Aiden asked.
The scrawny tween boy pointed the .22 pistol—a long-barrel Browning target weapon—at Gil’s chest in an unswerving grip. All he said was: “Dude.” Then shook his head disapprovingly, like a parent disappointed in his child.
Gil held up the crossbow, gently set it down on the floor.
“Let’s try this again,” he said, “my name is Gil. I’m a survivor. Just like you. Now if we can all just put down our weapons and—”
The .22 went off. A sharp snap—the wall coughed up bits of drywall into Gil’s cheek and he danced away from it.
Another disapproving shake of the head from Scrawny. “ Dude .”
Aiden clarified: “He means, I talk. You shut the fuck up. Say one more word, he’ll have a bullet rattling around in your head like a marble in a fishbowl. Nod if you understand the words coming out of my mouth.”
Every inch of Gil wanted to reach out and snatch up the weapons from these kids and scold the king hell out of ’em. He remembered one time Kayla, thinking someone was breaking in, took a .22 rifle off the gun rack in his bedroom and accidentally shot a hole in the ceiling. Went up through the attic, punched a hole in a junction box, almost started a fire in the insulation. That was when he taught her about gun safety—she never much liked it, but she needed it. The chief lesson he drummed into her head, time and time again: you never point a gun at another human being unless you mean to kill him .
Still. This was not the time. So Gil just nodded.
“Like I said: my name’s Aiden. The skinny sum-bitch with the Browning Buck Mark Plus aimed at your ball-sack is Pete. Girl who hit you with the chair-leg, that’s Ashleigh. Pigtails over there, that’s the Princess.” The girl waved, smiling big, her bone-woven pigtails bouncing. Aiden gave her a mean look and she stopped waving. Aiden pointed to the boy with the ice-picks. “That’s Booboo.” Then to a girl with a cleft lip and a sling-shot. “That’s Little Mary. Big Mary’s not here. That’s right. There’s more of us. A lot more.”
Gil almost spoke, then bit his tongue. He gestured toward the little plump four-year-old.
Aiden narrowed his gaze. “Don’t you worry about who he is, old man.”
All the children stood around, staring burning holes through Gil. Everyone except the one called the Princess, who stood there smacking her lips and looking blissfully ignorant of the horror in the room before her. Reminded Gil a little of Kayla that way. His heart went sour just thinking about it.
“Your dog’s dead,” Aiden said.
Gil felt like the oxygen had once more been removed from the room. Like a bag was again over his head and he was struggling to breathe. Once upon a time he hated that vampire’s little hellhound, but things had changed. Creampuff was like a board floating in the ocean, to which Gil clinged. And now? Gone?
Aiden continued: “He bit me, so we had to break his neck. Same goes for you if you try anything—”
From downstairs, a bark. A very familiar bark.
Gil felt like he could breathe again.
Aiden’s face grew red and he screamed downstairs: “Goddamnit, Charlie! I told you to keep that fucking mutt quiet!” He turned back to Gil. “Fine. I was lying. Whatever. Screw you. Not my fault you—“
Another sound. Not a bark.
Again, the bellow of a distant hunter—a keening, high-pitched screech. The sound made the hairs on Gil’s neck reach for the stars. He could see that he wasn’t alone. All the kids shifted uncomfortably. They knew what they were hearing.
Princess spoke: “Ellie.”
The other kids said the same name in unison: “Ellie...”
They bowed their heads, suddenly somber.
Gil dared speak. “You... you know what made that sound.”
“That’s Ellie.” Aiden nodded. “She was one of us.”
C OBURN SMELLED PEACHES and cigarettes. Heard Kayla laughing somewhere behind the high-pitched tone humming in his ears. Remembered that the last time he saw someone
The scrawny tween boy pointed the .22 pistol—a long-barrel Browning target weapon—at Gil’s chest in an unswerving grip. All he said was: “Dude.” Then shook his head disapprovingly, like a parent disappointed in his child.
Gil held up the crossbow, gently set it down on the floor.
“Let’s try this again,” he said, “my name is Gil. I’m a survivor. Just like you. Now if we can all just put down our weapons and—”
The .22 went off. A sharp snap—the wall coughed up bits of drywall into Gil’s cheek and he danced away from it.
Another disapproving shake of the head from Scrawny. “ Dude .”
Aiden clarified: “He means, I talk. You shut the fuck up. Say one more word, he’ll have a bullet rattling around in your head like a marble in a fishbowl. Nod if you understand the words coming out of my mouth.”
Every inch of Gil wanted to reach out and snatch up the weapons from these kids and scold the king hell out of ’em. He remembered one time Kayla, thinking someone was breaking in, took a .22 rifle off the gun rack in his bedroom and accidentally shot a hole in the ceiling. Went up through the attic, punched a hole in a junction box, almost started a fire in the insulation. That was when he taught her about gun safety—she never much liked it, but she needed it. The chief lesson he drummed into her head, time and time again: you never point a gun at another human being unless you mean to kill him .
Still. This was not the time. So Gil just nodded.
“Like I said: my name’s Aiden. The skinny sum-bitch with the Browning Buck Mark Plus aimed at your ball-sack is Pete. Girl who hit you with the chair-leg, that’s Ashleigh. Pigtails over there, that’s the Princess.” The girl waved, smiling big, her bone-woven pigtails bouncing. Aiden gave her a mean look and she stopped waving. Aiden pointed to the boy with the ice-picks. “That’s Booboo.” Then to a girl with a cleft lip and a sling-shot. “That’s Little Mary. Big Mary’s not here. That’s right. There’s more of us. A lot more.”
Gil almost spoke, then bit his tongue. He gestured toward the little plump four-year-old.
Aiden narrowed his gaze. “Don’t you worry about who he is, old man.”
All the children stood around, staring burning holes through Gil. Everyone except the one called the Princess, who stood there smacking her lips and looking blissfully ignorant of the horror in the room before her. Reminded Gil a little of Kayla that way. His heart went sour just thinking about it.
“Your dog’s dead,” Aiden said.
Gil felt like the oxygen had once more been removed from the room. Like a bag was again over his head and he was struggling to breathe. Once upon a time he hated that vampire’s little hellhound, but things had changed. Creampuff was like a board floating in the ocean, to which Gil clinged. And now? Gone?
Aiden continued: “He bit me, so we had to break his neck. Same goes for you if you try anything—”
From downstairs, a bark. A very familiar bark.
Gil felt like he could breathe again.
Aiden’s face grew red and he screamed downstairs: “Goddamnit, Charlie! I told you to keep that fucking mutt quiet!” He turned back to Gil. “Fine. I was lying. Whatever. Screw you. Not my fault you—“
Another sound. Not a bark.
Again, the bellow of a distant hunter—a keening, high-pitched screech. The sound made the hairs on Gil’s neck reach for the stars. He could see that he wasn’t alone. All the kids shifted uncomfortably. They knew what they were hearing.
Princess spoke: “Ellie.”
The other kids said the same name in unison: “Ellie...”
They bowed their heads, suddenly somber.
Gil dared speak. “You... you know what made that sound.”
“That’s Ellie.” Aiden nodded. “She was one of us.”
C OBURN SMELLED PEACHES and cigarettes. Heard Kayla laughing somewhere behind the high-pitched tone humming in his ears. Remembered that the last time he saw someone
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