Cured by Bethany Wiggins

I looked up. Dean’s rifle was on his rigid shoulder, and he stood deathly still. The dogs started barking, yanking on their chains. I jumped to my feet, knocking the book to the ground, and ran to Dean’s side. My rifle was on my shoulder before I stopped moving, the crosshairs centered on a man. Something scuffled behind us, and I knew it was Uncle Rob up on the roof
.
    â€œChest, head, chest,” Dean whispered, reminding me how to most efficiently kill a man. My stomach dropped. I had never killed a human being, and I didn’t want to. “And get in the house if it’s a beast.”
    One thing was for sure. The stranger was too old to be a beast. A bushy handlebar mustache drooped down around his mouth. His gray hair looked wet and was slicked back so his bare, pale forehead gleamed above his suntanned face. But gray hair or not, the way this man walked towardus, toward three rifles aimed at him, gave me the willies. He didn’t slow his pace. Not even a little bit
.
    â€œThat’s close enough, grampsy,” Dean called when the man was standing in the middle of the road in front of our house. I sighed with relief, waiting for the man to stop, but he didn’t. Dean didn’t give him another warning. He pulled the trigger. Sparks flew around the man’s dusty cowboy boots—boots that finally stopped walking forward
.
    â€œWhere’s the dentist?” the stranger called
.
    â€œ
Why do you need him?” Dean asked
.
    â€œI have a tooth problem.”
    â€œJack.” Dean’s eyes stayed locked on the stranger. “Go wake Dad.”
    Clutching my rifle against my chest, I ran into the house. Dad was scheduled to take night watch, so he was getting caught up on sleep. I burst into his room, and he flew out of bed, his prized Glock aimed at me
.
    He lowered the gun. “What is it?”
    â€œA man wants to see you. He’s out front.”
    Dad rushed past me, barefoot, and went out the front door. I followed. The stranger hadn’t moved. When he saw Dad, though, he took a step closer. Dad’s gun was up in an instant. “That’s close enough,” he said. “What do you want?”
    â€œI’m an old man,” the stranger called. “One of my teeth is giving me a real problem and I can feel infection spreading into my face. Will you take a look?” Dad hesitated. The stranger took a step toward us
.
    Dean stepped between the stranger and Dad. “Before you come any closer to my father, show me your hands.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” The stranger took two steps closer, his hands dangling at his sides, the toes of his boots nearly even with the edge of the sidewalk
.
    â€œShow us your hands and arms, old man. Now,” Dean said, his voice intense
.
    The stranger frowned and stepped up onto the sidewalk, and my hackles bristled
.
    â€œI’m hard of hearing,” he yelled, even though he was a mere five steps away from us. He took another step forward and paused, gaze darting up to the roof before focusing on me. His eyes softened and his mouth quirked up at the edges. He stepped onto the matted-down dead grass of the front yard, and his ankle wobbled and twisted to the side. The old man fell to his hands and knees and cried out in pain
.
    I didn’t think, just acted. Three steps was all it took, though, before my brain overrode my impulse to help the man. But three steps were enough. I was one step beyond where the dogs could reach. Before I could get my rifle up and aimed, the old man was off the ground and leaping at me like a snake striking prey. Hard hands cinched around my head, clutching my forehead and chin. One firm yank and my neck would snap
.
    Right before the man grabbed me, I saw his palms. A quarter-size scar had been branded into each
.
    The dogs started barking again. Dean yelled something. My uncle had his gun aimed just above my shoulder. Only Dad seemed calm and collected, his gun held