Run (27 page)

He was sure God would do so.  After all, Malachi had known from a very young age that he had a special part to play in the final battles.  Surely God would not let him come so close to fulfilling his ordained mission, only to snatch victory from his grasp.  He felt all fear leave him at that thought, and believed for an instant he could see fires licking all around the doors in the hallway.  It was a holy vision, it was the Dream, now so close to becoming a reality that he was starting to see it in vision even while in the midst of his holy combat. 

Surely, he could not fail.

Thus bolstered he moved to the first door, swinging it open and extending his gun with the same motion.  The door opened to some kind of crafts room.  It looked like it had once been a guest bedroom, now converted to a small taxidermist’s studio.  Apparently the heads he had seen on the walls below were prepared and mounted here.

Malachi glanced around the room, but saw immediately that there was nowhere to hide.  The desks were small, mostly of the type that a person could by at a corner store: cheap, collapsible tables that provided no cover whatever.  The closet had had its doors removed, and stood empty, like the gaping, toothless maw of an old crone.  Nor could he see any attic door in the room.  The space was empty of prey.

Malachi moved back out into the hall, stepping softly, ever-alert to any noises that might tip him off as to where his quarry was hiding.

A shot rang out from the far room.

He immediately started toward it.  Then stopped.

What if they had separated?  What if Fran was in the last room, while John waited in a side room? 

Malachi cursed inwardly.  He was used to dealing with single victims.  The addition of another person meant new strategies he was unversed in practicing.  Still, God would provide.

After a moment, he opened the next door in the hall.

He would save the farthest door, probably the door to the master bedroom, for last.

***

Deirdre waited beside the tree.  Its rough bark bit her skin as she pressed herself to it, trying to coax as much cover as possible from the slender trunk.  She knew where they were; had narrowly missed blowing off John’s head as he walked near the window.

She was ready now, though.  There was another small window to the right - no doubt a bathroom - but it was too small to get out of.  So she kept her rifle aimed at the center of the larger window, whose glass had already been blown out.  She wanted to put down the rifle long enough to use her com-link to call Malachi and tell him where John and Fran were, but could not risk lowering her muzzle long enough to do so.  She needed to be steady.  Sooner or later one of the devil-spawn would rear a head, and she had to be ready to pull the trigger and blow them to hell in that instant.

A bead of sweat trickled down her cheek, tracking slowly across her chin, hanging for a long moment, and then dropping to the grass.  The night was cool, but her concentration was of such a high level that it resulted in physical feelings of exertion.

Another drop of sweat began a similar journey down her face.  Still she did not move.  Nor would she.  Not until she saw something in the window, and then it would be over. 

She wouldn’t miss.

***

Fran felt her body shaking as John pushed her into the small bathroom.  It was atypically neat for a bachelor’s private toilet area.  Or perhaps not.  Fran knew that most older, confirmed bachelors like her cousin were actually closer to being obsessively neat than they were to being the slobby stereotype that was more often presented as fact.  Indeed, she suspected that if Gabe had seen her place, he would have shuddered and left as soon as possible, extremely uncomfortable by what Nathan had jokingly called her "hands off" approach to housework. 

The picture of Gabe shivering at her messy house reminded her that her cousin was dead.  He would never come to see her house; would never visit her again.  The thought filled her with sorrow, and she was hard-pressed to quell the feeling.  She managed, however, pushing down the emotion so that she could attend to the job at hand: survival.

John didn’t turn on the bathroom light, instead leaving the room darkened as he went and felt under the sink.

So dark.

It didn’t matter that the bedroom let some light in, or that outside light entered through the small bathroom window, they were still in a dark place, and Fran felt her shudders grow stronger.  She was cast back in time again, to the night that Nathan had died.  The two men who gunned him down were like the ones chasing them now, though she sensed those two had not been nearly so dangerous as the mad pursuers that now sought them. 

John grunted as he found what he was looking for, then slowly cracked the bathroom door open.  He stayed to the side of the window, but no shots slammed through the window or nearby wall. 

"They’re waiting by the other window," she said, almost to herself.  "They know this one’s too small and the door out is probably covered, so they’re waiting to kill us at the other window."

John looked surprised at her statement.  But he nodded, and she thought she detected admiration in his eyes.  That filled her with warmth, almost dispelling for a moment the cold gloom that had draped itself shroud-like over her heart.  She felt her cheeks warm with a sudden glow, and knew that it was not the fear of danger and death that now had her heart beating so rapidly.  Rather, it was the nearness of this man who was now moving toward the door back to the bedroom.

John pulled Fran back into the master bedroom, leaving her near the bathroom door, then went to the conductors’ lamps, pulling all three from their brackets on the walls and quickly unscrewing their caps.  He had to put the gun down to do it, and Fran decided that if she wanted to live, she’d better start helping.

She picked up the gun and aimed it at the door.

John started when she grabbed the gun, and his eyes found hers.  Even in the darkness, she could see and sense the power in him.  It was like a tightly bound spring, ready to explode with controlled energy at any moment.

She wasn’t sure whether that made her feel safer or not.  Surely, it was best to have him on her side.  But at the same time she didn’t know if having such a huge amount of energy near her was a good idea, no matter how controlled it appeared to be.  She became aware in that instant of how able John really was, and briefly wondered if having him to protect her might not be like warding off a common burglar with a thermonuclear device.  Then she remembered what she had seen, remembered the shots taking Gabe in the head and chest, and knew that John might not be enough to fight off such pure evil.  Again, she was touched by that cold premonition of his imminent death, and shivered again.

He smiled at her encouragingly when she took the gun.  The smile warmed her even in her desperation, and the shakes that had gripped her subsided a bit, ebbing behind a wall of strength.  She knew that such strength resided within her; that it had, in fact, kept her alive before.  But always it took her by surprise when she felt that power rise within her.  Her trembling subsided and she gripped the gun more tightly.  Though not an expert as she sensed John was, she was familiar with its workings, and confident that she could kill anything that came in through the bedroom door while she was covering it.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Fran saw John dumping something into the kerosene lamps, a box of some kind of powder, then he screwed their tops back on. He then took the lamps back to the door that led to the hall.  It was a thick door, of solid core construction.  Like the rest of the house, it was also made in a quasi-old fashioned manner.  That meant that in addition to being sturdily built and carefully crafted, it also had a large keyhole in it.  Rather than the modern keyholes that ended only in tumblers and the inner workings of the door latch, Fran thought this keyhole would probably provide a clear view out of the room.  Apparently she was right, for John knelt and looked into the hall.

***

Malachi stood in the hall.  Two more rooms to go.

The second had been just as empty as the first, a pair of beds the only furnishings.  They were conveniently unmade, as well, so Malachi could easily see below them by stooping for a moment.  Nothing there.

Two more to go.

He would be thorough, but Malachi knew where they would be.  He could
feel
them, could hear the frightened pounding of their hearts as they cowered in fear before him.  He knew where they would be, and where he would kill them.

The last bedroom.

***

John had only been a few steps away from her, but she nonetheless felt glad when he hurried back to her side.  He was staying low, undoubtedly so the sniper outside couldn’t draw a bead on him, either directly or by seeing some shadow and using it to extrapolate his position in the room.  John snatched a lighter from Gabe’s bedside stand and lit all three of the red conductors' lamps he hld.  He kept the wicks low, so they burned with only the barest flicker, and handed two of them to Fran, keeping one of them for himself and taking the rifle back from her as he whispered hurriedly.

"Okay, when I open the hall door, you throw one of these out the window at the same time.  When I come back in the room, I’m going to run to the bathroom.  As soon as I do, throw the other one outside as well, okay?"

"What at?" she asked.

"Doesn’t matter.  Just throw it hard, and stay back so that the sniper can’t hit you."

"But what am I trying to hit with the lantern?"

"Nothing," he answered.  He must have seen the question in her eyes, because he continued, "You’re just trying to spook them into moving when I want them to."  It didn’t really answer her question – what are you doing? – but Fran sensed it was as much talking as they could afford to do.  They had to act now.  She nodded.  She was under control again.  They had a plan, and even if she wasn’t sure exactly what it was, she knew it felt better than the blind panic and running of the last few minutes.

John kissed her forehead.  "Be safe," he said, and spent a precious moment lavishing a look of what she hoped was pure affection upon her before moving with his eerie stealth to the hall door.

***

John looked through the keyhole and saw Malachi come out of the bedroom about twenty feet from the door.

No time to hesitate.  He threw open the door and came face to face with the man who wanted to kill both him and Fran.

John saw everything in slow motion.  Malachi’s gun was already up, and he knew there was no way he could beat the man in a shooting contest.  Not under these conditions.

There would be one shot only, and the madman would be the one to fire.

***

Fran saw John throw open the door, and at the same moment she hurled her first lamp through the window.  A split-second later she heard the crack of a shotgun behind her.  It didn’t sound like it came from where John was standing.  Rather, it came from the hallway, and she knew that one of the lunatics had fired practically point blank at John. 

***

Deirdre saw something fly out of the window.  She almost shot it before she realized that it wasn’t either of the targets she was worried about.  Just a small thing.  A bottle, it almost looked like, with a reddish tint.  It hit about ten feet away from her, and shattered with a musical tinkle.

Deirdre never wavered the point of her rifle from the window, though.  She kept her aim steady and true.  She felt like she could have held that position until the end of time, like a heavenly strength was coursing through her muscles and strengthening her.  The feeling grew more and more palpable, and her muscles felt warm.

She smiled, sure she was being sustained by her cause, until the warmth that swarmed over her muscles quickly became uncomfortable, then unbearable, and then painful.

She suddenly realized she was on fire.

She looked down at her clothes and saw bluish flame creeping along her pants.  The leather started to crack and split almost instantly in the heat, and Deirdre threw herself into the dewy grass at her feet, rolling until the flames died. 

Somehow, the people they were after had made some kind of bombs.

***

John sensed the madman’s finger tightening on the trigger of his weapon even as he raised his arm and threw the lamp in the same instant.

He threw the lamp, then dropped and rolled as the Malachi discharged his weapon.

The round hit the lamp straight on, shattering it in midair.  John had time to think what an amazing shot that was, how deadly an adversary this man would be.

Then thought was drowned out by sound as Malachi’s shot passed through the lamp, igniting the kerosene and soap powder compound it had held.  The mixture exploded as the gunfire passed through it, becoming a billion droplets of fire that flew through the air, setting the madman ablaze and showering him with burning shards of red glass.

John saw the man drop his gun and begin rolling on the carpet, trying to smother the flames that had ignited his clothing.  John allowed himself a quick smile.

Burn, you monster, he thought.  Hopefully the kerosene had soaked enough of Malachi’s outfit that the lunatic would not be able to put out the flames before he was burned to death. 

He slammed the door shut and ran to the bathroom as Fran heaved the next lamp through the window.

***

Deirdre saw the next container sail through the window, and this time she
did
move.  The homemade bomb sailed directly at her, and Deirdre had no wish to be at ground zero of the explosion.        

She hurried to the cover of another tree, hiding behind it as the one she had been at ignited.

Then she risked a peek from her hiding spot.

And saw Fran.

The woman was looking out through the window, trying to spot her.

Deirdre grinned and took one step forward, dropping to one knee, balancing perfectly and aiming rapidly in the night.

She wouldn’t miss.

She gently pulled the trigger.

***

John rushed into the bathroom and looked out the small window.