Cruel World(28)

A harsh scraping came from the far side of the room.

Quinn’s chest tightened and he shone the light to the furthest corner. Nothing moved but the sound continued. It was as if a tree branch were sliding along the outside of the house. Shhhhhhhhhhhhik.

The sound cut off and he waited, breath suspended in his lungs, eyes wide-staring across the room. The seconds ticked by and the light’s beam shook.

Something moved past the picture window.

He spun, only catching the faintest hint of movement out of the corner of his eye, every hair on his arms and neck standing upright. Darkness had crept from the forest and surrounded the house, the yard barely visible through the hesitant rain. What had it been? A bird zipping past? Quinn swallowed and lowered the light before flicking it off. The window became more transparent without the halogen’s glow and he walked toward it, the floor creaking with each step. Lightning lit the yard, the flash far off and only providing a moment of ambient luminance. Something must have blown by the window, a piece of debris carried by the wind. Maybe it was the same thing that had slid along the wall. But it hadn’t looked like something untethered floating on the air. In the brief glimpse he’d gotten, it had looked steady and lithe.

Like something walking.

A thump came from downstairs in the direction of the kitchen. The direction it had gone.

Quinn hurried to the stairs and clambered down them, holding the unlit flashlight like a knife. He stopped at the base of the stairway and peered around the entry to the kitchen with one eye. The window over the sink was dark, nothing moving outside its glass. He took two steps to the middle of the living room and the same sound as before came from the rear of the house. Shhhhhhhhhhhhik.

The image of the pistol came to him again and he turned, following the sound. It stopped as lightning flashed, immediately overlaid with a concussive blast of thunder so close it vibrated against his skin. In the brief flare, he spotted the heavy gun safe in the corner of the living room and crept toward it. Foster hunted deer every year, always taking a full two weeks off to stay at his cabin in Pennsylvania. But his guns he kept close to home.

Quinn found the safe’s handle in the dark and turned it, letting out a sigh as the door clunked open. He triggered the light and swept it around the inside of the steel box.

It was empty.

Of course Foster would have taken all his weapons with him. Why had he thought otherwise? Quinn moved back to the front door and looked out into the storm. Rain fell in sheets across the yard, obscuring the road that led to the main drive. The trees swayed and sawed at the sky, their branches bony, reaching hands. A thump came from the rear of the house and he grasped the knob, his muscles trembling like those of a racehorse moments before the horn. With a lunge, he heaved the door open and sped into the rain, its touch cold and instantly soaking through his t-shirt.

He left the door standing open and tore across the yard, not looking back, only running. The rain was a solid curtain that draped the driveway from view, but he ran in its general direction, his hand gripping the flashlight that he left off. The wind sang in his ears, his breath a jagged rhythm. The driveway materialized and his feet splashed through a puddle, the water icy through his pants leg.

A tree snapped behind him.

It wasn’t the creaking break of the storm doing its work on a branch. Something was following him.

He ran harder, pushing himself down the lane, rain filtering into his mouth. Quinn swiped at his eyes, trying to clear them. He gasped, sucking down more rainwater as he pelted on. He was drowning on land.

The lane widened and he almost launched himself across the main drive but managed to make the corner and keep going without breaking his stride. There was another crack somewhere behind him, but it was lost in a rattle of thunder as more lightning flared above the trees, giving him a brief view of the open drive ahead. The gun, he had to get the gun. Get in the house and get the gun. The words became a mantra in time with his steps. The air whistled past him and his feet splashed as he ran, arms pumping at his sides. The road curved, and he leaned into it, running faster than he ever had before.

Lightning flickered, illuminating the massive face of his home through the veils of falling water and a bright burst of warmth surged within him. He was almost there, another hundred yards and he would be inside. The wind shoved the trees into a fury, their tops bowing and snapping back as if trying to uproot themselves and chase after him. His feet hit the soft grass as he sped around the end of the house, and as he tried to make the last turn, his sodden shoes slipped and the world tipped to the side. Quinn fell hard on his shoulder, sliding on the soaking lawn. The air flew from his chest, pumped from his lungs by the impact. He rolled to his stomach and began to push himself up as he looked back the way he’d come.