F Wilson - The Dark at the End

What was that? The biggest explosion of all. Whatever glass had survived the first two blasts cascaded into the yard with that one. He had to put some distance between himself and this doomed house. If he could reach the brush he’d Rasalom froze as he saw the piling a few feet ahead of him, blocking his way. He’d exited on the east side of the house-his dazed, pain-fogged brain had forgotten that the mini lagoon and dock lay this way.

But not too far to his right… the garage. If he could reach that, he’d have a place to hide, out of sight and out of the elements.

Another explosion from within. The house would be a smoking ruin before long. He had to move now.

As yet another blast shook the house, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the garage, praying to the Otherness that its side door wasn’t locked.

The Stinger had blown a gaping hole in the front of the house, but Jack wasn’t through. He dropped the launcher and picked up the M-79. He wished he could move across the street and pump the grenades into the house at closer range, but the high-explosive rounds were equipped with a safety feature that prevented detonation within a hundred feet of the launcher. He’d have to fire from here.

He settled the thumper’s stock into his shoulder and sighted to the left of the former door, on the front bedroom where he’d peeked in and seen the baby last night.

Last night… seemed like days ago that he’d watched Georges and Gilda in their domestic bliss. They lay stretched out a few feet away. As did Dawn…

He pulled the trigger and heard the thump! that had earned the M-79 its nickname. Surprisingly little recoil for such a big round, but nothing little about the explosion that ripped out the bedroom wall. If Rasalom had thought that might be a safe place to hide- wrong .

He pumped another HE grenade into the chamber and took aim at the room to the right of the door. Another thump! Another ruined wall.

He fired two more for insurance, emptying the weapon. As he bent to pick up the empty casings, he caught motion on the east side of the mansion. A dark figure, limned by the flames from the house, moving toward the garage.

Jack watched, stunned, as the man leaned against the side door and fairly fell inside.

How could it be? How could anyone, even Rasalom, survive all Jack had thrown at him? He looked hurt-he’d definitely taken some damage-but the fact he was moving at all was a miracle.

Jack pulled the extra 40mm ammo from his pockets and inspected them. Two more HE grenades, and a couple of buckshot rounds. He loaded them up-the HEs first, followed by the shot. He might not need either type, but he was ready to finish this in any number of ways.

In fact, if things went right, Rasalom might end it himself.

He closed the door behind him and slumped against the black hood of the Mercedes. The metal was cold. No surprise there. He wondered how long Georges had been dead. No matter.

He needed a place to rest, time to heal. His recuperative powers were vast. The bleeding would stop soon, the pain in his wrist stump would ease, and then the healing would begin. He could not grow a new hand, but all his other wounds would mend. He would need nourishment, though. And warmth.

He would contact Szeto, or better yet, that fool Drexler. Let him think he was still of value, let him provide shelter in the hope that it would return him to the One’s good graces.

No chance of that.

But the first thing to do was remove himself as far from here as possible. He’d need the car for that. But he did not know how to drive. He’d never had a need. He’d left home as a child-a very wealthy child who could afford a chauffeur-so he had never learned.

But how hard could it be? The roads were filled with idiots.

He opened the driver door and slipped painfully behind the wheel.

Jack watched the garage blow open its doors and belch flame.

The car had been an afterthought. Insurance of a sort. What if Rasalom had checked the garage and found the car there? He’d have known that Gilda and Georges were not at the hospital with the baby. He might have skipped going in the house, jumped in the car, and hauled ass out of there.

Might have…

An unlikely scenario, to be sure. Considering his hubris and his special abilities, he’d think himself capable of handling any situation mere mortals could toss at him. But Jack was taking no chances.

Georges, good chauffeur that he was, had kept the gas tank full to the brim. Jack hadn’t had enough octol left over to do a proper car bomb, but enough to make sure the tank went up and fried anyone inside. He’d thoughtfully left the keys in the ignition.

He checked his watch. Only a minute and ten secs since the first blow. Seemed a lot longer. Had to get a move on. But first and foremost, he had to end this.

He raised the thumper to his shoulder again and sighted on the garage. Time for the coup de A figure, engulfed in flame, broke from the side door in a staggering run, weaving back and forth, and then careening toward the lagoon. It tumbled over the edge and into the water.

Jack pulled the trigger, a too-quick shot that demolished the rear corner of the garage. He worked the pump and chambered the second grenade. He fought the impulse to run over to the lagoon and fire it into the water-the target would be too close and the safety mechanism would prevent detonation.

Rasalom was out of sight, so he aimed at the bulkhead along the far side of the lagoon where he’d seen him go in. If he was on the surface, he’d be caught in the kill radius. If underwater… Jack had no idea.

He fired and was running toward the lagoon even as the bulkhead shattered. When he reached it, light from the burning garage lit the surface of the water. No sign of Rasalom. Dead on the bottom? Hiding below the surface?

He chambered a buckshot round and fired into the water. Twenty pellets of number four shot ripped into the surface. The last round sent twenty more.

Still no sign of anything moving.

He pulled his Glock. Spacing the slugs two feet apart in a grid pattern, he emptied the magazine into the water. He replaced that with a fresh magazine and continued the pattern until he was clean out.

Still no sign of life or a body.

He checked his watch. Two and a half minutes of carnage. He still had a little time, but no more ordnance except for the Stinger-and he couldn’t fire that into the water.

He knew he should leave but he couldn’t. He had to be sure. He needed a final touch. But what?

Then he remembered a gas can he’d seen in the O’Donnell garage. As he ran back across the street he prayed it was full or near full. He’d dump it on the surface of the water, toss in a piece of burning wood from the garage, and woomp! Fire on the water.

He headed for the garage.

He broke the surface and gulped air. He’d known it was certain death-his head would be blown apart as soon as it appeared-but he could stay under no longer.

He braced for the attack but none came. Shuddering in the near-freezing water, he looked around. To his left the garage burned at the end of the lagoon. Directly ahead, above and beyond the bulkhead, the blazing house lit the night. Movement to his right drew his attention. A dozen feet away, the boat swung back and forth on a mooring rope, banging against the dock.

No one in sight on the dock or standing on the bulkhead. He appeared to be alone.

His whole body began to shake-from the cold, from the blood loss, and from the burns that covered most of his exposed skin. He almost gave in, almost allowed himself to succumb to his wounds and his hopeless position.