A. Colucci - Seeders

“Snip, snip, snip, Monica.”

Isabelle had barely been able to turn the kitchen door handle. After running back from the shed, she had collapsed on the cold kitchen tiles, soaked in mud and the memories of Jules’s squirming body, and then curled up in the shadows and cried.

That was hours ago and now she was asleep, slouched in the library chair with the rifle loosely in her lap. The downpour had become the soothing hypnotic sound of light rain.

A crack of thunder startled her awake and she jolted upright, fumbling for the gun. A burst of lightning lit up the patio, blurry from raindrops that dripped down the windows. Isabelle froze in the chair, getting her bearings. She was still alone in the library. The house was quiet and morning was not far off. She could see the darkest blue in the sky where it had been black hours ago.

Still, it was freezing cold and dark in the room. The fire in the hearth had died and she zipped her coat to her chin, thinking about Jules in the shed. How he sprang from the dark corner like a leopard. She needed more light, more heat. She picked up the last log and threw it onto the embers and the flames sprang to life, warming her hands.

Lightning flashed and she turned to the windows.

A loud bang hit the glass, and Isabelle gasped. For a split second, she saw the silhouette of a giant, his face glowing white and dark eyes staring at her.

Isabelle pointed the rifle, but the figure was gone. She stood fixed as a statue, eyes wide, ice running through her veins. Thunder rumbled and the barrel shook in her grip.

Crrrrkkkk!

Jules crashed through the window with a heavy fuel tank over his head like a battering ram. The sky lit up brilliant white as shattered glass sprayed across the room, sparkling like confetti. Wind swept a frosty rain into the house.

Jules lay on the floor, a table length away from Isabelle’s feet, but she couldn’t move.

Please be dead.

In the firelight, she could see the broken arrow in his back. He lifted his head and stared with black eyes, face tilted and smiling. With a broken nose and shards of glass in his mottled cheeks, he looked like a monster. Isabelle kept the shaking rifle pointed at his chest as he staggered to his feet and lurched sideways. She thought he might fall over, but then she saw the fuel tank in his hands, rising over his head.

The gun went off as the tank flew toward her with mammoth force. Isabelle sidestepped but it caught her elbow, knocking the gun from her hands and crashing into the wall.

Jules was thrown back as the bullet hit his shoulder, and he tripped on the broken window frame, stumbling backward onto the patio.

Isabelle dropped to her hands and knees, patting the floor for the rifle. She could hear the sound of footsteps in the upstairs hall and someone shouting for her.

By the time Luke reached the library, Jules was gone.

A DUSKY TINT OF MORNING light crept over the library furniture and walls. There was a gaping hole where a window had been and wind blew rain across the rug. Luke stared dumbstruck at his mother, standing in front of the broken glass, rifle ready and pointed at the patio.

“What the hell happened?” Luke asked.

Isabelle turned to him slowly, with no expression as though walking in her sleep. Mist blew through her hair.

“Mom,” he shouted and her eyes became alert.

She looked around the room, rubbing her bruised elbow, and said, “We should go. Now .”

Luke went to the window that had shattered from floor to ceiling, where remnants of glass hung like icicles. He squinted at the patio.

Isabelle hurried to the hallway and up the stairs, calling for Sean. She reached his room and found it empty, and then doubled back and opened the door to Monica’s room.

Her fist muffled a hideous cry.

Monica lay on the bed in her panties, eyes wide and mouth gaped in an expression of agony. Blood had formed a dark clot from the deep puncture in her throat, where tiny pink bubbles gathered and popped. A trace of light from the window showed her body, white as snow, the bed soaked in red, and everywhere, from her forehead to the tips of her toes, were hundreds of ragged cuts, bloody slices an inch in width as though she were pelted with an absurd kind of shrapnel.

The horror hit Isabelle like a grenade. She turned on feeble knees and took a step before doubling over. Nothing came up but dry, painful heaves.

Luke was nearly at the door, calling for Monica. Isabelle gathered all her strength to push him into the hall, wiping her mouth and slamming the door behind her. She confronted him with a loud but shaky voice.

“Go downstairs. There’s no one in their rooms.”

He could see the truth in her expression.

She tried to hold Luke back, grasping his shirt, but he was frantic.

“Please, please,” she beseeched him, but her small frame was no match for his size and he shook her off, storming the room.

Isabelle held her ears over the cries of her son. When she stepped into the room, he was pacing the floor, pulling his hair and yelling to the ceiling. He stopped long enough to heave out a thin stream of soup and alcohol in the corner of the room.

Luke allowed Isabelle to lead him into the hallway, where she held his convulsing body and let him cry until there was nothing left but dazed shock, and they walked down the stairs together.

Luke broke away in a full rage. “Beecher did this! He smashed the window, didn’t he?”

“Yes, I mean…”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I tried. I shot him. He might be dead.”

“Well, you were too late.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Luke.”

A few minutes later they were in the office. Luke sat on a chair close to the fire. His burst of anger had been fleeting and now he looked dazed, staring at the flames in dead silence. His body shook so feverishly Isabelle could barely keep the blanket wrapped around him.

She was worried. As long as Luke was in shock, he couldn’t help search for Sean and Ginny. He would have to stay in the house until they could all leave together. The fire was dying and she tossed in loose paper and wooden bookends from the shelf. Enough to keep him warm for a while.

“I’m going to find your brother. Don’t leave this room, do you hear? You’re not to leave. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

Luke fell into quiet sobs and she put her arms around his neck. The urge to stay and comfort her son was strong, but the instinct to save both her children was stronger.

“If I’m not back in half an hour, get yourself to that boat. Try the radio, channel sixteen. Keep trying it.”

He stared blankly at the fire until he heard his mother reloading the rifle. His voice was raspy. “What if he finds you?”

“I’ll blow his head off.” Isabelle slipped a handful of bullets into her coat pocket.

When Luke turned from the roaring blaze, she could sense his body was returning to normal. His expression of fear and shock had faded. Instead, she saw only anger.

“I want to be there.” He stood and the blanket fell to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”

It was dawn and silver mist floated over the woods. Isabelle and Luke walked in silence. Cold drizzle was still coming down, but the muddy ground had begun to harden.

Luke was agitated, and it wasn’t just the image of Monica. There was something on his mind that wouldn’t let go. He asked Isabelle, “When did you shoot Beecher?”

“When he came through the window. I shot him in the shoulder.”

“So how did he get upstairs? When did he have a chance—”

“We’re almost there,” she said, stopping his thought. “Right through these pines.”