Run - Blake Crouch [48]
He shouldered his pack and clipped the hip belt and chest strap and went back over to the man in the ski jacket who’d turned sheet white and already bled a black lake across the dirt.
“How many of you are there?” Jack asked. But the man just stared up at him with a kind of glassy-eyed amazement and would not, or could not, speak.
Jack killed the Maglite and eased open the door to the shed to peer out.
Already, they were halfway across the meadow—four shadows running toward him and two smaller, faster ones out ahead of the others.
He leveled the shotgun, squeezed off three blinding reports.
Four points of light answered, flashing in the dark like high-octane lightning bugs, and bullets struck the wood beside him and punched through the door above his head.
He stepped out and around the side and sprinted to the back of the shed.
His family was gone.
Lightning footsteps approached, the jingle of a chain, snarling. He turned back to see the pit bull tear around the corner, skidding sidelong across the grass trying to right its forward motion.
Jack raised the shotgun, the animal accelerating toward him, and fired as it leapt for his throat, the buckshot instantly arresting its momentum. He pumped the slide and took aim on the second pit bull which ripped around the corner with greater efficiency. He dropped it whimpering and tumbling through the grass.
Jack ran ten feet into the woods and slid out of his pack. He prostrated himself behind a log. Couldn’t hear a thing over his own panting and he closed his eyes and buried his face in the leaves until the pounding in his chest decelerated.
When he looked up again, four figures stood behind the shed where his family had hid just moments ago. Three others joined them.
Someone said, “Where’s Frank?”
“In the field. He caught some pellets in his neck.”
A woman walked over, the helve of an ax resting on her shoulder.
She said, “I saw someone run into the woods a minute ago.”
A beam of light struck the ground. “Let’s head in. Only four. And two of them children.”
Another light.
Another.
Someone shot their beam through the woods. Jack ducked behind the log, the light slanting past him, firing the fringes of the bark. They were still talking, but he’d lost their voices with his face jammed up under the log and straining to fish the twelve gauge shells out of his pocket. Jack was on the brink of shifting to another position but the footfalls stopped him.
They approached him now—must have been all eight of them—filling the woods with the dry rasp of crushing leaves. Someone stepped over the log and the heel of a boot came down inches from Jack’s left arm. He caught the scent of rancid body odor. He watched them move by, eight distinct fields of light sweeping the woods. He wondered how far in his family had made it, if Dee had any concept of what was coming her way.
After a while, he rolled out from under the log and sat up. Glanced back toward the shed. Into the woods again. He could hear the footfalls growing softer, indistinguishable and collective like steady rain, glimpsed the bulbs of distant light and occasionally a full beam where it swung through mist.
Jack dug into his pocket for the shells, fed in the last four.
Six rounds. Eight people.
He stood up and got his pack on.
Jacked a shell, started toward the lights.
After forty yards, the stream-murmur filtered in, and soon there was nothing but the sound of it and the cool, sweet smell of the water.
He eased down onto the bank. The lights had moved on. Blackness everywhere. Thinking he’d told Dee to get to the stream, but she may have seen the group of flashlights coming, been forced to go elsewhere. The urge to call out for her overwhelmed him.
He got up, started hiking again.
Sometimes the starlight would find a way down through the trees and he would catch a glimpse of the stream like black glass, warped and fissured, but mainly it was impossible to see anything. He didn’t dare use the Maglite.
Fifteen minutes of blind groping brought him a quarter mile uphill.
He collapsed in a patch of cold,