A child. A child with blond hair and a long dress.
And she was holding an ax. Martin’s own ax. The one he used to split wood and kill chickens. He kept the blade so sharp it could cut paper. He was good at taking care of things, at making them last.
But you weren’t able to take care of your wife and daughter, were you?
The child moved forward steadily, coming up just behind the old woman, who had turned the gun back around and aimed it at Sara.
The child raised the ax high up, her arms outstretched. As she turned, he could see her face clearly in the moonlight.
It couldn’t be.
“Gertie?”
She brought the ax down with all her might, burying it in the back of the old woman’s skull. Blood splattered on the little girl’s face. The gun fell; the old woman went down, and the child was on her, ripping at her clothes and skin.
Martin closed his eyes, willing it all to end.
Martin? Martin?” Someone was shaking him, slapping his face. He opened his eyes. He was on his side in the yard, half frozen into the snow, though he no longer felt cold.
Lucius was looking down at him, his face a mask of horror and disgust. Lucius, always calm and stoic, was actually trembling. His shirt was rumpled and stained with blood. “My God, Martin, what have you done?”
I’ve hurt myself, Martin tried to say. He knew he was dying. He could see it on Lucius’s face. His chest felt heavy, and his breathing had turned to wet, labored rasps. He coughed, and a light spray of blood shot from his mouth.
“Sara,” Martin gasped. He reached for his brother’s hand, gripped it tightly. “Promise you’ll take care of my Sara.”
“It’s a little late for that, brother,” Lucius said, pulling his handaway from Martin’s, his eyes moving over Martin to something behind him.
Martin heaved himself up and turned to look. The moon was higher now, illuminating the yard with crisp blue clarity.
He saw a pile of torn, bloody clothes not ten feet from him—Sara’s dress and coat.
“No,” he whimpered.
Beside the clothes lay a woman’s body on a bed of bloody snow. It had been stripped of skin—the flesh wet and sparkling, skull gleaming in the moonlight.
Martin turned away and vomited, the spasms ripping through his open chest.
Then he saw the gun.
“How could you do this?” Lucius asked, his voice sputtering. He was crying now. Martin hadn’t seen his brother cry since they were small boys.
“It wasn’t me,” Martin said. But he picked up the gun and turned it around so that it pointed at the middle of his own chest, his thumb resting awkwardly on the trigger. “It was Gertie.”
Martin closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. He felt himself falling into bed at last, warm and safe beside his darling Sara. Gertie was down the hall, singing, her voice as high and light as a sparrow’s. Sara pressed her body against his, and whispered in his ear:
“Isn’t it good to be home?”
Ruthie
“Faster,” Candace barked at them. “Keep up, now. I’m not losing anyone else.”
They were moving down a narrow passage, Candace in the lead, her headlamp glowing, the gun clenched in her right hand. There was no way to know which direction Katherine had gone, so they had just picked the passageway closest to where she’d been standing when Candace had last seen her.
“Katherine?” Candace shouted. “Alice?”
The tunnel seemed to be moving down, deeper into the earth. The air felt thicker, damper. The walls were jagged rock; the ground was uneven. At least they could walk upright. Ruthie concentrated on keeping her breathing as calm and level as she could, counting, “One, two, three,” to herself with each inhalation and exhalation. Step by step, she moved forward, trying not to think about where she was, only what she had to do: keep Fawn safe and try to find Mom.
“Um, Candace, maybe we shouldn’t be calling out to them like that,” Ruthie suggested. “You know, just in case there’s someone else down here. Someone whose attention we might not want to attract?”
