shells—
Another gunshot. The floor shudders near her hand and she feels a cough of stinging splinters—she jerks her hand back like it got bit by a snake. Feels blood from the wood. And still she has no shell.
Petry’s up. No longer making a secret of his movements. Footsteps—thump thump thump. She shouldn’t have given away the plan, shouldn’t have gotten cocky—
Atlanta cries out, scrambles to stand, the iPod clattering to the floor—
There he is. In the dark. Flash of teeth. Gun up.
She swings the shotgun like a bat. Barrel in her hand, stock slamming against his shoulder. The Winchester stock breaks in half with a bony snap—suddenly Petry is lunging for her, no gun in his hand—did he drop it? No time to worry about that now—his hands close around her throat and drop her back to the floor between the couch and table, thumbs pressing tight against her windpipe, fingers crushing the blood-flow to her brain—
She’s been here before. A man on top of her. These hands are tighter, much tighter, but the feeling is still the same—heavier than the compressed density of a black hole, his knee between her knee, his breath hot in her nose and her mouth. This an act of anger, not of lust, but to her it matters little. (To-may-to, to-mah-to.) The shotgun is out of reach. Everything is out of reach. She’s alone. No dog. No mother. Chris is dead.
A deeper darkness bleeds in from the edges, a puddle of tar threatening to smother—
Atlanta starts to shut down. Stops struggling. Just let it go. It’s all her fault. She opened the door and the demon came in. What did she think would happen? Is this what she wanted all along? Does she deserve this?
Maybe she does.
But then Petry’s eyes flash, a shimmer of sudden hunger. Not at her. At something else.
He lets go of her neck. Reaches to her side, pulls up the iPod.
She has no idea if it’s still recording. Atlanta sees fireworks behind her eyes.
Oxygen rushes to her brain. Her skull a pulsing blood bag.
It brings renewed vigor. It carries fresh anger.
She gets her arm, loops it around the leg of the coffee table, and pulls it hard right toward her. The side of the table jams into his temple, and she thinks, Here’s my chance—
But it’s not enough. He takes the iPod in his hand and smashes it against the top of her head. Again she sees stars spinning dizzily in the dark of her eye as plastic sticks in her skin and pain kicks her like a horse. Everything collapses inward—moments shuddering, shuttered—
The iPod’s broken—
Her thoughts, broken
No longer recording—
His weight is off of her
Tries to stand
Can’t
Hand out, steadies her against the couch
It’s too late should’ve killed him when I had the chance
Her plans all broken
Here he comes
Footsteps
There—
Dark shadow dark eyes mean man in monster-skin
He’s got the gun
Fine kill me end it get it over with
She kneels
I’m all alone
Gun up, black eye staring her down, open mouth
Pointed at her
Shape, movement, shadow
Petry doesn’t see
Shane.
Shane.
Shane is there—mouth in a silent o, cheap-shit flea-market katana raised up over his head like an executioner’s axe—and he brings the weapon down on Petry’s wrist.
The blade breaks in half like a dry spaghetti noodle.
Petry howls—
The gun goes off.
Another photo—this one of Atlanta as a little girl standing knee-deep in a muddy hole with a doofy smile on her face—leaps from the wall.
The gun hangs limp in Petry’s hand. Atlanta rushes. Drives a knee into his balls. Gets her arm under his arm and twists—the gun drops to the floor and she hurried to pick it up.
The sound that comes out of her is like a rabid animal. Crazed and wild.
She staggers backward. Petry advanced—
She points the gun at him.
She sees in the dark his pale face. Shane, too, who backs away, hands out like he’s trying to futilely fend off a lion. Both have a similar look—hair normally out of place is askew, plastered to forehead and thrust up like the feathers of a car-struck crow.
Moments pass. Big moments, full of expectation. Could shoot him now. Could just end it. He broke in here. Nobody would know the wiser. A justified act.
And yet.
“Outside,” Atlanta says, panting.
Petry sneers but doesn’t move.
She shoots at his feet.
“I said, outside.”
She gestures with the gun.
Petry marches. Atlanta sniffs, blows a shock of red hair out of her eye. Tells Shane, “Get my shotgun. And a couple shells. Then follow me.”
* * *
Moon’s up. Big and bright over the corn. Petry creeps