8:6
The cold tile was wet underneath her cheek. The back of her head was sticky with blood matted hair. Her chest was tight and swollen and her neck was exploding with sharp pain. Her eyes opened slowly. She tried to make them focus on the surrounding room but they would not. Everything was a bright blur. It wasn’t until she pushed herself up from the floor that the swirling dizziness took hold of her. She tried to remember what had happened. All that came back to her was pain. And then she heard him.
Her son.
Screaming.
Christopher.
She stumbled and fell against the couch. Her head felt so heavy. Her eyelids were weak. Fickle thoughts danced in and out of her mind like flies. She tried to grab hold of one of them, any one, but they only faded away.
Another scream.
Stacey got to her feet again. She slumped into the recliner and picked up the phone. The hazy numbers glowed green and melted into one another. With 911 successfully pressed she held the receiver up to her aching skull. A steady beep-beep-beep was all she heard in the speaker.
Crying.
She stood up and attempted to steady herself.
A woman’s voice.
The bedroom.
With the phone still in hand she went to the door.
“Chris?” she said in a weak, groggy voice.
The female words behind the wall did not stop. Stacey pushed her voice louder.
It made her ribs ache, “Chris?”
That time a response.
“Mommy! Help!”
She turned the knob and shoved. It only opened a few inches before it met the chest of drawers and stopped.
Oh God.
She stumbled backwards against the opposite wall. She had found a thought she could hold onto, her son. She had to get to him, had to help him.
She flung herself forward with as much force her weakened body could gather. She screamed when she hit the door. Her ribs and back ripped with agony.
The tall wooden chest fell into the room and the door snapped loudly as the hinges broke away from the frame. It stopped falling when it once again met the chest. Stacey was now lying on top of the flat, angled surface and sharp splinters. One of them drove deep into her hand as she rolled off and fell onto the hard floor of Christopher’s room.
“Mommy!”
Her son was on the bed crying. Linda was standing between them. The pistol was in her hand.
“You are supposed to be dead, bitch.”
Christopher kicked at Linda. The heel of his foot met the back of her arm. The gun flew into the shadows. When it hit the floor a loud crack filled the room. All three of them screamed at the gunshot. The bullet entered the muscle below her right knee.
Outside in the blizzard, the wind muffled and contained the pain. Everything within remained well hidden behind the blasting wall of the storm.
8:7
The large mass of dark yellow energy was nearing the outer layer of Hell. As he passed through the glowing membrane, the pain subsided. The torment had lost its grip on him once more and he was loose to re-enter the mundane realm. He quickly sped past the angels approaching him. He started toward Earth. As he got farther and farther away from the ethereal prison that had punished him for twenty long years, his soul smiled. He looked back only once, for a moment.
The next time I see you, I will be the stronger.
Turning, he continued at full speed. His new body was waiting for him. His transcendence was waiting.
8:8
Her knee buckled underneath her when the bullet ripped through the muscle. Linda shrieked as she fell onto the hard floor. She was lying on her side, looking at an upside-down pair of bare feet. Stacey had also dropped to the floor, facing the other direction.
Christopher was frantically crying leaning over the edge of the bed. The pistol was somewhere in the shadows. Linda let out a wailing, “Aaaahhh!” as the pain caused her whole body to seize in a twisting knot. Blood poured from the open wound.
Stacey gathered her strength and kicked hard, smashing the old woman in the face. She rolled backwards into the bed as Stacey scrambled to get to her feet. The slick pool of dark red on the floor made her slide in her off balanced dizziness. Her legs swiped out from under her and once again she hit the hardwood screaming.
Both women (in excruciating pain, and determined to stand before the other) fought to pull themselves up. Christopher jumped backward crying when Linda grasped the bed frame. They each struggled to an upright position, standing unsteadily on their feet.
Covered with sticky blood, Stacey swung at the blurry figure in front of her. With the fist easily dodged, Linda took her own offensive. Limping forward on her good leg, she shoved. Stacey slid into the wall. She almost fell, but caught herself on the closet frame. She immediately threw a backhand, connecting with Linda’s jaw. The old woman slid into the corner of the bedpost and tripped, with blood flying, down into the shadowy opposite side of the bed.
With Linda in the darkness yelling, “You bitch cunt!” Stacey grabbed her son’s hand and led him out of the room, stepping carefully over the chest of drawers and broken door.
“You fucking whore!” Linda screamed, watching them leave the room.
The mother and son ran down the hall to the back bedroom. She felt along the wall with her hand in the darkness. Once inside, she closed the door and shoved the large oak dresser with all of her remaining might. It was too heavy and wouldn’t budge against the thick carpet. Stacey ripped out the bottom drawer so her fingers would have something to grab. She began to lift. It was made of thick wood, full of clothes and excruciatingly heavy. She strained at the weight, crying.
Through the door they heard Linda fall into the hallway.
“Goddamn it!” she shrieked in the shadows.
She had a bed sheet tied tightly around her leg to deter the blood loss. Painfully, she got herself off the floor and starting limping, carefully hopping on the good leg. She grunted at each jolt to the floor. The pistol was once again in her hand, sticky with sweat and blood.
Seven bullets remained waiting inside the clip and one in the chamber. She raised it up at arm’s length and pulled the trigger. It cracked through the center of the door and splintered the other side.
Stacey screamed and heaved. The huge oak dresser went up on end and then toppled over onto its top, blocking the door. The attached mirror and frame smashed under the impact. Linda popped off two more shots at the bedroom.
Stacey yelled, “Stay down Chris!”
He was lying flat on the brown carpet, his tears and snot streaming down into the fibers. A bullet cracked through the door and into the opposite wall. Another shattered the pane in the west window. Stacey dropped to the floor and crawled over to her son.
The winter air chilled the room in seconds. Linda was just outside the door. Her lungs gasped for air. They could hear her wheezing. She felt lightheaded from the pain in her leg. The blood flow had stopped. The tourniquet was tight.
Banging on the door with her fists she yelled, “You cannot stop it! He comes now!”
Killien was soaring downward into the streetlights over the house. He entered the hallway through the ceiling.
Linda screaming.
Blood.
She’d been shot.
Furious, he sped down into the room.
A woman and a boy on the floor.
Christopher was crying. The dark spirit smiled, approaching the child. The cloud bubbled and popped, swimming.
Killien’s time had come. His energy’s signature matched Jack’s exactly. His son would be no different. They boy was small. It would be a tight fit to say the least. The pressure would be tremendous, but the six-year-old’s body was about to accept the killer’s power just the same.
8:9
Sergeant Lunderman was sitting at his desk when his partner walked in. He was holding a picture of Linda Holland, studying her face. Tom set a folder down on the desk.
“Jesus, John. The bitch is dead. Let’s move on.”
“I don’t think so, Tom.”
“She was gonna off herself by huffin’ some gas. Officer Nickols walked in on her. She torched the place. What’s so hard to believe?”
Lunderman looked up, “Why use a grill lighter? Why?”
“Lotsa people have’em. I’ve got one of those things in my kitchen.”
The Sergeant flipped open the folder.
“What’s this?”
“Missing person’s report. It just came in.”
“Betty Anderson? How old is she?”
“Uh, I don’t know. In her sixties, I think.”
Lunderman bent down and unlaced his shoe. He unwound the string out of each eye on the boot. He held the lace up for Tom to see.
Tom watched the Sergeant confused, “What’s goin’ through that brain of yours?”
“The fire chief said he found a melted grill lighter, duct tape, and nylon string, like a shoelace or something.”
“Yeah?” he said watching one end of the lace get tied to the handle on the desk drawer. The other end was then fed through the trigger hole on the lighter.
“Tom, tell me the difference between this lighter and a regular one.”
“A regular lighter has to be lit with your thumb. That lighter’s got a button.”
Lunderman tied the loose end to the same desk handle, “Right.”
He pulled the lighter away from the desk. The string depressed the trigger and the flame popped out.
Lunderman smiled, “You can’t do that with a Bic lighter.”
“What are you saying? She set us up?”
“Wait a minute,” Lunderman said with wide eyes looking at the report.
“What now?”
“Betty Anderson isn’t missing. I know exactly where she is,” he said looking down at the black and white picture of he’d just received of the burnt bodies, “It’s Linda Holland we need to be looking for.”
Lunderman slid the folder across the desk, “Look at Betty Anderson’s address.”
“218 Elm. That’s Holland’s block. Shit!”
He stood up, “Shit is right. Let’s get to work. Start with an APB on the bitch’s car.”
copyright ©2002 Brian Holtz
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