Charlie Huston - Six Bad Things

– Hitler! Auschwitz!

Hitler launches himself at Terry.

I put my feet on the coffee table and shove it.

Dale fires his crossbow.

It sounds like someone striking a steel wall with a plastic plank. The bolt hits Hitler in midair, passes so quickly through his left hind leg that it looks like a magic trick, and plunges into T’s calf, pinning him to the wall. The coffee table hits Terry and Ron in the shins just as Ron pulls his trigger. He stumbles, the barrel of the Remington jerks up, and a load of birdshot blasts a hole in the wall just over Rolf’s head. Terry falls flat on his back, his head slamming against the floor, and he gets a perfect view as Hitler soars over him and crashes into the love seat.

Sid pops up from the couch, his hand flying to his gun just as it slips down into the leg of his baggy jeans. Rolf grabs one of the sofa cushions and flings it at Ron as he swings his gun back in our direction, pumping another shell into the chamber. Ron ducks and Rolf jumps across the table at him.

Terry rolls and squirms around as Hitler scrambles back at him. Terry lunges backward and strikes the coffee table, and that’s all the running away he gets to do. Hitler latches on to the closest target. Terry starts to scream like a dying rabbit.

Sid’s gun slides down his pants leg, out the cuff, and clunks to the floor, and Dale swings his crossbow at him like a pickax. Sid leans back, the crossbow whistles past his face, Dale is dragged off balance, and Sid grabs the back of his neck and pushes him down to the ground.

Rolf has grabbed the barrel of the Remington and is lurching around the room with Ron as they struggle for control of the weapon. Blood is gushing out from between Hitler’s locked jaws as he jerks his head from side to side. I’m almost grateful for Terry’s screams, for keeping me from hearing the tearing sounds.

I grab my money and phone and step over to T. He’s out cold, keeled over on the floor, the fletched shaft of the bolt sticking out of his leg. I grab hold, and yank. The bolt doesn’t budge. It’s gone through his leg and the Sheetrock of the wall and sunk itself deep in a 2x4 stud. I look over my shoulder.

Rolf has forced the barrel of the shotgun into the air and grabbed Ron’s throat with his free hand. Ron is still holding the butt, his finger on the trigger, but has his other hand on Rolf’s throat. They swing around in a circle a couple times, and then Ron pulls the trigger, blowing a hole in the ceiling, and Rolf yelps and lets go of the gun. Sid is kneeling on Dale’s back; he’s grabbed one of the Veuve bottles and has it raised in the air. I turn my head, but hear the sound as the thick glass shatters against the back of Dale’s skull.

I try to get a grip on the arrow, but it’s too slick with T’s blood. I wrench at it anyway and my hand slides off and I end up tugging it to the side, opening the wound farther. T groans, but stays unconscious.

I need to get out of here.

Terry has stopped screaming. I look. Rolf is bent over, his arms wrapped around Ron’s waist in a bear hug while Ron brings the butt of the gun down on his back, trying to break the hold. Sid is rising, dropping the jagged, bloody neck of the champagne bottle as he reaches for one of the two others. Dale is motionless on the floor, shards of glass sticking out of his scalp and neck. Hitler is looking at me. He has released Terry and is standing on his chest looking at me as I try to free T.

I stand up. Hitler takes a step toward me, gingerly placing his wounded leg down, and then lifting it into the air and holding it there. I take a step away from T, and Hitler takes a step closer.

Ron has beaten Rolf down to his knees, but Rolf refuses to let go. Too late, Ron realizes someone is coming at him from the side, and Sid’s bottle arcs toward him before he can bring the shotgun around. The bottle splinters against his face, the gun goes off, one of the silk-covered lamps explodes, Hitler flinches and blinks, and I turn and run.

The door next to the bathroom is open. I lunge through it, spin, see Hitler running at me, and slam the door closed just as he crashes into it. The force of two two-hundred-pound bodies colliding sends us both hurtling backward. I hit a wall and watch him scrabble on the bare wood floor of the hall and come back at me. I kick the door and it bangs closed and latches as he piles into it, cracking the lower half, and starts trying to dig through it.

I turn and get only a glimpse of a big brass bed with a leather jacket draped on one of the posts and bloodstains on the sheets. I tear across the room to where Sandy is climbing out the window with an Adidas bag around her shoulders. She’s crying and trying to pull the bag loose from where it’s gotten caught on the window lock, and doesn’t know I’m in the room until I yank the bag’s strap free and shove her out the window to fall a few feet into the flower garden outside. I get one foot on the sill, then dive back into the room, grab the jacket from the bedpost, and jump out the window.

Sandy is still picking herself up. I hook the bag strap and start dragging her after me as I head for the path that runs to the front of the house. Sandy screams and tries to pull free. I wrench her to me, wrap my left arm around her neck, and lock my hand over her mouth. She struggles and scratches at my arm and I give her a hard shake, still pulling her along.

– Sandy. Stop it. You’ll die if you don’t stop. You’ll die.

She stops, but I keep her in the headlock, my hand over her mouth. We round the side of the house and start down the short path to the gate that opens onto the driveway. I stop at the back door and peek through a gap in the curtains.

It’s awful.

Dale is still immobile, unconscious or dead. Ron is on his back, rolling from side to side, his face covered with both hands, blood streaming from between his fingers. Terry is still alive and has somehow gotten himself flipped over, inching himself toward the front door, leaving a snail-trail of blood in his wake.

Sid has recovered his .45 and is standing over Ron, watching him writhe. He starts to raise his foot. Rolf has Ron’s shotgun and is pointing it up the hallway. T has come to and is holding his hand in the air, out toward Rolf, warding him off. Hitler is barking in the hall.

I start to look away, but I’m too late and I see it all. Sid’s foot coming down on Ron’s face. Rolf pulling the trigger. The blast that was deafening in the small room is just a muffled pop out here.

Hitler stops barking and T screams and struggles to pull his leg free of the arrow holding him prisoner. That’s all I can take.

I haul Sandy to the gate and look over it. Nothing. A quiet street, everyone at work or inside resting up for a late shift. I push the gate open and start down the drive toward T’s Chrysler, holding his jacket collar in my teeth, feeling at the pockets until I find the keys. I walk around the car, open the driver’s side door, and shove Sandy inside, pushing her ahead of me into the passenger seat. She pulls the door handle and tries to climb out. I grab at her and get a handful of hair, pull her in, and get the door closed. I let go of her hair.

– They’re killing people in there, the guys I came with are killing people. We have to go. You have to go with me.

She doesn’t move, so I go to stick the key in the ignition and miss. I try again and miss again and grab hold of my shaking right hand with my shaking left hand and manage to guide the key home. I start the car, over-revving, and drop the gearshift into drive as the front door of Sandy’s house flies open and Sid and Rolf run out.

Sandy screams and I jam my foot down. The tires spin and smoke and we fishtail away from the curb as they run to the sidewalk. I straighten the car out and we’re in the middle of the street, speeding away. I look back and see Sid pointing his gun at us and Rolf grabbing him and pulling him back up toward the house before he can shoot.