999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [204]
John swung toward the river and fired. He fired again, the muzzle flash bright, the gunshots barely audible in the roar of the current, which also muted the noises that Romero made as he charged from the bushes and slammed against John, throwing his injured arm around John’s throat while he used his other hand to grab John’s gun arm.
The force of hitting John propelled them into the water. Instantly, the current gripped them, its violence as shocking as the cold. John’s face was sucked under. Clinging to him, straining to keep him under, Romero also struggled with the river, its power thrusting him through the darkness. The current heaved him up, then dropped him. The cold was so fierce that already his body was becoming numb. Even so, he kept squeezing John’s throat and struggling to get the pistol away from him. A huge tree limb scraped past. The current upended him. John broke the surface. Romero went under. John’s hands pressed him down. Frenzied, Romero kicked. He thought he heard a scream as John let go of him and he broke to the surface. Five feet away, John fought to stay above the water and aim the pistol. Romero dove under. Hearing the shot, he used the force of the current to add to his effort as he thrust himself farther under water and erupted from the surface to John’s right, grabbing John’s gun arm, twisting it.
You son of a bitch, Romero thought,. If I’m going to die, you’re going with me. He dragged John under. They slammed against a boulder, the pain making Romero cry out under water. Gasping, he broke to the surface. Saw John ahead of him, aiming. Saw the headlights of the truck illuminating the footbridge. Saw the huge tree limb caught in the narrow space between the river and the bridge. Before John could fire, he slammed into the branch. John collided with it a moment later. Trapped in its arms, squeezed by the current, Romero reached for the pistol as John aimed it point-blank. Then John’s face twisted into surprised agony as a boulder crashed down on him from the bridge and split his skull open.
Romero was barely aware of Matthew above him on the footbridge. He was too paralyzed with horror, watching blood stream down John’s face. An instant later, a log hurtled along the river, struck John, and drove him harder against the tree branch. In the glare of the headlights, Romero thought he saw wood protruding from John’s chest as he, the branch, and the log broke free of the bridge and swirled away in the current. Thrust along with him, Romero stretched his arms up, trying to claw at the bridge. He failed. Speeding under it, reaching the other side, he tensed in apprehension of the boulder that he would bang against and be knocked unconscious by when something snagged him. Hands. Matthew was on his stomach on the bridge, stretching as far down as he could, clutching Romero’s shirt. Romero struggled to help him, trying not to look at Matthew’s crushed forehead and right eye from where Romero had hit him with the rock. Gripping Matthew’s arms, pulling himself up, Romero felt debris crash past his legs, and then he and Matthew were flat on the footbridge, breathing hoarsely, trying to stop trembling.
“I hate him,” Matthew said.
For a moment, Romero was certain that his ears were playing tricks on him, that the gunshots and the roar of the water were making him hear sounds that weren’t there.
“I hate him,” Matthew repeated.
“My God, you can talk.”
For the first time in twelve years, he later found out.
“I hate him,” Matthew said. “Hatehimhatehimhatehimhatehim.”
Relieving the pressure of silence that had built up for almost two thirds of his life, Matthew gibbered while they went to check Mark and found him dead, while they went to the house and Romero phoned the state police, while they put on warm clothes and Romero did what he could for Matthew’s injury and they waited for the police to arrive,