The Odds - Jeff Strand Page 0,28

could hide behind it, while somebody glancing over would see that it was an empty bathroom and hopefully not bother searching for a victim. He angled the medicine cabinet door so that he could see the hallway in the mirror.

He waited. He was definitely breathing too loud, so he focused on keeping it under control.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this. This was insane.

The stairs began to creak.

Now Ethan stopped breathing altogether.

The man reached the top of the stairs. He was a big guy, wearing jeans and a red-and-white plaid shirt. The knife in his hand was no joke. Eight inches at least. Ethan’s heart gave a jolt as the man glanced over at the bathroom.

Then he looked over at the bedroom.

And then back at the bathroom. Shit. Did he know somebody was in the house, trying to stop him?

He held the knife out in front of him and walked toward the bathroom.

Then he stopped.

He looked like he was having trouble figuring out what to do.

He turned around and raced toward the bedroom.

Ethan ran out of the bathroom and chased after him.

Apparently Ethan was the better sprinter. He reached the man just as he stepped through the doorway. He swung the hair dryer at him, aiming for the back of his head but bashing it into his spine instead.

The hair dryer popped out of Ethan’s hand.

The man stumbled forward, then spun around to face him.

He charged at Ethan, knife raised.

Ethan took a couple of steps backward, holding up his hands as if that would somehow defend him from an eight-inch hunting knife.

The man accidentally bashed his knife-holding hand against the doorway as he tried to run through it.

It was a slapsticky moment that would have been hilarious if Ethan had been watching it on a YouTube video and somebody else was the target. It also would’ve been funnier if the man dropped his knife, which he most certainly did not.

A flash of embarrassment crossed his face. It immediately turned to anger.

He charged at Ethan again.

Ethan took another step back and smacked into the wall. The man tried to slam the knife into his face and struck the wall where Ethan’s head had been only an instant earlier. The blade only went in about an inch, but it was enough for it to stick for a moment, as Ethan tackled him.

The knife, sadly, came free of the wall and stayed in the man’s hands as both of them fell to the floor.

“Who’s there?” the woman cried out.

Ethan cried out himself as the man slashed him across the arm, cutting him from the top of the wrist to halfway up his forearm. Ethan punched him in the face. The man punched him back. The man’s punch had much more impact, and Ethan’s vision went black for a second. It was the first time in his adult life that he’d been punched in the face. The other time, as a kid, had been by a bully wearing mittens in the winter. This was infinitely more painful.

The man got up.

Ethan grabbed his leg.

“Who’s there?” the woman shouted again. “I have a gun!”

Rick had never said she didn’t have a gun. If she opened fire, would she know which of them was the bad guy?

The man tried to kick Ethan’s hand away with his free foot. He wobbled, almost losing his balance, but regained his center of gravity right away. The man was in a pretty good position to stab Ethan in the head, so Ethan let go of his leg and got up. He tackled him again, praying he wouldn’t get stabbed in the process.

“Who’s in my home?” the woman shrieked. She had yet to get out of bed and point a shotgun at them, so that was a plus, at least.

Ethan and the man struck the wall, struck the opposite wall, then veered way too close to the top of the stairs.

Ethan’s leg twisted out from under him and he fell, taking the man with him as they crashed onto the staircase and tumbled down a few steps. The man got the worst of it, until Ethan smacked his head.

He tried to snap his vision back into focus before the man slashed his throat.

Instead of murdering him, the man began to crawl back up the stairs. Ethan saw the knife at the top—he’d dropped it before they fell. Ethan wanted to crawl up after him, but he couldn’t get his arms and legs to work right.

Oh, shit. What if he’d broken his back