Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [15]
As he wound his way back to the first floor, the cardboard action heroes seemed to raise a collective eyebrow.
Buddy, you have no idea what you’re getting into.
“Shut up,” Hardie muttered.
This house-sitter guy could still be one of Them.
Easy.
He didn’t act like it. But that would be just like them, wouldn’t it? All jokes and smiles and friendliness, all meant to put you at ease, help you relax, then, wham! You were done.
Just like her Good Samaritan on the 101. Walking up to her car, needle in hand, jabbing it into her arm when she was at her weakest—
Now “Charlie” here was turning his back on her. Probably on his way to the front door to let his buddies inside. The bastards had needles on the highway. What would it be this time?
Sorry, Chuck, she thought to herself. You may be telling the truth. You may be one of Them. Either way, I’m going to have to stop you.
Lane pulled herself up, using the edge of the kitchen counter. She had to move quickly. He was already halfway across the dining room.
The alarm had clued her in—snapped her out of a half sleep, actually. She’d set the alarm system for that very reason. While the intruder walked around, Lane got herself together. Listened. Waited. The intruder’s steps were methodical. Whoever was inside was clearly searching. She heard the faint creak and hum of the refrigerator door opening. The rattle of a doorknob. The opening of cabinet doors. Slowly. Carefully. Searching. Searching for her.
So when he made it to the second floor, the choice was simple. Him or me.
Now Lane limped up the staircase behind him. Damn it—he was almost at the front door. She hurled herself up after him, speed-hopping, resting her injured foot for a fraction of a microsecond before using her good foot to vault herself forward. If he opened that door, it was all over.
Hardie stepped into the vestibule, looking around for something out of place. All at once the silence was overwhelming. He was tempted to open the door to see if something had happened outside, like maybe the Rapture or Armageddon, but then a thought occurred to him. Hardie moved into the media room, then saw his reflection in the darkened flat-screen. After a few seconds he figured out what was missing: No digital time readouts on the components.
The girl appeared in the room, bloodied mic stand still in her hand. The fact that it was his blood vaguely bothered Hardie.
She leaned forward and whisper-yelled: “What are you doing?”
“The power’s out,” Hardie said.
“Oh God. So they know I’m in here. They saw you walk in, and they think I’m in here…”
“Uh, you are in here.”
“They didn’t know that before you showed the fuck up!”
“Please, for the love of God… who is they?”
But the girl was already starting to panic, looking around at the windows and doorways, as if expecting a heavily armed unit of commandos to come storming into the house, spraying mace grenades and bullets.
Hardie had to admit, it was all starting to feel seriously strange to him, too. The power just so happens to go out just after he got his dumb ass stabbed in the chest? None of the previous explanations his lizard brain had come up with seemed to fit now. If it was just the girl, that would be one thing. People on drugs cooked up some truly weird shit in their fevered brains. But this was no simple cocaine-fueled delusion. Hardie was living in it, too.
He went to the front door, and, as predicted, the digital security panel was still lit. These systems always run by backup battery. That way, if home invaders cut the power, you can still call for help.
The girl appeared behind him and took him by the wrist. Hardie flinched at her touch.
“Come back downstairs with me,” she said. “Please. I don’t want them seeing us through the windows.”
“Hold on. The security’s still working. There’s got to be a panic button or something on here.”
“No! Don’t you dare touch that!”
“Why not?”
“They could be anybody. What if they just put on a bunch of fake security team uniforms and