The Cabin at the End of the World(17)
Andrew twists the poker in his hands. There has to be something else they can do. He says, “What about the knives? In the kitchen. We should grab some knives.”
Eric sighs. “Are we really going to—”
“Yes, we really might have to.”
“Have to what—”
The screen door slider to the deck that too easily jumps out of the track (Wen has already knocked it out of the doorframe twice) whooshes open.
Redmond calls out, “You really should get someone to fix the screen, guys! Wouldn’t want you to lose any money on your deposit. Be good boys, let us in, and we’ll fix it for you, yeah? Won’t even charge you.” The blue curtain obscures the view of the deck and Redmond, but it is not enough to keep them hidden and safe.
Wen shouts, “Go away!”
“That’s what I thought.” Redmond knocks shave-and-a-haircut on the glass door.
There’s the unmistakable sound of movement in the basement: sliding and shuffling across the cement floor and the creak and low-frequency taps of feet trying not to be heard on wooden stairs.
Redmond says singsong, “That’s supposed to be the signal knock. No matter.” Something crashes and protrudes through the glass slider, bowing out the curtain away from the deck and over the barricade couch, a large blue fist thrusting defiantly into the kitchen before disappearing. A second then third blow pulls the curtain and rod off the wide doorframe. Sunlight flashes atomic bright in the cabin and Redmond is a hulking shadow in the Oppenheimer glare. He hacks at the rest of the glass door with the sledgehammer end of his makeshift weapon. He grunts, crouches, and rams shoulder-first into the couch, shoving it into the kitchen. Broken glass crackles and grinds under his heels and under the couch’s stubby peg legs.
Andrew does the math: Redmond is almost fully inside the kitchen and there’s at least one of them in the basement, so there are only two of the others, at most, outside. He and Eric can take them on or get past them and to the SUV. He believes they can. They have to.
Andrew fishes the keys out and stuffs them into a pocket of Eric’s shorts. “Come on, let’s go!”
Eric doesn’t argue and scoops Wen up and holds her so that they are chest to chest. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and buries her face into the side of his neck. Eric’s left arm coils under her butt. He brandishes the not-all-that-threatening woodstove tongs in his free hand.
Andrew runs to the front door and there are more instant calculations and considerations and variables. How long before Redmond is inside the cabin and across the common room and to them? Does Andrew try to stop him, or waylay him long enough for Eric and Wen to get out the front door? Should he instead focus on the door, opening it quickly, smoothly, without hesitation, and then running outside to clear a path for Eric and Wen? If Andrew were first to the SUV and first to his gun, then he wouldn’t have any trouble keeping the others off them as they drove out of here. But what if he can’t get to the SUV and what if Eric and Wen can’t make it, either? Do they sprint madly down the road or scatter into the woods like spooked rabbits? Maybe they could run out behind the cabin and to the lake. The others wouldn’t expect that, would they? He and Eric are both excellent swimmers. They could swim across the lake with Wen in tow if they had to. They could make it—
Andrew only has eyes for the door and the latch bolt and twist lock in the doorknob. He is not looking at Redmond and doesn’t know if that man is past the couch obstacle. He does not look back to Eric and Wen, who are at least two steps behind. Andrew is running too fast to stop and he crashes into the door, knocking the poker out of his hand and to the floor. He picks it up.
Eric shouts from behind. “Andrew!”
The woman in the off-white shirt looms in the bedroom doorway to his right, holding her long-staffed weapon and its bizarre and curled-over shovel head pointed out into the room. Andrew has an Escher-esque view beyond her, into the bedroom he and Eric are sharing, and to the wide-open window through which she gained entry.
She says, “Please stop. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
Still barreling toward the front door, Eric pivots, opening his right shoulder, and swings the tongs at the woman. His first swipe makes solid contact, pinging off the pointed blade of her weapon, which she drops. He teeters and almost falls but follows up with another swing and hits her left shoulder. It’s a glancing blow but enough to make her cry out, drop to her knees, and briefly clutch her arm. She quickly recovers, picks up her weapon, and jabs it at Eric’s legs. There isn’t much oomph behind her strike but it’s well placed. She connects, somewhere below his knees and then the odd blade and wooden handle get caught up between his ankles. Eric trips and as he falls he twists his face and chest away from the floor, presumably so he doesn’t land on top of Wen. With the added torque, his fall speeds up, he lands awkwardly on his back, and his head bounces off the floor, making a nauseating soft and hollow sound. His body goes limp, arms twitching and open. Wen rolls off his chest and slides into Andrew’s feet. She scrambles back to Eric and screams his name. Eric’s eyes are closed, his empty arms retracted so his elbows are on his chest, his forearms hovering above him, and his hands wilt inward, looking gnarled, arthritic.
Andrew yells Eric’s name and yells Wen’s name, too, and then he’s just yelling. His back is against the front door and get the gun get the gun get the gun is an emergency-broadcast-system alert in his head but he can’t open the door and he can’t leave.