“Was fun, wasn’t it?”
A throaty chuckle drifted downward.
Remaining calm was impossible. Every vein in her body ached to run. Dendrites exploded, sending false information to her brain. A million insects crawled around on her skin; spiders scratched their legs through her hair. Knees ached, longing to expose her through involuntary kicks. A tickle in the back of her nose threatened a full-blown sneeze. Even her eyes begged to be blinked.
“We should call it a night, then.”
“Sounds good.”
Footsteps crunched and she almost cried out in relief. But then one of them paused.
“Hold up, gotta take a leak.”
The sound of the zipper almost brought her to tears. Even though she knew it was coming, she still jerked when the stream of urine hit her opened sleeping bag, sending a stream of liquid across the waterproof fabric and straight onto her shirt. Why hadn’t she thought to cover herself properly? She bit down hard on her lip to try to prevent the fumes from reaching her lungs.
It went on forever, the liquid soaking through her clothes, touching her skin, staining her body.
“That’s better.” The zipper went back up, and the man moved away from the dugout.
She continued to lie there, soaked and frozen, long after the footsteps faded away. Part of her kept thinking they were waiting for her. She hadn’t fooled them one little bit. The second she stood up they’d be on her, tearing her apart, doing deeds a million times worse than anything her mother ever warned her about.
It was the smell that finally jerked her into action. She couldn’t take it anymore. Carefully she rolled the sleeping bag aside, trying to avoid any more urine reaching her clothing. Waiting on her knees, she listened to the night, ignored the chirping crickets and swaying prairie grasses, until she was satisfied she was truly alone. She’d have to take the chance. Otherwise she might fall apart and start crying.
Standing up quickly, she scanned the surrounding field, and it was empty. The urge to cry again struck her, but she kept busy by examining her shirt. Her first instinct was to rip it off, but she didn’t have anything else to wear. Removing it would leave her even more exposed, and she didn’t think she was strong enough for that.
No, she’d have to find something else. The main area of town was just two blocks away. Surely she’d find a clothing store or gas station that sold souvenir shirts. Urine-covered girls like herself couldn’t be choosy. Glancing down at her sleeping bag, she decided to leave it behind. It would only stink up the truck, and there was no way she’d ever sleep in it again now.
The truck was parked out past the burned high school, down a side street where other parked cars added camouflage. She’d leave it where it was for now. The two men (and lord knows who else) were still close enough that they’d hear if she tried to drive. But if she hurried, she could find a store, grab some clothes, and be ready to head out within the hour. There would be no more sleeping tonight. Hopefully tomorrow she’d have better luck.
She moved slowly across the baseball field and back toward town. The silence was good but also unnerving. There were no alleys here to sneak down, so she kept to the sidewalks, shadowing the houses, prepared to run and hide at the slightest breaking branch.
The main street was actually Fourth Avenue. There were no working street lamps, and she was happy about that. A quick glance showed row upon row of empty parking spaces. Not even a single abandoned truck. The street was lined with glass-windowed shops, a hardware store, a pharmacy, three bars, a grocery store, and an insurance and travel place combined. Two motels offered satellite television and air-conditioning. At the end of the block she found what she was looking for. A small thrift store with a rack of secondhand shoes still left out on the sidewalk. The door was shut, but when she tugged at the handle, it opened.
Bells immediately chimed above her head.
It took every ounce of willpower to keep from turning and running off into the night.
Nothing happened. The bells stopped rattling, and the sounds of empty street filled her ears. She couldn’t even hear the crickets anymore.
Why hadn’t she thought to check the door for bells? She was getting careless. She’d never have done that a few days ago. She’d have waited about half an hour to make sure the store was empty, gone around and checked the back for exits, made sure she really was alone—and then she would have cautiously checked the door for bells and whistles before she opened it.
But she was tired. People make mistakes when they’re tired.
Fools and their lives are soon parted.
Glancing down the street, she shrugged and entered the shop. Might as well go ahead now that the whole town knew she was there, but she’d check for an exit before she allowed herself to go on a shopping spree.
She found it in the back, a locked door with a darkened exit sign. Unlatching the lock, she pushed the door open and found herself practically in someone’s backyard. It would provide a good escape if she needed one. Satisfied, she closed the door, latched it up again, and proceeded to the front, already dreaming of how good it would feel to remove her shirt and put on something fresh. There was a small bathroom and half a bar of green soap and an orange towel. She returned to the front, where she found a bottle of water behind the counter—that would help rinse off some of the grossness.
Picking through the rack, she discarded the first few items because they were either too large or too bright. Darker colors were safer. Pushing aside a worn pink cardigan, she found a blue-and-green plaid shirt that looked to be about her size. She glanced back at the front door to ensure she was alone before yanking off her top and dumping the stinking garment on the floor.
She soaked the towel with water and ran it along her body, trying to remove all traces of urine. Using the soap, she cleaned quickly, her eyes constantly keeping watch on the door. She moved quietly, a tiny mouse removing all traces of scent so that the snakes wouldn’t find her.
She almost cried out in relief when she pulled the shirt over her body and did up the buttons. It fit perfectly, and there was such a wonderful feeling to be free from that rank odor. Turning to leave, she paused, thinking that it might be a good idea to grab an extra change of clothing in case something like this happened again. Who knew when she might come across another clothing store? She should grab a coat, too.
She found a jean jacket a size too big and slipped it on. It would do. Back at the rack, she pulled out a black sweater and a shirt that said Michigan State. She found a bag behind the counter and shoved her new items inside.
Dear Heath, that’s quite possibly the quickest shopping spree I’ve ever been on. You’d be proud. You always said I had too many shoes. Now I’m down to one pair. They’re made for walking, and I’ll be heading out soon enough to find you.
She came from behind the counter but froze when she looked out the window and saw the men from the ball park on the sidewalk. Quickly she dropped to the ground, her heart thumping against her chest and pounding in her ears. Icy saliva filled her mouth; she couldn’t swallow it.
The bells chimed as the door opened.
“Come on, sweetie,” the first guy said. “We know you’re here. We saw you from the window.”
Her eyes darted across the counter shelves. She needed a weapon. Anything. Behind the assorted bags she saw a letter opener. Fingers closed around the metal. It would have to do.
“We ain’t got all day, girlie.”
She raised her head and stood her ground. She didn’t want them coming around the counter to grab her. At least this way there would be space between them. Maybe she still had time to run. But could she get to the back room and unlatch the door before they caught her? She couldn’t tell.
Dear Heath, give me strength.
“Well, ain’t you a pretty one.”
They knew what they were doing. As the first one talked, the second started leisurely moving his way toward her, trying to get around the counter so they’d have her cornered
.
“Stay back.” She raised the letter opener in defense.
“And what are you going to do with that, sweet pea? Stab me?”
Number Two was almost on top of her. She had to act. Hurling the shopping bag with all her might, she turned and darted toward the back room.
She made it to the door, but a hand clamped down on her shoulder before she could unlatch the lock.
“Bitch, I’m gonna—”
She didn’t think. The letter opener moved through the air of its own accord; she was positive it wasn’t her using it. Silver metal sliced the stomach flesh of its victim. How could something travel through tissue and muscle so easily?
The man grunted. She couldn’t tell which one—it was too dark to see much of anything. He slouched against her, pressing her body up against the door, his breath heavy on her face. She could smell beer and potato chips. Onions. Shoving him with all her strength, she managed to twist around until she could reach and turn the lock. The door swung outward, sending both her and the man sprawling into the street.
She didn’t pause. Kicking at the dropped man, she squeezed her body from underneath him, crawling away until she managed to get her legs up, and tore into a run. From behind she could hear the other man screaming at her, but if he gave chase, he wasn’t fast enough to catch her.
Six blocks later, she unlocked her truck and started the engine before she even got the door closed. Slamming her foot on the gas, she tore off into the night, leaving behind the town and everything in it.
It wasn’t until she got several miles away that she pulled over, letting the engine idle, and finally scrubbed at the tears that threatened her vision.
There was fresh blood all over her shirt. Her body was sticky again.
And after all that trouble, too.
MICHAEL
“Hey!”
A voice reached through the darkness.
“Hey! Idiot. Wake up. We’ve got to get out of here now.”
Michael forced his mind away from the haziness that wasn’t his dreams. When did he fall asleep? Wasn’t he supposed to be on watch?
“Whatisit?” His mouth tasted like raunchy cotton balls. His neck was against the window frame, bent at an unusual angle. Already he could feel the knot worked into his muscles. There would be pain once he stretched out.
“There are bodies in the basement.”
He was off the floor in an instant. “What? What do you mean, bodies? Who?”
“People. I dunno. Maybe the ones who own this house. Who the hell cares. We’ve got to get outta here. It’s a bloody trap is what it is.”
Evans’s face was pale, his eyes wide and looking in every direction except at Michael. He rushed over to the window and stared out into the night. Michael joined him, but there wasn’t anything to see. It wasn’t a clear night, even the stars were invisible. When did it get dark? The sun was still in the sky last he looked. How could he do this—falling asleep while on duty? These people depended on him. He’d told Evans and Billy he would search the upstairs for useful things: weapons, clothing, that sort of stuff. He hadn’t even made it past the first bedroom. What kind of leader was he if he couldn’t do a simple thing like stay awake?
If this was a trap, then the Baggers would be coming. They might already be here; it was too dark to tell. The surrounding acres of forest made the ranch house the perfect hideout, but it was also a great location for an ambush.
Why hadn’t he thought about that earlier?
“Who else knows about this?”
“No one.” Evans pulled away from the glass. “I was checking the basement for the hot-water heater. Wanted to try and get some heat. I found them way in the back by the utility room. Stacked in the corner like wild meat. Something put them there. They didn’t just die like that.”
“That’s screwed. Where are the others?”
“Billy and the rest are sleeping in the living room. Idiots ate too much and they all crashed. I think the mother’s still in the bedroom with her sick kid.”
“Get her up first,” Michael said. “She’ll take longer than the others. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. Then tell Billy to try and gather up as much food as possible. But not too heavy. It’ll just slow us down if we have to run.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Find some weapons.”
Evans rushed off, leaving Michael alone in the master bedroom. He set to work, going through the closets, pulling boxes off the shelves and emptying the contents over the hardwood floors. What kind of people lived this far out in the middle of nowhere and didn’t keep weapons? There had to be something. He tried to remember if he’d seen a shed in the garden, but he couldn’t think hard enough. His mind was still hazy from being asleep for so long.
Maybe they were overreacting. Just because the bodies were hidden in the basement didn’t mean the Baggers were watching the house. These killers were all sorts; it was possible that these ones just happened to be the neat-and-tidy kind after a kill. Maybe they spent the night and didn’t want to deal with the smell? Or maybe they found the family hiding in the basement and finished them there. If they’d killed them elsewhere in the house, wouldn’t there be some sign of a struggle? Pooled blood on the floors or streaks on the walls—there’d be evidence somewhere, right?
The bed.
Michael turned around and looked at the duvet. It was burgundy with a black-and-silver design. On top were half a dozen pillows arranged against the post. The bedroom was neat and orderly; even the clothing in the closet was arranged according to color and style. He’d gone through the contents of the bathroom earlier, and all the toiletries were neatly stacked and freshly dusted.
So why were the pillows crooked?
Michael reached out and picked up the closest, pulling them off two at a time until pillows littered the floor. Grabbed the side of the duvet and yanked the entire thing back in one dramatic heave.
The sheets were stained with blood. No, that wasn’t the right word. They were swimming in the stuff.
“Oh, God.”
He had to get Evans. Crossing the room, he put his hand on the doorknob, twisted, and started to open the door.
From downstairs came the sound of breaking glass. Wood splintered as the back door was kicked in. Billy shouted something, but the words were lost in the distance. Someone screamed.
Too late.
Slamming the door, he instinctively turned the lock. As he moved toward the bed, his heart jolted its way into his throat. Screams echoed up the stairs, voices he recognized. Something or someone thumped against the wall. More glass shattered.
He should move. Do something. But he couldn’t. His legs were stuck to the floor. Blood rushed to his head, pounding in his ears, blurring out the screams and crashes. They were being slaughtered down there and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it.
“Michael.”
A fist slamming against the door broke his paralysis. Jumping, he stepped backward, tripping over the side of the bed, where he fell and cracked his back against a wooden hope chest. He sat down hard, chomping down on his tongue. He tasted blood; it filled his mouth, forcing him to gag. Stomach clenched, he crawled toward the bathroom and shoved his head in the toilet.
“Michael, open the damn door. We need help.”
He could hear Evans screaming at him, but he was too far away. The voice was distant and blurry, like something out of a bad dream. He banged a few more times, his fist rattling the frame.
Then nothing.
Michael stood up on shaky knees and turned on the faucet, splashing water on his face. His sense of reality had gone out the window. He needed to think, get his brain working. If he didn’t act soon, they’d finish up downstairs and come for him next. But something turned off inside of him. All he could do was stand in front of the mirror and stare at his wet face. Brown eyes stared back at him. He brought his fingers up and pulled at a few of the long strands of greasy hair.
Is this what a cow
ard looked like?
“What the hell are you doing?”
He started to scream, and Evans covered his mouth with lightning speed. How could he not have noticed there was an adjoining door to the bathroom?
“I. I can’t. Don’t touch me. I’m okay, man, I’m okay.” The words regurgitated from his lips, no rhyme or rhythm. Babbling.
Evans slapped him hard. “Snap out of it.”
It worked. The pain burned across his cheek, kicking his body back into action.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he lied.
Evans didn’t respond. He turned and headed back to the other bedroom, where the mother sat on the edge of the bed, rocking her half-dead child and whispering to him that everything was going to be all right.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Evans said. He moved past the mother and looked out the window. “We’ll have to climb out on the ledge.”
“I can’t do that,” the mother said. “We can’t. We’re not strong enough.”
“I’ll carry him,” Evans responded.
Michael looked at him with resentment. Evans was taking charge. Just like that. He didn’t throw up or lose all control of his body. He kept cool.
“We could try hiding,” he said. “They may not know we’re up here.”
“Don’t be daft,” Evans snapped.
Michael’s eyes hardened.
Something slammed against the door. The mother let out a yelp, pulling her child closer, nearly to the point of suffocation. There was a low, guttural hiss from the landing outside the room, and someone tested the lock.
A second bang.
A third.
The door cracked and groaned under the weight. They were coming.
Evans couldn’t get the window open. He pulled at it with all his strength. “Help me,” he snapped at Michael.
The wood of the door splintered.
He didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.
The door gave way. The Baggers filled the room. Four of them in total: three males and one female. Two of them were holding hands as if they were on some sort of psychotic honeymoon. Clothing soaked and stained, they dripped blood all over the floor, grinning like wild hyenas closing in on the kill.