Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(107)

She swept the way clear and faced the yard, where the bad things gathered. She braced herself and readied the axe.

Without looking at me, she said, “The cabinet. Go.”

“Yes,” I said. Her plan was simple and clear, but I was thickheaded with fright, too tired to argue.

I jumped sideways past her, through the open door. Inside, it was dark. Or as dark as the night outside anyway—for Maplecroft’s interior flickered and flashed between daylight-sharp and midnight-inscrutable.

I was disoriented.

I looked around and saw mostly black stripes of shadow cast by the windowpanes and curtains. I saw the outlines of fixtures and furniture, small statues and a pair of matching vases, the lacy shapes of doilies and shawls tossed across the divan, candlesticks they didn’t need (now that the house had gas), and shards of broken glass. I do not know where it came from—if it was windows or picture frames or art glass from the shelves and cabinets.

My feet crunched upon it, announcing my presence as I dithered, unsure of myself.

I’d been in the parlor a hundred times. A thousand times. More than that, I knew . . . Where was the cabinet? I’d seen it. I’d leaned against it. I’d served myself a drink from it, when invited to do so. Suddenly I couldn’t picture it to save my life; I stuttered on the entryway rug, then staggered to the hallway runner and then, yes, the parlor.

There it was.

I ripped the drawer open so hard I pulled it right off its rails and the gun toppled to the floor—along with a box of bullets that burst open, scattering its contents across the carpet. I dropped to my knees, scavenged a handful, and grabbed the gun, a service revolver. Its weight told me it was loaded.





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(Funny, the things you remember, from the old days in service. Old habits, old memories. My hands recalled the feel, the balance. The shape of the handle. It was similar to my own, the one I’d lost in the water. I think I lost it in the water. Might have lost it somewhere else. Likely, I’ll never know.)





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By the time I got to my feet, I could see Lizzie on the move outside.

Her dress billowed and she looked like a vengeful ghost, she moved so swiftly and with such grace—the wind tearing her hair and her clothes as she parried, struck, and swung with the axe she’d sharpened each night with deadly precision. She seemed bigger, wilder. Positively preternatural, though I saw her efforts only in fits and starts through the narrow frame of the doorway.

I was mesmerized for the moment.

She called my name. Not “Doctor,” but “Owen!”

It was the first time I’d ever heard her say it. The informality worked. It roused me from my stupor, and surprised me into motion. I ran outside, ducking past her and narrowly missing the pendulum swing of the axe, sweeping in a terrible arc. It was a pure coincidence of timing that she missed me. I surely wasn’t paying enough attention to have dodged the blow on purpose.

But I came out shooting.

I took her place on the porch, and I opened fire.

She ducked behind me, and disappeared inside.

I stood my ground, and I guarded the front door.

To my left, two dead creatures—one of them in pieces. To my right, a third dead thing, oozing gore. Its corpse was shifting; it wasn’t moving, exactly. It was decomposing too fast, collapsing in upon itself. I don’t know why. I didn’t have time to investigate, though the question nagged at me. Fourth and fifth corpses were on the foot of the stairs or just beyond them. She’d killed them on the way inside, I dimly recalled.

A shriek rose up, and it was joined by other voices. They came from beside me, in front of me. From farther away—behind the house? Elsewhere in the neighborhood?—they sang out, meeting in a weird pitch that made my ears hum. Somewhere, more glass was breaking. I could barely hear it, but I knew the sound.

And here they came. A rickety wave of arms and legs with too many joints, mouths with too many teeth, eyes without enough pigment. The light storm showed me five, but I’d heard more than that. I knew there were more. I didn’t have to see them to be confident of their presence, and I didn’t have to count the bullets in my pocket, in my hand, in my gun, to know that there weren’t enough.

I cocked the revolver and shot the first one between the eyes. Its head exploded in a mass of tissue and gristle, and whatever fluid filled those bulbous orbs it used to gaze out at the world. If in fact the things could see at all.

If there was blood, it didn’t look like blood. If there was brain matter, I didn’t see it . . . just the spongy, scrambled-egg leavings speckled with bone. They scattered across the porch and another creature came up behind it, slipped in the mess, and fell down.

I fired twice. It struggled, but did not stop coming so I fired again. It fell backward, off the steps, but I saw it moving.

Lizzie was right. She’d told me long ago that the axe worked better than bullets. But I didn’t have an axe. I had bullets, maybe one or two left in the gun and a pocketful after that. I looked out across the lawn and counted seven, eight, maybe more. All of them coming for me.

The injured creature with the needle-glass teeth came crawling up the steps again. I kicked it back down. I shoved my boot into the center of its face, where a nose ought to go, but didn’t.

It toppled backward again, but there were more. So many more.