The Kingdom - Peter Collinson

Rebecca was about to set Darla straight on her weapons experience when she heard the motor in the distance. The engine ran faint, then loud, then faint again, like a motorcycle riding toward them up and down hills.

“Do you hear that?” said Rebecca, stepping past Darla and through the swinging doors to the function room, looking out over the course. The sound was louder there.

“The snowmobiles,” said Darla, following. “Thank God.”

Rebecca saw the sleds now, skimming over the creamy golf course, riders weaving in and out of formation.

She counted three sleds and pointed this out to Darla.

Darla said, “Maybe they found a third and brought it back.”

Rebecca studied the distant riders, their jackets and helmets. She was backing away from the window.

Darla was still rationalizing. “They might have changed their clothes...”

Rebecca turned and started through the function room to the hallway, running to the end, her boots clumping into the lounge. The others were rising and moving to the windows.

“Get back!” she yelled fearfully. “It’s not them. It’s prisoners.”

They all stared. Rebecca moved to the edge of the front-facing window as the noise of the engines grew to its loudest, revving like angry dirt bikes. Then they quieted to an idle.

The others shrank away, dropping to the floor. Rebecca knelt and peered over the sill.

One of the prisoners already had his helmet off. He was a compactly built, dark-skinned man standing astride his sled, smoky breath curling out of his mouth. He looked to be in his forties. All of them wore heavy jackets and boots. Their idling snowmobiles looked like sleek black insects.

The standing prisoner stepped off his sled and sized up the building, disappearing to the right.

Terry’s scared voice asked, “What is it? What’s happening?”

Rebecca slid down and turned her back flat to the wall, pressing her hands against the solid planking of the wood floor. “They’re looking around on foot,” she whispered.

Rebecca saw Fern lying on her side against the bottom of the sofa. Her rifle, their only weapon, was hugged to her chest.

Rebecca heard boot steps crunching in the snow. A vague shadow darkened the gloomy window light above her and she closed her eyes, waiting for it to pass. She opened her eyes and the room seemed to float before her.

The shadow was gone. It took all she had to turn and peer outside again.

The other two prisoners remained on their sleds. The one on foot was missing.

Rebecca ducked back, slanted against the wall. It was as though the lounge were hurtling through space. “They’re going to see the smoke,” she said.

“We’ve got to run,” said Bert, huddled low against the far wall with Rita.

Rebecca heard sniffling. Mia was with Robert somewhere behind the hearth.

“Maybe they’ll just go,” said Darla, a small voice. She sat near the hall steps, hands clenched to her chest.

“No,” said Rebecca, her own words making her feel sick. “They’re going to come inside.”

“We’re getting the hell out,” said Bert. It sounded like he was moving.

“Where?” Rebecca whispered.

Another noise now. Faint, distant as the engines had been. A high-pitched squeal getting louder. It was a whistle, growing...

“Ohmigod.”

Rebecca scrambled to her feet. She took off running down the weaving hall to the function room, rounding the tables and breaking through the swinging doors to the kitchen where the kettle was screaming with steam. She slid the glass pot off the burner and burned her hand holding the spout open to silence the noise. The kitchen doors swung behind her, slowing until only the whistle echoed in her head.

She put the kettle down on a cold burner. It hissed at her and she turned without breathing. She was separated from the others now. She had backed herself into a blind corner.

Footsteps, hard and quick through the function room. Fern entered with her rifle, barrel-first.

“Maybe they didn’t hear it,” said Rebecca, fooling herself now.

Fern said, “They heard it.”

Rebecca held on to the stove as more footsteps approached and the rest of them pushed through the black doors behind Fern. Everyone except Bert and Rita.

“Weapons,” Rebecca said. It was all she could think of. “We need weapons.”

She pulled open counter drawers, looking for knives. A noise outside made her pause: a single snowmobile engine running past the delivery door.

Rebecca could feel the hysteria rising in herself and in the room. She found a drawer full of cutlery and was pulling out knives when the panic started behind her.

“I need a gun,” said Terry, grabbing at Fern. “I need a gun!”

Terry began to wrestle with her for the rifle. Fern twisted away in amazement. “Who do you—?”

“Give me the gun!” Others tried to intervene, and Terry began to fight them too. “Get away from me!”

Dr. Rosen and Robert tried to lock Terry’s arms behind him, but he shook them off with nailing elbows and then ran to the delivery door. He was working the handle, trying to get outside. He got it unlocked before Rebecca and the rest seized him, pulling him back and forcing him up against the walk-in freezer door. His face was red and grunting. A full-blown panic. They handled him roughly, fighting Terry instead of the prisoners.

Only the sled engine stopped them. It passed the door again, this time followed by footsteps.

And Terry had unlocked the delivery door.

The steps stopped outside as the sled engine thrummed in the distance.

Then glass broke at the far end of the building.

They could not lock the outside door. They would be heard. They all stood frozen in the kitchen as though darkness hid them. Dr. Rosen was holding Terry by his collar and Mia’s raw nose was buried in her tight, mittened fists.

Fern stepped away from the rest with her rifle. She trained it on the swinging doors leading to the function room.

More glass shattering. The prisoners were inside the country club.

Terry moved again, and this time no one stopped him. He left Dr. Rosen holding a torn scrap of collar as he raced away through the swinging doors into the function room.

All reason fled with him. Darla inexplicably ran out too. Dr. Rosen stood immobile for a few seconds, watching the doors swing, then went after her. The black doors swung and swung.

The first gunshot sounded far away. A man yelling, perhaps Terry. Rebecca shrank into the corner. Hiding helplessly was the worst feeling she had ever known.

Two quick screams in the hallway, and gunshots to match. In her mind’s eye Rebecca saw Darla twist and fall.

Another yell and then footsteps charging through the function room. Fern steadied her rifle and the swinging doors burst open and a man ran inside. Fern shot him in the face. It was Terry.

Terry’s hand went to the hole in his cheek. He fell forward against the center prep table.

Mia was screaming, Rebecca was screaming. Fern was stunned and shrouded in smoke.

Terry continued on his knees to the outside door, a man possessed. He fumbled at the handle, finally pulling it open.

A prisoner with a deeply grooved face was waiting for him. Terry fell back with two gunshots in his chest.

Everyone was moving in the room except Rebecca. Fern doggedly worked the bolt on her rifle for another shot as the prisoner rushed inside, yelling in Spanish, firing at the first person he saw. Robert crumpled to the floor. Mia screamed through her hands.

Fern raised and fired again. The shot jolted the prisoner. A bit of insulating fluff flew out his right sleeve.

Then he kept coining. She was working the bolt again when he shot her in the stomach. Fern sagged a bit and raised the rifle but the mechanism had jammed. The prisoner walked up to her with her barrel trained on his crotch and shot Fern in the chest. She fell back and the rifle clattered to the floor as the prisoner stood over her.