hitting Bob in the head reminded me of the ringing of the bells at the old firehouse.
Stone shouted in triumph, but Bob stayed on his feet. He was a little wobbly, as if he’d had a few too many beers, but he wasn’t going down easily.
I grunted as I pulled the shovel over my head, the blade knocking dust and cobwebs from the ceiling, and I swung once more.
I cracked him in the face. He shouted in pain and brought both hands to his ruined nose. Blood flowed from his mouth like a red river, and black holes replaced the spots of more than a few of his yellowed teeth.
Still, Bob didn’t collapse. He stayed up like fucking Rocky Balboa going the distance against Apollo Creed.
It added fuel to the fire burning inside of me, and I barely remember what I did next. Like the voices of the others, I can only recall snippets. It’s the aftermath I’ll never forget. Call it my brain’s attempt at blocking it out, not wanting to come to terms with the brutality of what I had done.
I remember I dropped my hands down the handle and gripped the shovel’s head (now wet with fresh blood, I should say), and then I remember charging forward.
Everything after that, at least visually, is black.
But I heard what happened. I heard the slice of meat, the thunk of the shovel colliding with one of Bob’s vertebrae, and the shuddering reverberation of the metal hitting the stone wall behind him. I heard my screams, the sound of blood gurgling from the wound, and the silence of the others.
My vision returned, and the results of my rage were shown to me in all their horror.
I was still holding the shovel, but now Bob was too. His fingers clutched it so tightly, the whites of his knuckles showed through his skin. Blood rolled from the opening in his throat down the shovel head, where it had pooled. I let go, and he wasn’t strong enough to keep the shovel parallel to the floor. It dipped and the blood spilled out in a wave and drenched his feet.
I took a few more steps back, never taking my eyes off him. Red mist sprayed from the new wound every time he inhaled and exhaled. He wheezed. It sounded like a hose with a leak in it.
Still, Bob remained standing, and then he grinned.
I don’t know how, I really don’t, but it’s the truth.
In a soft raspy whisper, he said, “Good…luck,” and then he pulled the blade of the shovel out of his neck. Three seconds later, he slid down the red-stained wall and sat heavily on the floor at the base of the steps.
There, he stared at me with glossy eyes, his head lolling, attached by only a few stringy pieces of tendon and gristle.
He was dead.
Finally, he was dead.
First thing I did was cut Eleanor’s binds. She ran over to Mikey, sobbing. I didn’t want to look at him because I knew I had been too late, but I forced myself to. His torso was riddled with stab wounds. I thought he was already dead, that he had passed during my fight with Bob.
But I was wrong.
Mikey blinked slowly and coughed. A thick wad of red spit flew out of his mouth and landed on the floor.
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey—” Ell whispered, then she turned to me and shouted, “Give me the knife!” I crossed the room and handed it to her. A few seconds later, she began sawing at the ties around his wrist.
This close, Mikey looked worse. I won’t describe it, it was far too terrible. The mental image it may bring you would not be a pleasant one, but I knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.
Sobbing, Eleanor dropped the blade. I picked it up and cut Stone and Mia loose. They crowded Mikey.
Ell said, “You’re gonna make it, Mikey, you're gonna make it!” as she pulled him to her chest and ran her fingers through his hair.
Mikey spoke in a voice that was near impossible to hear. “Ell...”
They parted, but his body was so limp and nearly lifeless Eleanor had to hold him up.
“What, Mikey? What is it? Talk to me.”
A slight shake of his head. “I’m—I’m dying.”
I turned away and rubbed my eyes. Hot tears were rolling down my cheeks.
“No, you aren’t,” Eleanor said. “You aren’t dying!”
“You better hang on,” Mia said. She crowded next to Ell, leaned over, and kissed Mikey full on his blood-stained lips. “You better hang on, man. You just fuckin’ better.”
Mikey cracked a small smile, closed his eyes.
I looked over at Stone, but he wasn’t watching. He had his face buried in his hands, and he was moaning or praying. I’m not sure which.
“I don’t think I can…” Mikey whispered, and that was it.
I wish I could tell you differently. I wish I could tell you that Mikey got better and grew older and lived a happy life. I wish I could tell you that he didn’t pass while in horrible pain, bloody, shaking, and ghostly pale. I wish I could tell you he got to at least tell his sister he loved her one last time. But I can’t.
Mikey died.
One second his heart was beating, and the next it wasn’t.
That’s just how it happened.
I don’t remember what came next, not really. There was a lot of crying and hugging and disbelief, and this went on for a long time before I tried to get myself together and say something comforting. I failed, of course. Doing anything besides mourning was impossible with Mikey’s body right there in Eleanor’s arms.
Silence.
And it was in that silence I heard a low shriek outside. I thought it was the wind at first, but as the candlelight seemed to grow dimmer and the darkness heavier, I knew I was wrong.
It was them.
Bob’s friends had arrived.
I carried Mikey out of the basement. Upstairs in the living room, Mia helped me wrap him in a blanket.
“Chewy!” Stone shouted from the garage. A door opened and I heard the dog’s nails clicking on the hardwood, but they were erratic like he was limping.
I won’t drag this out, I’ll tell you Chewy’s fate.
He made it, but he would walk with a hitch in his step for the rest of his days. However, he remained cute and lovable, and though it would take him a bit longer to get there if you called him to bed, he would still snuggle with you all night.
Mia went down the hall to get the poor dog.
Eleanor, in shock, was standing by me and studying the rolled-up blanket.
“I can’t believe he’s dead… My whole family’s dea
d.” She tried to stifle a sob without much luck.
I grabbed her and pulled her close. I didn’t know what to say. What could you say in this situation? Don’t worry, my love, it’s gonna be all right?
I stayed silent as she buried her face in my side, which muffled her painful cries. Then I kissed the top of her head.
A moment later, Stone limped into the living room with the help of a metal shower rod. Mia was behind him. She had Chewy in her arms. The dog looked down at the blanket, his nose twitching, and then he howled. He howled for Mikey. It broke what was left of my heart.
Outside, the wind—or something—howled back.
“We have to go,” I said.
Stone nodded toward Eleanor. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. We can just barricade the place and wait until the light comes.”
“Most of it’s already barricaded,” Mia said.
“It’s all a front.” To make my point, I went to the plywood covering the living room window and pried it off with one finger. It had been hung with thumbtacks. “He didn’t want to keep the monsters out. He just wanted us to think he did. This place is too big for us to defend.”
“It ain’t safe out there,” Mia argued.
Stone nodded.
It was a classic pick-your-poison scenario.
I parted the curtains again and looked at the sky. Still dark, but lightening. Either that or my mind was playing tricks on me. “I think this house is one giant trap. Bob basically turned it into a wraith trough. If we run, we can fight. We’d have a shot—”
“I’m not staying here,” Eleanor whispered.
We heard her loud and clear, and she spoke with such finality, our next move was settled.
We left before the monsters came, but their voices chased us in the wind. The town center was well-built and mostly well-barricaded. I was relieved to see there was some truth to the message on the gazebo. We’d be okay here, at least until the sun rose again.
Eleanor and I fixed up the few windows and barricaded the doors. Anything to keep her mind off of Mikey, who lay in the corner of the room.
Stone and Mia got a fire going in the dining hall’s fireplace. We crowded around the warmth and sat in silence as the wind screamed and the monsters outside called our names.
I felt a strong sense of déjà vu. There was really only one difference this time around.
Mia.
I looked at her. She was sitting against the wall and rubbing her belly. Her eyes were closed. She could go into labor at any moment, and here we were, clueless about how to help her.
Could we make it to the City of Light before the snow or the monsters—human variety included—killed us? Could we survive?
The answers to those questions remained unknown, but I’ll tell you one thing: we’d sure as hell try.
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About the Author
Flint Maxwell lives in Ohio with his beautiful wife, daughter, and their four furry best friends.
Whiteout (Book 3): The Numbing Page 14