DOM#67A
LOSTON, COLORADO
AD 1999
8:56 PM MONDAY
John rushed back into the bedroom, gripping his rifle, and felt the look on his face change from terror to glee. "You're not hit," he said.
Fran shook her head. "The shot scared me. I figured out what you were doing and figured she’d be easier for you to hit if she was aiming at me." She motioned at the window frame, where a large chunk of wood was missing. "That was almost a bad idea."
John smiled widely, took her face in his hands, and kissed her warmly. It was a risky thing to do, he knew, to take even a second out of their escape. But he could not contain himself. She was braver than anyone he had ever met, quick thinking and smart to boot, and if he didn’t kiss her right then he figured their pursuers wouldn’t have to kill him after all, because he would simply explode.
The kiss was short, but sweet. She smiled when it was done, and she was beautiful.
"We have to go now," he said, and gestured at the window. "I think I got her, but I don’t know how bad."
Fran nodded. Without a word she shoved some large glass shards out of the window pane, then rolled through the open gap, moving as fast and as well as anyone John had ever seen while in the service.
He heard her fall with a thump onto the eve, rolling to a stop only inches from the edge. A moment later, John came through the window. He seemed to glide over the sill, landing on his stomach beside her.
"Do we go?" Fran whispered.
He shook his head, scanning the landscape around the house. "Two down. There’s one more. And we don’t know where she is."
***
Jenna heard the shots from her position in front of the house. She waited, though, until, they ceased, trying to breathe through her nose and not swallow too much of the blood that still streamed from her shattered gumline and the mangled remnants of her front teeth.
She waited.
Waited.
Waited.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. She entered through the front door, swinging her gun left and right, gripping it tightly in both hands with the elbows straightened. It was the stance of an expert marksman, which Jenna was. She was determined not to fail again, and knew that if she saw John or Fran again, they would not escape her.
Nothing. All was dark.
She moved to the stairwell, glancing up and seeing the body at the top of the stairs.
***
John continued scanning the environs. Fran joined him in his search, but neither of them could see a thing.
"Anything?" she whispered.
He shrugged, still looking.
"Then let’s go," she said.
"What? Why?"
This time it was her turn to grin at him, and he felt his spirits lift immediately.
"I guess I just feel lucky," she said, and rolled over the side of the eve, dropping to the ground and landing in a crouch.
He followed suit, landing near her.
"In a hurry?" he asked. He felt a laugh boiling inside him, trying to get out. Even in the middle of a nightmare, during one of the most horrifying and intense fights of his life, and this woman still could make him smile.
Now if only they could survive the night.
***
Malachi’s eyes fluttered and then opened. Every inch of him hurt, but he knew he wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die. Not until his work was done and the Lord called him home.
So he would not die, but there was no denying that he could be hurt. He looked at himself, and saw that his clothing hung in tatters, pink flesh showing through in many places. Still, he didn’t look or feel badly burned. More like a particularly bad sunburn. Inconvenient and painful, but hardly crippling. He felt his head, and his fingers came back sticky and red. Some piece of whatever John had thrown at him must have hit him in the head, knocking him out for a minute or two.
He noticed Jenna, then, staring down at him, on her hands and knees beside him and looking worried. Her mouth still bled copiously and she sucked at the blood, trying not to drool on him.
"You all right?" she asked.
He snapped completely awake then, sudden adrenaline pumping through him as the implications of her presence coursed through his being. "What are you doing in here?" he snapped.
"I heard the shots and I thought they might have –"
He cut her off with a hard right cross. She screamed and he felt the nubs of her teeth rasp across his knuckles, cutting them. His fist ached with the impact, but he knew her mouth felt far worse, and that thought made him smile inwardly, though no trace of mirth or happiness could be seen in his expression, which was utterly devoid of humanity.
"Stupid whore!" he screamed. "I told you to wait outside!"
He rolled to his stomach, grabbed his gun from the floor, then stood in spite of the myriad aches and pains that caused his bones to ache and his skin to crawl. He ran to the back bedroom, hoping that he would find John and Fran dead in the room, blown away by Deirdre.
In the bedroom, he saw that the window was destroyed, but there were no bodies. No John. No Fran. He raced to the window and looked through the shattered remains of the frame. Outside he saw no trace of his quarry. No John. No Fran.
Just fire and Deirdre, laying in a crumpled heap at the base of a tree. He couldn’t see if she was dead or not, but thought it likely she was. Though he knew John would have regrets about killing her, there would be nothing to stop him from carrying out the job if he was put in a position where her death became necessary to prevent his or Fran’s demise. Malachi was protected: his holy nature would prevent John from taking deadly action against him. But Deirdre had no such heavenly protection, and so he mentally adjusted his plans in case she should prove to be dead.
At the same time, anger welled within him, that same, incalculable rage that he felt more and more with every passing day. It boiled up like steam through a pipe, seeking egress before terminal pressure built up and caused an explosion. The requisite escape mechanism was triggered as Jenna entered the room, and Malachi felt himself bringing up the muzzle of his gun. "You let them get away! I should kill you and cut your body into pieces."
Jenna tried to smile through the bloody mess of her mouth, looking eerily like a clown, her blood-rimmed mouth standing out harshly from her pasty complexion. Her thoughts were clear: death was the ultimate release for those on a mission such as this. The dead were guaranteed a martyr’s eternal bliss, cradled in the arms of God and forever knowing joy.
But Malachi cocked his weapon. "Don’t go thinking that. You’d go straight to hell, my dear. I’d make sure of it."
Jenna’s smile disappeared. Malachi knew she was aware of his holiness, and so she must also be aware of his exalted standing before God. Even a martyr would not find heavenly peace should he testify before her at the gates of Heaven. For such as found his displeasure, their souls would be freely passed to Hell, for Satan to sift and grind them into dust.
A siren sounded in the distance. The sound presented an eerie, ululating melody to the threat that hung between them. It sang of death, and Malachi let Jenna think about that song for a moment.
Then he lowered his gun. "You’re lucky I need you right now."