Off Season - Jack Ketchum [55]
The stream was moving more quietly now, and she wondered if it would be safe for her to step in. It was not nearly so exciting as it had been a moment ago when the stream was . . . well, flooding, as if they’d just had a rainstorm or a flash flood, but she thought it would feel very good to step in now, it would be cool and refreshing and not at all frightening as, she now admitted to herself, the more rapid flow had been. She would try.
She lowered her left hand into the stream. Would the living things—they were fishes, weren’t they?—would the living things bother her? She thought not. She slid inside. She was surprised at how warm it was, not cool at all, and how good the waters tasted on her dry, parched lips. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
The child’s head lay face upward in her lap.
She knew it was the child now and not the mirror because the mirror’s eyes would have been open like her own. She stared at it hard to make sure. She began to cry. The stream was gone. There was only howling pandemonium on the stairs and the salty taste the stream had left in her mouth. She cradled the head to her breast and did not feel the steady drool of dark blood that spread over her shirt and down across her belly like a purulent sore.
Between her and the open front door there stood only two small ragged girls, staring down at her. Yet it did not occur to her to run, to leave the house. There really was no need. She closed her eyes again as the little girls advanced on her and tried to count the fishes.
On the stairway the two men broke through the thinly paneled door to the attic. They could hear moaning from below as the women bound the big man’s wrist to staunch the flow of blood. The children pressed close to them on the narrow staircase, anxious to get inside. The thin man put his arm through the hole in the door and slipped the bolt. He turned the knob and pushed. The door would not budge. He glanced angrily at his brother. They pushed the children aside and moved a few steps down the staircase and then hurled themselves forward against the door, the greater bulk of the man in red nearest the doorknob. They smiled to see it give an inch or two. They stepped back to try again.
Inside the attic Nick swore and pushed hard against the dresser. It angered him to know that they’d delayed too long, so that there had been no time to go for the hammer and nails in order to secure the door. His fault. He heard them break through the panel. Even with all his own weight and Marjie’s against the dresser they would not be able to hold them back for more than a few minutes. They’d have to jump.
He wondered if all of them were in the house now. What if they were waiting down below? Below the window? He felt the dresser move back toward them as the men slammed against the door. “It’s no good,” he said.
She nodded. He was so close to her he could smell her sweat and feel her breath on his cheek. He glanced over to the window. “You first,” he said.
She looked at him. She was flushed and frightened.
“How do I . . . ?”
“The roof is directly over your head. There’s about a foot of overhang. Reach up until you’ve got it and then pull your legs out, nice and slow, and let yourself fall straight down. Try it any other way and you’ll break your neck. Don’t let go until you’ve stopped swinging, until your legs are still and you’re just hanging there clear of the house. Try to keep your knees bent a little to break the fall.”
He saw the look of hopelessness pass over her face. There was one other possibility but there was no point mentioning it to her. She was simply not strong enough. But it did give Nick an option if it turned out he needed one.
“Marjie,” he said. “Do it. Don’t be afraid. You can make it. I swear you can. I think we’ve got them all inside. When you get out, head for the woods and watch