Jack Kilborn - Endurance

They feel more like hunter’s eyes.

The last time she’d had this feeling was during the war. She’d been with the third field hospital, 85th Evac, in Qui Nhon. The conditions had been primitive. Surgery in tents. Not enough equipment. Always low on medicine. After a full morning of plucking slugs out of a boy’s legs without antiseptic or rubber gloves, she’d gone to the latrine to wash the blood out from under her fingernails, and some instinct made her duck. A second later, a sniper’s bullet passed over her head, killing the nurse in line ahead of her.

Florence had felt him.

Just like she felt someone now.

She took in the room, her eyes sweeping over it slowly. It was small, tidy, smelled strange like the rest of the house. There was a bed. Dresser. Bathroom. Window. Door.

A closet door.

Is that what I’m feeling? Someone in the closet?

Florence moved to the door, slow and cautious. Her left hand reached for the knob. Her right hand drew back in a fist.

She hesitated.

What if there is someone in there?

For all of her adult life, Florence took pride from her ability to take care of herself. No matter the situation, she could handle it.

But now? At my age? In my condition?

Running earlier with Kelly had been difficult, and hiding her pain had been impossible. The only reason Kelly didn’t notice was because she’d been so scared.

Florence let her fist open. If there was someone in the closet, she wanted something with a little more heft than her fist. The lamp next to the bed would pack a bigger wallop.

Florence picked it up. It was a standard ceramic table lamp, maybe five pounds, the cylindrical shade boasting a glued-on picture of Grant’s face.

Then she raised the lamp up with one hand, and grabbed the knob with the other.

Ready or not...

She yanked the door open and stared.

Staring back was nothing but empty clothes hangers.

Florence blew out a deep breath and set the lamp back down.

But she still felt like she was in someone’s crosshairs.

Under the bed?

Florence eyed it. Queen size. A large frame, up off the floor on casters.

She watched it for a moment, looking for movement.

It remained absolutely still.

Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe my proximity sense is just one more thing that’s failing on me.

Or maybe there is someone under there.

Florence swallowed, then took a deep breath.

Only one way to find out.

She slowly crouched down, reaching for the dust ruffle on the bed.

“Florence?”

Florence jerked her head around, saw her daughter standing in the doorway.

“Letti?”

Letti folded her arms and leaned against the jamb. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

# # #

Deb lashed out, striking Mal in the chin as his hands locked around her throat.

“Down!” he yelled.

He pulled her head toward him, toward his lap, his arms incredibly strong. The seatbelt gave some slack then locked up, keeping her in her seat. She made another fist, chopping at his balls, missing and whacking his thigh.

“Someone is shooting at us!” Mal said, catching her wrists.

She paused for a moment. Mal released her, pressing the catch on his seatbelt, kneeling down on the floor mat and then reaching for her again. Deb processed what he said.

The tire blowout. Did someone shoot the tire?

Deb killed the engine and the headlights. Then she hit the seatbelt button, draping herself over the armrest, the gearshift digging into her belly.

“Are you sure?”

His voice was low, harsh. “I used to be a cop. That was gunfire. Someone took out our wheel. Stay below the window.”

Deb tried to press herself into the bucket seats. Mal opened the passenger door and spilled out onto the road.

“Come out this way.” Mal beckoned for her. “He’s on your side.”

Deb pulled herself toward him, and he grabbed her hands. She moved a few inches, then stopped cold.

My leg is stuck on something.

She wiggled her pelvis, trying to turn her knee. But without being able to feel her foot, she had no way to know what it was stuck on, or how to free it.

Mal tugged harder, wrenching her shoulders.

“Hold on,” she ordered. “Let go a sec...”

He complied, and she tore at her snap pants, her fingers ripping at the Velcro strap. Then she hit the release nozzle, breaking the suction between her stump and the prosthetic’s socket. She reached for Mal again, and he tugged her roughly, yanking her out of the car and into his arms. They fell, Mal onto his back, Deb landing on top, her chest crushing into his, their faces inches from each other.

“What do we do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know where the shot came from. I’m going to wait for him to fire again, then try to flank him.”

Deb pulled away, trying to get off of him, and her empty pant cuff caught on something. To keep from falling over, she straddled his waist.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Mal said.

“Are you always such a smart ass in life-or-death situations?”

“Your hair smells nice.”

“Jesus.” Deb shook her head and twisted around, freeing the cuff from the hinge of the car door. Then she rolled off of Mal and sat with her back to the fender.

Mal eased the car door closed and sat next to her. The night was dark and silent. Even the crickets had ceased their song.

A minute passed. Then another. Deb’s eyes slowly adjusted. The orange hunter’s moon overhead, pinned in a sky of stars, made it easier to see.

“Think he’s still there?” Deb asked.

“I dunno.”

“Can’t he circle around and shoot us?”

“Yes.”

Deb frowned. “Weren’t we safer in the car?”

“Probably.” Mal leaned closer. “But now I’m wondering why he didn’t shoot us instead of the tire.”

They waited for another minute. Doubt took root in Deb’s head, then began to grow.

“Are you sure that was a gunshot, and not just a blowout?” she asked.

“Yes. Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?”

“Mostly sure.”

Deb squinted at him. “Have you ever had a blowout before?”

“No. But I know a gunshot when I hear it.”

“How do you know a tire blowing up doesn’t sound like a gunshot?”

“I know.” Mal rubbed his chin. “I think.”

Another minute ticked by. Deb was listening so hard she could make out the sounds of the night. The crickets returned. A frog croaked. Miles away, an owl announced itself.

“How sure are you now?” Deb asked.

“Sort of sure.”

Deb sighed. Her mistrust of Mal’s intentions morphed into mistrust of his instincts. While she no longer felt he was a threat, she did think he was wrong about the gunshot. Deb began to crawl around the back of the car.

“Hey!” Mal caught her remaining prosthetic leg. “Where are you going?”

“To search the tire for bullet holes.”

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

“So we just sit here all night?”

“Good point. I’ll come with.”

Mal crawled up alongside her, their sides touching. The temperature outside had dropped at least ten degrees since the sun went down, and his body heat felt good.

At the rear bumper they both got down on their bellies. Mal produced his pen light and shined it on the tire, revealing a tangle of rubber strips and twisted steel belted radials.

“Do you see a bullet hole?” Deb asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“So it could have been just a regular blowout?”

“I guess that’s a possibility.”

Great.

“So, what now?” Deb asked, her irritation coming through.