by Stone, Kyla
People fled, leaping over pews, falling and crawling on hands and knees toward the side exit. A dark-haired man running down the center aisle pitched suddenly forward, shot in the back. A woman’s neck snapped to the side. She was already dead before she hit the carpet.
A man scrambled up the dais toward the big wooden cross as if that alone could save him. His legs weren’t working right. He was using his arms to army-crawl, a spreading stain of red leaving a trail in his wake.
The figures in black spread out from the back of the sanctuary. Two were striding down the middle aisle. Two more each took the far aisles. The last two guarded the doors.
The masked men advanced, aiming and firing at anything that moved.
A Hispanic woman five pews in front of her spun to face Quinn. Their terrified eyes locked.
Quinn recognized her as the dental hygienist who worked at Brite Smiles Dental, who cleaned Quinn’s teeth like clockwork twice a year and always complimented her blue hair.
The woman opened her mouth like she was going to say something to Quinn, to offer a warning or a crucial piece of advice—maybe the secret to surviving what was coming, a way to escape this monstrous horror that had snatched them up in its jaws.
Whatever she was going to say, Quinn never heard it.
The woman’s body juddered as rounds ripped across her torso. Bright red blood sprayed from the side of her head as she toppled sideways.
The awful sight ripped Quinn from her shock. She ducked low in the pew and pressed herself on top of Milo. As if a thin wedge of polished wood could save them from a spray of bullets.
She rolled off the pew and lowered herself to the carpet. She reached up, seized Milo’s arm, and yanked him down. He fell on top of her, his bony elbow digging into her stomach, his foot kicking her shins.
She squeezed to the side, half under the next pew, and pulled him close to her. The space between the pews wasn’t large, but Quinn was small enough and so was Milo. The stale air smelled like unwashed feet and dust.
A sneeze surged up her nose. She clamped one hand over her mouth and nose and fought it back.
Her heart thrashed in her chest, her pulse a roar in her ears. They had to get out of here.
Milo’s face was inches from hers. His pupils were huge, his little chest heaving.
“Don’t look,” she whispered into his ear. “Be absolutely quiet. This is like a game. A terrible game. But we’re going to win it. And the way you win is by not looking.”
Milo nodded, eyes wide and frantic.
She rolled onto her stomach and inched forward a foot until she could see between the pews directly in front of her. She turned her head and craned her neck to see beneath the pews on either side.
The exit door was on the front left side of the sanctuary. She was on the right side. She couldn’t see it from here, but her last image of it was fresh in her mind—dead, bloodied bodies slumped in front of the still-closed door. No one had gotten out. Not that way.
Her body flushed ice-cold as adrenaline pumped through her system. Her mouth was bone-dry. Her thoughts came in panicky, frenetic jerks and starts. Think, damn it, think!
If they ran for it, the attackers would see them and gun them down. There were too many of them. No way would they miss a girl and a little boy sprinting for safety.
They couldn’t just sit here waiting to be slaughtered either.
Her heart in her throat, Quinn twisted her neck, cheek pressed to the carpet, and turned her head to look the other way, toward the back of the sanctuary—the foyer, the double door entrance.
She could see their feet. Black clomping boots. The attackers were moving slowly, systematically, checking each row before moving on.
They were still fifteen or so pews back. The barrage of gunfire had slowed to an occasional burst.
Because everyone else is already dead.
She didn’t push the thought down or try to ignore it. She used the sour-sick fear churning in her belly to spur herself to move.
She tapped Milo’s shoulder. When he looked at her, his little face stricken with terror, she pressed her finger to her lips.
Absolute silence. No talking.
Milo nodded. He understood.
Two of the attackers yelled something at each other, but her rattled brain couldn’t focus on their words. Every ounce of her attention was on getting out.
She pushed Milo beneath the pew in front of them. She wriggled up to crawl beside him. Milo was tiny and squeezed easily beneath the pews.
Quinn was strong but scrawny for sixteen, and it saved her now as she squirmed after Milo, her head turned sideways, her cheek scraping the rough carpet, her body pressed flat. She clawed at the floor, using only her hands and arms to pull herself forward.
One pew. Then two. Three.
Someone moaned. A burst of gunfire and it went quiet.
Footsteps behind them, drawing closer. How far away were they now? Twelve rows? Ten?
They were moving faster than she and Milo could crawl.
The scent of coppery blood filled her nostrils. Blood soaked the carpet. It leached into her pants, her sweatshirt, slick and wet beneath her bare hands.
She pushed ahead of Milo, turning slightly so she blocked his view of what lay ahead. They reached the body of the hygienist. Appalled, Quinn forced herself to reach out and press two fingers to the woman’s throat.
She was dead. They were all dead.
Another body lay next to the woman. And another and another. Glassy, staring eyes. Ravaged, bloodied torsos and limbs. Blood-spattered faces frozen in a rictus of horror.
The bodies blocked their path forward. She and Milo were stuck between two pews, their heads and torsos exposed between the rows, their legs hidden by the pew behind them.
Her mind recoiled. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t dwell on the heinous images searing her brain.
She and Milo had to live. That was all there was to it. She would do what she had to do.
She was still partially blocking Milo’s view with her own body. She reached for the woman’s body again, then tapped his shoulder.
When he turned to look at her, she spread blood across his cheeks and forehead. His eyes widened, alarmed and repulsed. His mouth opened, but no sound escaped his lips.
Someone cried out. Another gunshot.
Closer now.
They were running out of time. Panicked, she stretched her hand beneath the pew and touched the dead woman’s head. Slick wetness, shards of bone and bits of brain tissue, only slippery goop where skull and skin and hair should be.
Her stomach convulsed, sour acid burning the back of her throat. She wiped the blood across her own face. She lowered her hand, turned with difficulty onto her side, and lathered her slick wet hands across her chest and belly. She did the same to Milo.
She hoped he understood, hating that she couldn’t explain it to him. If he could understand, if he could listen to her and do what she needed him to do, maybe they would live through the next five minutes.
Quinn had no plan beyond that.
42
Quinn
Day Seven
Footsteps and voices drew closer.
Her breath caught in her throat. They were out of time.
Quinn pressed her cheek to the carpet, made her body go limp and loose. She bent her head so Milo could see her face and closed her eyes, desperately sending whatever thoughts or prayers or vibes would get him to fathom what she needed him to do.
She peeked through her lids. Milo’s eyes were closed. He lay unmoving. A shiver of dread went through her. Covered in blood and gore, he looked dead himself.
That, of course, was the plan.
Quinn forced herself to shut her eyes and willed the life from her arms and legs, the color from her cheeks. She’d matted her hair and plastered her face and neck with someone else’s lifeblood. She hoped she looked as dead as Milo. It was their only chance.
A few pews behind them, someone cried out.
Two gunshots. The cries went silent.
Quinn waited, her mind screaming inside her skull, her heart about to pound right outside of her chest. The fetid stench of guts and human excrement assailed her nostrils, nearly choking her. Her closed eyes watered and burned.
The footsteps stopped. They were close, so close. At their row or right behind them. Was he watching the bodies, studying them for movement, for any signs of life?
Quinn didn’t breathe. She felt every muscle, every twitching nerve, and willed herself utterly still. Her pulse had never sounded so loud.
“You got anything?” a deep male voice shouted only feet away.
“Nothing here,” another voice answered, this one from across the sanctuary. “They’re all dead. All of them.”
The attacker closest to them snorted. “Got what they deserved, didn’t they?”
“We’ve got the wife!” a third attacker yelled from out in the foyer.
Her heart pounded in her ears, her held breath burning in her lungs. The voices sounded familiar. She couldn’t think clearly. Frantic, fluttering panic muddled every thought but stay alive.
“Bring her in here,” the first attacker said. “Bet she’s ready to talk now.”
Footsteps. The sound of something heavy dragging on the ground. Someone screamed—high and sharp and desperate.
“Let me go! You can’t do this! You have no—” the voice cut off into a keening wail of anguish. “No! No, no, no!”
Quinn almost flinched. That voice she knew without a doubt—Daphne Bishop.
“My daughters!” Daphne cried. “What have you done with them? If you’ve hurt them, if they’re hurt . . .” her voice dissolved into frantic, hiccupping sobs.
Daphne was losing it. She’d just laid eyes on unimaginable carnage. She probably thought her daughters were dead. And maybe they were.
Or maybe they were still in the Sunday school rooms, hiding. Still alive. Still able to be saved.
The boots finally moved away, footsteps thudding back toward the foyer.
She was too terrified to feel relief. She sucked in a desperate shallow breath but kept her head down, her body limp.
A sharp crack sounded. Daphne moaned.
“Tell us where the safe is, and maybe we’ll let you live,” said the twitchy one.
“What? I don’t know—where’s my husband? Where are my girls? Please, please don’t hurt them. We’ll do anything. Please . . .”
“The safe. Where is it?”
“What safe? I don’t—”
“The gold, you stupid whore!”
Another sharp crack. As if one of them had struck her in the face or head with the butt of his rifle.
Daphne only moaned.
“We need to find those pretty girls of yours?” drawled the third voice, slow and sleepy and laced with menace. “Will that get you to open that pretty mouth of yours and tell us what we need to know?”
Quinn’s heart raced. A cold chill skittered up her spine.
She recognized these voices from somewhere. She knew she did. The fractured, jumbled shards of her thoughts were coming together again. Shaping the pieces to a gruesome and terrible puzzle.
“No! Please! I’ll tell you anything.” Daphne’s words were garbled and wet sounding, like her mouth was full of blood. “I don’t—know—what you’re talking about—”
“Look around you, lady. What do you see? You think we’re patient men? Do you think we won’t do it? You need another demonstration?”
“Please God.” Daphne was weeping now, desperate, frantic, utterly helpless. “Protect my babies. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me—”
“Shut up!” the twitchy one shouted. “Shut the hell up!”
More footsteps marched across the foyer tile floor.
“We found the preacher,” a fourth voice said.
The ragged, growling timbre of that voice—it was unforgettable. How many times had she heard it hurling insults and curses through her flimsy bedroom door? Dozens. Hundreds.
Ray Shultz.
And now she knew the others. The slow drawl of Tommy Carter. The twitchy, high-pitched whine of his brother, Bucky. The deeper voice of Nickel.
Billy must be around somewhere.
And her mother? Was she here, too? Was she a part of this horror?
Something splintered inside her, something deep and dark and ugly.
“We’ve got the preacher in one of the supply rooms,” Ray said. “Bring the wife. He’s not talking, but he will once he sees her.”
Something wet and slimy touched her hand.
Her heart kicked. Adrenaline iced her veins. She almost screamed out loud.
Milo. It was Milo. He slid his fingers through hers and squeezed. She squeezed back.
Quinn struggled to think clearly through the panic. She couldn’t concern herself with Octavia now. Milo was right. They couldn’t lay here and hope these scumbags would just leave. They wouldn’t.
She’d seen enough movies to know that soldiers and trained combatants combed the battlefield post-attack and put a round in each victim’s head, whether they appeared dead or not.
These monsters could still come back.
She had to get out of here, get Milo out of here, while they were still distracted with Daphne. She couldn’t do anything to help Daphne.
Desperation congealing in her belly, she tried frantically to reconstruct the sanctuary in her mind. She’d only been in here a few times, but she’d explored while playing hide and seek with Milo and the girls.
Besides the double doors at the rear of the sanctuary that led to the foyer and the front entrance, there were two other doors: the exit door along the front left side and the door behind the dais on the front right side.
She didn’t know their official titles, but there were several back rooms and a long hallway that led to the Sunday school classrooms. At the end of the hallway was an exit door leading to the overflow parking lot where she and the kids had set up the paper target only hours ago.
She strained her ears again. The voices and footsteps had drifted through the rear set of doors. The sanctuary was silent.
Her muscles aching from the tension, she wriggled her legs sideways, rolling her lower half out from beneath the pew behind her. Using her arms, she shuffled backward until she’d extricated herself from beneath both pews.
She rose onto her hands and knees, keeping her head down.
Milo turned his head toward her. All she could see of his face beneath the streaks of red were the frantic whites of his eyes. His chest was heaving, rapid, shallow breaths exhaling through his opened mouth.
He couldn’t get too stressed, or his body would turn on itself. She knew that. But she
didn’t know what to do about it. All she could focus on was getting them out of here alive.
She held her finger to her lips again. He needed to be still and quiet just a little longer.
Cautiously, as silently as she possibly could, she crawled along the floor parallel with the pews. She moved gingerly over a man’s legs and brushed aside a limp hand, a gold wedding band glinting beneath the vibrant red coating his skin like paint.
Once she reached the end of the pew, she peered around the edge. Three of the four attackers were gone. So was Daphne.
One attacker remained. He was leaning against the back of the first pew, turned away from the sanctuary and facing the opened double doors that led to the foyer and the front entrance of the church, smoking a cigarette.
She didn’t see the rifle, but she was sure it was close by.
She looked the other way. The pews partially obscured her vision. Bodies lay everywhere, their limbs in grotesque contortions. Men and women. Children.
Her gaze skipped over the faces. She couldn’t bear it.
All they needed to do was make it to the nearest exit. Open the door. Run out.
How easy it sounded. How difficult it would be.
43
Quinn
Day Seven
With no room to turn in the narrow space between pews, Quinn crawled backward to Milo. Once she reached him, she managed to squirm around to face him. He looked at her, tense and scared, waiting for her to tell him what to do, where to go.
The exit door was located on the far left side, all the way across the sanctuary. The door leading to the Sunday school rooms and another exit was on their side, but it required exposing themselves as they crawled up the dais.
If the guard at the back turned around . . . If anyone entered at the exact moment they moved . . .
Too many ifs.
Maybe they could keep playing dead until these madmen finally left and someone came to rescue them. Maybe Ray and his crew wouldn’t come through the sanctuary again and put a bullet in the head of every victim, just to make sure.
Too many maybes.
Either way, they could die. Either way might be the wrong choice. A decision had to be made.
Indecision was a decision.
She hesitated, conflicted, urgency and desperation crowding her chest, suffocating her breath.
You should leave him behind, a voice whispered in her mind. He’ll only hold you back. He’ll probably get you killed.
It wasn’t her voice. It was Octavia’s voice. A voice she despised. Ugly and selfish. But not always wrong either.
A small hand clasped hers. She looked down. Milo was staring back up at her, fear radiating from his entire body. But it was more than fear—trust shone in his eyes.
Milo Sheridan trusted Quinn to get him out of here alive. She was just a teenage girl, basically weaponless, without a plan or backup or anything but the slingshot in her pocket and her own frantic mind.
She was all he had. She was responsible for him.
She didn’t want to be. A huge part of her just wanted to turn and run and find the nearest exit as quickly as possible, Milo and responsibility be damned. Take care of herself. Save herself.