Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [103]
I turn and get only a glimpse of a big brass bed with a leather jacket draped on one of the posts and bloodstains on the sheets. I tear across the room to where Sandy is climbing out the window with an Adidas bag around her shoulders. She’s crying and trying to pull the bag loose from where it’s gotten caught on the window lock, and doesn’t know I’m in the room until I yank the bag’s strap free and shove her out the window to fall a few feet into the flower garden outside. I get one foot on the sill, then dive back into the room, grab the jacket from the bedpost, and jump out the window.
Sandy is still picking herself up. I hook the bag strap and start dragging her after me as I head for the path that runs to the front of the house. Sandy screams and tries to pull free. I wrench her to me, wrap my left arm around her neck, and lock my hand over her mouth. She struggles and scratches at my arm and I give her a hard shake, still pulling her along.
—Sandy. Stop it. You’ll die if you don’t stop. You’ll die.
She stops, but I keep her in the headlock, my hand over her mouth. We round the side of the house and start down the short path to the gate that opens onto the driveway. I stop at the back door and peek through a gap in the curtains.
It’s awful.
Dale is still immobile, unconscious or dead. Ron is on his back, rolling from side to side, his face covered with both hands, blood streaming from between his fingers. Terry is still alive and has somehow gotten himself flipped over, inching himself toward the front door, leaving a snail-trail of blood in his wake.
Sid has recovered his .45 and is standing over Ron, watching him writhe. He starts to raise his foot. Rolf has Ron’s shotgun and is pointing it up the hallway. T has come to and is holding his hand in the air, out toward Rolf, warding him off. Hitler is barking in the hall.
I start to look away, but I’m too late and I see it all. Sid’s foot coming down on Ron’s face. Rolf pulling the trigger. The blast that was deafening in the small room is just a muffled pop out here.
Hitler stops barking and T screams and struggles to pull his leg free of the arrow holding him prisoner. That’s all I can take.
I haul Sandy to the gate and look over it. Nothing. A quiet street, everyone at work or inside resting up for a late shift. I push the gate open and start down the drive toward T’s Chrysler, holding his jacket collar in my teeth, feeling at the pockets until I find the keys. I walk around the car, open the driver’s side door, and shove Sandy inside, pushing her ahead of me into the passenger seat. She pulls the door handle and tries to climb out. I grab at her and get a handful of hair, pull her in, and get the door closed. I let go of her hair.
—They’re killing people in there, the guys I came with are killing people. We have to go. You have to go with me.
She doesn’t move, so I go to stick the key in the ignition and miss. I try again and miss again and grab hold of my shaking right hand with my shaking left hand and manage to guide the key home. I start the car, over-revving, and drop the gearshift into drive as the front door of Sandy’s house flies open and Sid and Rolf run out.
Sandy screams and I jam my foot down. The tires spin and smoke and we fishtail away from the curb as they run to the sidewalk. I straighten the car out and we’re in the middle of the street, speeding away. I look back and see Sid pointing his gun at us and Rolf grabbing him and pulling him back up toward the house before he can shoot.
And we turn the corner and drive away, the trail of blood behind me stretched longer still.
WHEN I was a kid and I’d do something stupid, Dad would sit me down and ask me, “What were you thinking?” I’d shrug and say, “I dunno.” He’d nod and put a hand on my shoulder and say, “You weren’t thinking, were you?” And