A. Colucci - Seeders

Light burst upon a chaos of broken branches and dripping leaves, and she realized she had not fallen into the sea, but a small pond of water. Indeed, her mouth tasted dirt, not salt. Ginny paused and a smile crept over her face. She spun the flashlight once more, so the beam fell in front of her. She was barely three meters from a rock inscribed with a cross. It was more than a miracle; she was lying by her own empty grave.

“Bless you, George,” she whispered.

Without heat, the house became cold enough to see her breath as Isabelle sat upright in the most uncomfortable straight-back chair.

Soon her eyes began to close. She shook herself awake and adjusted the rifle in her lap. Keep moving, she told herself and picked up a candle, carried it to the window, and listened to the rain. She tried not to think about Sean and Ginny out in the storm. At least it seemed to be letting up. She shivered and wondered how long they could all last with no heat or lights, certainly not until Wednesday, and she played with the idea of running out to the shed. If Jules had switched off the generator, it would be easy to turn it back on.

The candles were burning down and morning was still another six hours away. She imagined Jules storming the front door, ambushing the house in total darkness. She turned on the flashlight and swept it over the room. Chairs and tables cast long shadows that seemed to move with life. Would she be able to shoot Jules if he broke into the house? Surely an ax could shatter a window and then she’d be fighting him in the dark.

Ridiculous, she told herself. Luke had shot Jules in the back with an arrow. He was probably floating dead in the ocean. Still, she couldn’t know for sure. Jules might have turned off the lights and was planning an attack. In that case, she was a sitting duck. Was she going to stand there in the dark and wait to die, let him kill her children? No, she had promised herself that she’d never be trapped again. Even if they were still alive by morning, walking to the boat could be a suicide mission, and there were still three more days until Colin arrived.

That’s when Isabelle decided to go out to the shed and turn the lights back on. If Jules happened to be in the shed, so be it. She would have to shoot him. Get it over with. Hell, it’s what Colin would have done, probably days ago. It was the right thing to do.

Without thinking too long about it, Isabelle found herself putting on her father’s yellow slicker and matching hat and boots before she could muster the good sense to change her mind. She grabbed the rifle and a flashlight and headed out.

The front door opened to a steady blast of rain. Isabelle stepped onto the patio and felt an icy wind on her face. She hurried across the patio to the back of the house, and then up a wide trail of gravel. The beam from her flashlight picked up rain and little else, as she followed the blurry path to the shed.

The stone building seemed waterlogged. Leaves of ivy on the roof trembled from assaulting raindrops. With the rifle pointed steady, she slid the door open. It glided easily across the wet track.

Isabelle stared at the empty peg board. She checked each corner of the room and stepped inside, smelling damp wood and motor oil. It was quiet except for rain on the roof, and it took some time before she felt confident that she was alone in the shed and slid the door closed, leaving a twelve-inch gap to escape.

She walked forward, sweeping the flashlight from one side and then the other, making sure no one was hiding in the corners. Noticeably absent was the loud clang of the generator as she stopped in front of the door. She put her ear against the wood. It smelled of diesel and there was no sound on the other side. Conjuring up her nerve, she grasped the doorknob and turned until it clicked, then went quickly into the room, flashlight raised and rifle ready.

The generator was a sleeping giant in the back of the room. Isabelle circled the beam of light in every direction and walked to the machine, touched the cold metal surface. The switch had been flipped to off .

She squatted down, turned the switch back on, and pumped the starter until the engine coughed. She pumped it again, but nothing happened. Her knee brushed something sharp, and a swipe of the flashlight revealed three broken wires on the ground. That’s when she noticed the concrete floor was damp with a trail of rust-colored stains. Her hand reached out and touched the splatters. They smeared red on her fingertips. Isabelle’s heart stuck in her throat.

Someone was breathing behind her.

She swung the light back toward the corner of the room, revealing a black formless shape. Then suddenly—a pair of white eyes. Jules leapt forward with a spear over his head, body covered in mud, dark mouth gaping.

Isabelle instinctively ducked to the ground. Jules fell over her body and they struggled as the flashlight and spear rolled in opposite directions. Isabelle felt Jules’s naked chest on top of her. He was covered in mud so completely that only his eyes could be seen. He pinned her shoulders and lay across the length of her body. The smell of his sweat and hot breath was like an animal’s. She didn’t recognize his scratchy voice.

“I knew you would come find me. This is our moment, Isabelle. This is how it ends. You and I together.”

His hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed tight. She tried to scream but nothing came out of her slackened jaw. Sparks burst behind her eyelids and her body felt weak. Then Jules loosened his grip and she could sense the blood pouring back to her brain. He forced his mouth over hers.

Isabelle struggled to get free, charged with adrenaline and desperation. She managed to release one hand and made a deep scratch with her fingernails, four bloody lines that ran from his shoulders to the base of his spine. That’s where she found a stick protruding from his back, just above his hip. It was Luke’s arrow, snapped in half. The upper half dangled, still attached.

She grabbed the hanging piece of aluminum and tugged it sideways.

Jules let out a cry and rolled off Isabelle, as the piece of arrow broke off in her hand.

He snorted like a bull and was on his feet, arching his back.

She scrambled for the rifle, grasping the stock and getting a finger on the trigger. The barrel pointed straight at Jules as he leapt over her body. The gun went off with an ear-splitting blast that propelled her backward and sent a bullet through the wall.

The door rumbled open and she knew Jules was gone.

She leaned back against the generator, knees hugged to her chest, sobbing. With the back of her hand, she wiped the taste of him from her lips.

Luke lay on his bed with Monica’s body wrapped around him. There were candles around the bed and the fireplace was lit, warming the room with heat and soft lighting.

Monica sat up and reached for a quarter bottle of gin.

“Stop drinking already,” he complained, agitated.

She had nearly finished the bottle and her brain was swimming in alcohol, slurring her speech. “If um goin’ out, um goin’ out sloshed, not scared t’death.”

“You have to stay sharp. In case you need to defend yourself.”

“You can ’fend me. B’sides, he’s dead, you killed him.”

“We don’t know that. It was an arrow, not a bullet.”

“He’s dead. I’m sure.” She yawned, clinging to the gin. “So was it weird, to shoo’ someone?”

Luke remembered the moment. Hearing Monica scream, seeing Jules push her head underwater. He had loaded the bow, his heart pounding like a hammer, and he wanted to hit that target more than anything. He thought of his dad.

“Not really.”