A Deafening Silence In Heaven - Thomas E. Sniegoski Page 0,120
in response. The angel had been silent for quite some time, and she couldn’t help but think about what might be going on back home, in Remy’s bedroom.
“I don’t know what we should be doing,” she said.
Marlowe was looking up at her attentively.
“Something doesn’t feel right out there,” she said, gazing out over the playground, and the Common beyond.
Marlowe made a soft, sad whining sound.
“I know Remy needs us, but . . .” She ran her hands over the tree bark, breaking away the loose pieces and letting them fall to the ground. “But are we really even helping him?”
The dog whined pathetically.
“Who’s to say that we’re doing anything,” she said, feeling herself growing more anxious, beginning to doubt.
Ashley looked toward the hole. It looked as though it had gotten bigger. There still wasn’t any sign from Linda.
“Part of me wants to try to go back,” she said. “Maybe back there we might actually be doing something.” The darkness of the hole pulled at her, drawing her emotions to the surface. “But that would mean leaving Linda here alone.”
Marlowe’s tale wagged, thumping upon the ground.
“What if she came back and we were gone?” she asked herself, and Marlowe. “No, we have to stay,” she said firmly. “We have to stay and do what we came for.”
She pressed the palms of her hands more firmly to the dry bark, willing her strength into the tree. “We have to keep it alive.”
Marlowe was looking at her again expectantly.
“We have to keep Remy alive.”
• • •
Mulvehill imagined that Remy would be pretty pissed about the couch.
They’d retreated from the kitchen into the living room as the Bone Masters’ numbers increased. Bullets and poisoned teeth were flying at that point, and he and Squire had flipped over the couch to use as cover.
“We should probably keep a list,” Mulvehill said, ejecting the clip from a World War II–era Colt .45 and slipping in another.
“A list?” Squire questioned, springing up over the back of the couch to spray the kitchen with automatic gunfire from a MAC-10 machine pistol.
“Yeah, of all the shit we’ve taken . . .”
It was his turn now, and he sprang up from behind the grayish blue couch and eyed the doorway. There were far more of the pale-skinned assassins than he would have thought. Mulvehill fired. He missed twice but managed to get a head and two gut shots before dropping back down for cover.
“. . . broken, or shit, just generally abused.”
Squire was getting ready to pop up again. “So, this list.” He considered. “Would it be our responsibility to replace the items on it?”
The goblin jumped up, aimed, and let out a scream as a Bone Master lunged over the furniture, a curved dagger of yellowed bone in its hand.
“Son of a bitch!” Squire screamed. He squeezed off multiple blasts from the machine pistol, but they missed, chewing up the hardwood floor and a lamp table in the corner of the living room.
“Watch the kitchen!” Mulvehill yelled as he threw himself on top of the assassin, trying to pin its flailing body to the floor.
The Bone Master was smaller, younger, but no less dangerous than its brethren. It shrieked as it tried to climb to its feet, slashing the air with the dagger. Mulvehill landed atop its scrawny arm, pinning it to the floor.
“They’re making a move!” Squire shouted, spraying the kitchen area with bullets.
“Busy now!” Mulvehill grunted as the struggling killer tried to free its arm, clawing at Mulvehill’s face with jagged fingernails. Mulvehill shook his head violently, trying to avoid the hand, applying as much weight as he could upon the killer’s arm, waiting for the satisfying—
Crack!
The assassin cried out with a mixture of rage and pain. It thrashed wildly, trying to retrieve its weapon with the other hand, but Mulvehill did not give him the chance. Rolling atop the assassin, he pressed the muzzle of the gun into the killer’s stomach and fired two shots where its heart should have been. And he must have been right, for the pale-skinned killer went suddenly still.
He stared into the face of the demon. How many does this make today?
“Help?” Squire squawked, firing his machine pistol until it was empty.
Mulvehill tore his eyes from the cooling corpse and popped up over the couch. The doorway was crammed with targets, and he began to fire. The bodies were piling up, and he and Squire were using them as cover, many shots striking those who were already dead.