Paul Curtin - Gray Snow

The sound of the gunshots had reverberated off the walls, crushingly loud, so now an intense ringing sustained in his ears. A thin, acrid smoke dissipated into the air. His hand didn’t shake. After the second shot, he didn’t even think about squeezing the trigger, as if something had clicked into place, and clicked perfectly. He lowered his weapon, and the realization rushed over him.

He had killed a man.

And he would do it again if he had to.

The world seemed distant and hollow like he was watching a slow-motion version of his life. Soon the voices came back. His wife, as if miles away, was calling to him. He looked at her but couldn’t hear her words. Kelly’s sobs entered the foreground as if appearing out of nowhere. A Doppler Effect in progress, gaining momentum until he was thrust back into the world in terrifying crescendo.

“Sean,” Elise yelled out.

He looked at the door. Someone had to have heard the gunshots. They might come back to see what was happening—they might just leave, and they were taking everything. Everything . If they got away—

Kelly, now on the other side of the bed to cover herself, was sobbing. “Kelly, Kelly,” Sean called after her.

Her eyes rose over the bed.

“Kelly, you have to listen to me,” he said, his neck cranking every few seconds to look at the door. “You need to be brave. You need to check the man for keys to get me out of these cuffs.”

The rapist lay at the foot of the bed, his leg twitching every few seconds. She wouldn’t look at him. “Kelly. Please. They are taking every ounce of food from us right now. If they leave, we’ll have nothing. We’ll all starve.”

“I can’t do it.”

“I know you can. Please, Kelly, they’re going to get away with this. They can’t get away with this.”

She shook her head and crinkled her face. Her hand clenched the comforter, and she writhed as if making the decision was agony.

“Please, Kelly.”

She nodded over and over as if to convince herself, and her eyes met his. “Okay.”

He could hear a commotion downstairs, the sound of baseboards taking weight and releasing pressure. “All right. Search his pockets.”

She crept toward the man on her hands and knees, out in the open now. Her pale skin was spotted with drying blood. Sean looked away. It felt wrong, seeing something he shouldn’t be. She knelt in front of the man, trembling.

“You’re doing great. Check his pants pocket first.”

Something creaked on the steps. Sean’s eyes shot to the door. Kelly padded the man down and stuffed her hands in his pockets. “I can’t find it.”

“Check the back pockets.”

She reached back but came up empty. Another groan at the staircase. His blood ran cold through his veins. “His coat pockets.”

“There’s blood all over it,” she said.

“You can do this.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” He looked her right in the eyes. Only the eyes. “You can do it, Kelly. I believe in you.”

Cringing, she pulled down the zipper of the tall man’s coat and plunged her hands into the wet fabric. She explored inside until she stopped, looked up, and pulled out a set of sticky keys. “Toss them over,” Sean said, motioning.

She did. He caught them in the air and turned his attention to the cuffs. Only two keys on the loop, and he got lucky on the first try. The key clicked, and the cuff’s tension released with a pop. He grunted. The cuff had left a deep indentation in his wrist, ribboned with dripping blood. He stumbled forward, dropping the keys to the floor. He tossed the rapist’s gun onto the bed and looked to Elise. “Shoot anyone who comes through this door. And if this piece of shit isn’t dead,” he said, “shoot him again.”

Sean rushed to the door. He looped his finger into the trigger guard and delicately pressed the door lock until it disengaged. He rotated the handle and edged the door open, not seeing anyone in the hall, creeping forward with his gun extended, his nerves skyrocketing, pressing his back against the wall, calming himself before spinning around the corner.

The leader was there.

He lunged for Sean’s gun, catching Sean’s wrist and jerking the weapon upward. It went off into the ceiling. Sean lowered his shoulder into the man, pushing him back, and plowed him into the wall. The leader slipped on impact, losing his own gun, and ended up on his back. Sean positioned himself on top. The leader scratched at Sean’s face, but Sean leaned more weight into his opponent and swatted his limbs away.

The two wrestled, Sean trying to aim the pistol at the leader’s chest, but the leader reaching up with both hands and securing his wrist, pushing the barrel of the gun away from his body. Grunting. Fighting.

But Sean was bigger. Stronger. The disaster hadn’t emaciated him. He moved the gun closer to the leader, just an inch. “No,” the leader said. Another inch, Sean forcing it downward, overpowering the leader, the barrel pressed into his shoulder now. The man shouted, “No,” and Sean fired. The man yelped, flopping backward, and Sean stuck the gun at the base of his throat and fired again.

Blood squirted out like a torrent, splattering Sean’s arms and chest. Sean fell back on his rear, watching the leader’s mouth flapping like he wanted to scream but couldn’t. The man’s heart eked out its last few pumps until the torrent turned to a trickle and then stopped altogether. Sean blinked—stunned, but not upset. He did what he had to do.

The son of a bitch deserved it.

Sean snatched the man’s gun and held it in his other hand. He rushed down the stairs, flying two steps at a time. When he was six steps from the landing, the drywall in front of him exploded. He fell back and caught himself on the railing. He rolled down the rest of the stairs and another shot penetrated the drywall around him. He dropped as low as he could and scrambled on his hands and knees until he was behind the couch.

A moment of calm. Then the cushion above him burst into a cloud of white stuffing. Another shot. “Don’t waste it,” someone yelled from the other room.

They were shooting from the den next to the garage. He crawled into the kitchen, leaned against the counter, and raised his gun. He found the door to the reserves locked. Nobody was getting out from there. He watched the back of the kitchen near the mudroom.

Aidan stuck his head out. Sean gasped and then pressed his finger to his lips. He motioned for the boy to get out of sight, mouthing the word hide to him. The boy nodded and disappeared behind the corner.

Sean entered the dining room but found no one. The living room was empty too. The pistol-gripped shotgun lay abandoned in the middle of the room. His vision tunneled so his peripherals disappeared. He came into the den. Checked the corners. Not a soul.

He was sure the gunshots had come from that room. It clicked. The garage. They probably had taken food into the garage. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed to keep it down.

His breath grew heavier. He twisted the doorknob on the heavy door leading to the garage. Flung it open and heard the motor running and smelled the distinct burn of diesel fuel.

He didn’t own a car with a diesel engine.

They were planning to take the food away in a vehicle.

His food.

He rushed forward through the breezeway. Heard someone shouting, “Go, go, go.”

They were leaving. With all the food. Leaving them to starve. Their tires released a demonic, high-pitched screech and the smoke from burnt rubber swirled into the air. The engine noise grew more distant. Sean ran into the garage. Cans and jars were scattered around the floor. He saw the pickup truck barreling away from the house into the dirty snow.