Paul Curtin - Gray Snow

Sean had the upper hand. Elise refused to speak to Michael about it anymore, saying they couldn’t know what had caused Andrew’s death. Michael knew—teenagers don’t just die. Their throats don’t seal up for the hell of it. He was murdered, but until Elise saw the situation for what it was, Sean had control.

At least he thought he did.

Michael listened to the soft breathing and occasional snores of his family around him. He turned to look at his wife, resting under multiple layers of blankets. She had been through so much—more than he could imagine. She had been healing. Until Andrew died. Now she was back to not eating. If Sean had his way, she wouldn’t have a chance at recovery. At survival. No doubt in Michael’s mind. Sean would try something against him soon. And if he died, Kelly would no doubt follow. She didn’t deserve it, not after all she had been through. Not after being violated and then losing Molly.

He wouldn’t allow it.

Michael bided his time, the clock ticking away, using the quiet moments to build his courage. Elise wouldn’t understand why Sean had to die, but it didn’t matter. Kelly and his lives were more important. Elise and Aidan’s lives were more important. Sean had gotten a taste of blood, and now he wasn’t satisfied to let it end with just the attackers. Or the people lying in the snow pile out front. Or Andrew.

He could sense the sun rising in the thick clouds from the windows to the east. No direct sunshine, just a glow that let him know dawn had arrived. He had observed Sean’s routine for a week. Daylight would come, and Sean would rise. On the days nobody else was supposed to cut wood, he got up slowly and girded himself to endure the cold outside. It would be no different today.

Sean bent at the waist and stretched his arms. Michael kept his breath smooth and soft, flashing his eyelids open and closed to get a read on the situation. He did this every minute. Like a lagging video, he watched Sean tiptoe over Michael and Kelly toward the garage. Sean threw on a few of his underlayers before grabbing the soot-covered coat and pants just outside the door. He then shut it behind him.

Michael waited on the off-chance Sean came back. A minute passed. Two. Sean was usually out there for at least thirty minutes, so time was pressing. But patience was key. If Sean became suspicious, Michael would never get another opportunity.

He listened to his heart accelerating, trying to calm his fragile nerves by counting the seconds. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Each second bringing him closer to what he was going to do. When two minutes passed, he looked at the garage door. Shut.

Sean wasn’t coming back.

He pushed himself upwards and slipped out of his sleeping bag, noting if anyone else stirred. He kept his eye on Elise and Aidan mostly. They were closest to the stairs, and he would have to get over them without anyone waking. He could circle around the dining room and go through the kitchen, but the prevalence of creaking floorboards would guarantee someone would hear him if he went that way.

Nevertheless, each step caused a faint creak, Michael wincing at the noises. He powered through the discomfort. When he reached Elise, he looked down at her, her mouth open and wafting toxic morning breath into the air. He placed his right foot over her sleeping bag and shifted his weight onto it. No reaction. He brought his feet together. Nothing happened.

Emboldened, he crept toward the staircase and started up. The stairs were the creakiest of all. So, he kept his feet on the very edges, his left next to the wall and his right near the railing. Each step emitted a muffled noise, but it was deep in the wood, and he was convinced he was the only person hearing it. After a minute, he was at the top.

He slid into Aidan’s bedroom and froze. The rifle Sean had set up, jammed into the homemade wooden vice, hung on the window. The stock, heavier than the barrel, tipped down toward the floor and the barrel pointed outside at the sky. A bar stool sat just in front, beckoning him to sit. To do the deed. Suddenly, everything felt very real, and his gut twisted. He stared at the weapon, trying to convince himself not to do it. He dismissed the thoughts and approached it without breathing.

The window allowed him to see most of the backyard, minus a small thatch of roof covering the garage entry and part of the yard. The view allowed him to see Sean’s chopping block, but the tarp where he stored the wood was behind the roof. The block was less than a fifty-yard shot. Easy enough—he had been practicing like Sean had asked. Easy if he didn’t think too hard about what he was doing.

He settled onto the seat and took a few deep breaths, pulling the rifle up and pressing the stock against his shoulder. Rogue thoughts told him to stop what he was doing—that it was wrong. It was a sin to kill. They continued to pester him, but he ignored them. He blinked and thought about his family downstairs—not just his wife, but Elise and Aidan. They wouldn’t last against Sean without Michael doing something. He had to take care of the problem even if it made him unpopular. Even if it was hard. He could answer for his actions later. But not if Sean killed him first.

He tipped the rifle downward and angled it toward the chopping block. He leaned his dominant eye in front of the scope and paused. Nothing. No Sean. Panic seized him. For another minute, he looked around but saw nothing except the soot covered landscape and bare trees swaying in the icy wind. He shot up from his chair, his hand gripping the butt of the rifle to keep it level, and looked out the window over the vice. Nothing.

A noise caused him to twist around. He imagined Sean marching up to him, pistol in hand, blowing his head off right there in Aidan’s room. He tugged on the gun, but it was clamped in the mount, unmovable. He had nothing to defend himself with, except for the shotgun downstairs that he hadn’t brought, if it was even still loaded. Not that there was time to get it if Sean was already aware of his plan.

He looked back toward the yard, hoping Sean was only adjusting the woodpile under the tarp. The minutes dragged on. No sound from the stairs or the first floor. “Come on,” he whispered.

He looked over his shoulder again. Nothing. When he brought the gun’s sight back over the yard, a dark figure stepped into view. Sean walking toward the chopping block.

Adrenaline surged. He put his eye behind the scope and tracked the man. Pulled back on the rifle’s bolt action and leaned his head over to watch a brass round feed into the chamber. Looked down the scope. As he steadied the crosshairs over Sean’s body, Sean grabbed a chunk of wood and placed it on the trunk. He wiggled the axe free and let it rest on the ground.

Michael only had one opportunity. One shot. If he missed, Sean would be back in the garage within seconds—and probably coming to kill him after that. Michael paused, the bead holding steady between Sean’s shoulder blades, his finger wrapping against the trigger, trying to hold it still despite his trembling, pressing his palm against the side of the gun to steady it. He was about to take a man’s life, and once he pulled the trigger there was no going back. Either Sean died, or Michael did. No other way.

He lifted his head. Taking in one more deep breath and holding it, he kept the crosshairs on Sean. He felt a resistance at the trigger like a wedge had been shoved behind it. Do it, he told himself. Do it. Do it. Do—

The gun popped and kicked against his shoulder. Smoke rose from the barrel and was stolen by the wind outside. Everything blurred. He pulled his head back from the gun and took his hands off it, the weapon thudding to its resting position. His body shuddered. He laced his fingers behind his neck and sucked in air as if he couldn’t get a breath.