wary.
The figure approaches the door and shines his light in through the window. Man creeps under it, watches the handle turn to no avail. Man goes into the rucksack, retrieves the television cord lead and ties Hound to the banister behind him. The figure’s face presses against frosted glass and in the dim light it looks dark, evil. Man quietly unlatches the door as the figure tries to shout to the search party. He sets the shotgun to one side. Too cumbersome, too loud. He feels for the curved blade and loops his thumb through the circle. The figure tries the door again and it opens, his torch beam illuminating the corridor and the savage and crazed Hound, bearing his teeth and frothing at the mouth. The light illuminates everything. Everything apart from Man, who lurks in the shadows. The figure sees that Hound is tied up, releases his own beast and they clash. Hound is the bigger dog. Man is sure of a victory. They tear at each other with yellowed, bloody teeth. The figure laughs and steps in.
Man moves quickly, a feline deadliness in his steps. The karambit soars in the darkness, like a silvery hawk, the tip meeting the flesh just under the figure’s chin. The blade penetrates up into the mouth cavity, rips the tongue in two. Man drags his arm backwards, drawing the figure off balance as the metallic clunk of a crossbow fires a bolt wildly down the corridor. Man hears a canine shriek but cannot stop to look. He withdraws the karambit and watches the figure writhe silently on the floor, desperately trying to hold his torn mouth together. Man takes out the hunting knife and places it at the base of the figure’s skull. He kneels on the butt of the knife, pressing the knife though soft tissue and bone, cutting the spinal cord in half. The figure stops writhing and Man withdraws his blades. He turns to see Hound standing proud, a crossbow bolt protruding from the other dog’s chest. A lucky shot. A lucky night, so far.
Man drags the figure inside, turns him over and unloops the crossbow from around his arm. He loads a bolt into the slide and primes the bow. The torch rolls around on the uneven floor, flashing Hound in the eyes. Man retrieves it, turns it off. He knows it will come in useful.
Hound pounds on the floor, turning his grizzled neck to chew at the television cord. Man unties it from the banister, holds the dog at arms-length and creeps silently upstairs. What’s left of the dog’s hair stands on end but he remains quiet. Man knows that if the dog barks again he will put a knife through his skull.
Together they reach Emma’s room, open the door to see her figure wriggling around in the bedsheets, her cries simmering to a few wet blubs. Man looms over, reaches down to grab her and smells baby shit. No time for such trivialities.
Using one hand he swaddles her in the blanket, ties it around his back so she is close to his chest. If nothing else he can use her as a shield. No one he knows of would shoot through a baby to kill another. But Man knows that Smith is no man. He has changed, grown wild with the idea of vengeance, feral with a twisted sense of evening a score. If Man and Smith meet it will be a brutal fight.
Holding Hound in one hand, with Emma at his chest, the ruck sack on his back and a loaded crossbow in the other hand, Man creeps back down the stairs. Emma’s blubs are muffled by the Barbour jacket and Hound stays quiet. Two more figures stand at the open door, beams of light flitting through the house like laser beams. Man stops, sure that his steps have not been heard over their chattering. They move in, the hallway illuminated, stepping in and out of human and dog blood. Man holds the crossbow level, aims the bolt at the nearest figure’s head. The torches remain forward; they do not check the stairs.
The figure approaches the door and shines his light in through the window. Man creeps under it, watches the handle turn to no avail. Man goes into the rucksack, retrieves the television cord lead and ties Hound to the banister behind him. The figure’s face presses against frosted glass and in the dim light it looks dark, evil. Man quietly unlatches the door as the figure tries to shout to the search party. He sets the shotgun to one side. Too cumbersome, too loud. He feels for the curved blade and loops his thumb through the circle. The figure tries the door again and it opens, his torch beam illuminating the corridor and the savage and crazed Hound, bearing his teeth and frothing at the mouth. The light illuminates everything. Everything apart from Man, who lurks in the shadows. The figure sees that Hound is tied up, releases his own beast and they clash. Hound is the bigger dog. Man is sure of a victory. They tear at each other with yellowed, bloody teeth. The figure laughs and steps in.
Man moves quickly, a feline deadliness in his steps. The karambit soars in the darkness, like a silvery hawk, the tip meeting the flesh just under the figure’s chin. The blade penetrates up into the mouth cavity, rips the tongue in two. Man drags his arm backwards, drawing the figure off balance as the metallic clunk of a crossbow fires a bolt wildly down the corridor. Man hears a canine shriek but cannot stop to look. He withdraws the karambit and watches the figure writhe silently on the floor, desperately trying to hold his torn mouth together. Man takes out the hunting knife and places it at the base of the figure’s skull. He kneels on the butt of the knife, pressing the knife though soft tissue and bone, cutting the spinal cord in half. The figure stops writhing and Man withdraws his blades. He turns to see Hound standing proud, a crossbow bolt protruding from the other dog’s chest. A lucky shot. A lucky night, so far.
Man drags the figure inside, turns him over and unloops the crossbow from around his arm. He loads a bolt into the slide and primes the bow. The torch rolls around on the uneven floor, flashing Hound in the eyes. Man retrieves it, turns it off. He knows it will come in useful.
Hound pounds on the floor, turning his grizzled neck to chew at the television cord. Man unties it from the banister, holds the dog at arms-length and creeps silently upstairs. What’s left of the dog’s hair stands on end but he remains quiet. Man knows that if the dog barks again he will put a knife through his skull.
Together they reach Emma’s room, open the door to see her figure wriggling around in the bedsheets, her cries simmering to a few wet blubs. Man looms over, reaches down to grab her and smells baby shit. No time for such trivialities.
Using one hand he swaddles her in the blanket, ties it around his back so she is close to his chest. If nothing else he can use her as a shield. No one he knows of would shoot through a baby to kill another. But Man knows that Smith is no man. He has changed, grown wild with the idea of vengeance, feral with a twisted sense of evening a score. If Man and Smith meet it will be a brutal fight.
Holding Hound in one hand, with Emma at his chest, the ruck sack on his back and a loaded crossbow in the other hand, Man creeps back down the stairs. Emma’s blubs are muffled by the Barbour jacket and Hound stays quiet. Two more figures stand at the open door, beams of light flitting through the house like laser beams. Man stops, sure that his steps have not been heard over their chattering. They move in, the hallway illuminated, stepping in and out of human and dog blood. Man holds the crossbow level, aims the bolt at the nearest figure’s head. The torches remain forward; they do not check the stairs.
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