The god’s teeth are in her neck. Her face contorts. Blood stains the god’s face. My broken brain hissesRun! and then Emma and I are running-stumbling-crawling up the stairs and I’m trying not to sob every time I jar my knee.
Three gunshots and the sound of the door splintering. The god makes a clicking, hissing scream. It’s the sort of sound that belongs underground where the only witnesses are the earth and the rocks and ancient water.
Emma and I throw ourselves into the first room we see, then slam the door shut. More gunshots downstairs. Never in my life has a lock felt so useless. But what else can you do? What else can you do besides throw the lock that has no chance of keeping you safe, but might give you just one more second of life? You shove the dresser and shitty Ikea bookcase up against the door. That’s what.
We’ve ended up in an impersonal guest room. Even the lightbulbs in here are red too.
There, lying on the floor, is Ripley.
What comes out of my mouth is supposed to be her name, but really, it’s just a sob. I hobble over and use the bed’s footboard to get on the ground with her. She’s barely warm when I lay a hand on her ribs. And then she breathes. It’s weak, but it’s there.
I wish it wasn’t.
I wish she’d slipped into death between one sleeping breath and another. I can’t lift her, Emma can’t lift her, anda ravenous god is going to tear through the door and eat all of us. I can’t save her just like I couldn’t save my mom. Just like I can’t save myself.
I flinch when Emma puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Is she alive?”
I nod. Emma brushes her knuckles over Ripley’s cheek, makes a quiet sound, then goes to look out the farthest window. A red glow takes up the bottom half of the window. The black of the night fills the rest. Smoke itches my nose and makes my eyes water.
“Can you see anything?”
Shadows cast sharp lines across Emma’s profile. A bump is starting to form on her temple. She’s shaking. “I don’t know. There’s too much smoke. There’s a roof under the window, but it’s still so high up.”
“You have to jump.” The moment I say it, I know it’s true. “Do you have your keys?”
“What? No. I mean, the spare is in the hide-a-key, but I’m not gonna leave you. What’s wrong with you?”
“Don’t think we have time to go through that list.” I try to smile. It doesn’t work. She’s mad. Furious. And then it drains away. She sits next to me. Her arm presses against mine.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have called you. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“I want to say it’s not your fault, but it is. This wouldnothave happened if your workplace was unionized.”
That does make me laugh. Her breath gusts against my ear.
“I’ve put you through a lot over the last few months. I think I may have been insane? Or, like, maybe not insane,but not really interacting with reality either. Not an excuse but, ya know, there it is. Sorry.”
“I appreciate that. It’s not every day your best friend’s mom dies, and then they literally never acknowledge it—not even at the funeral.”
My stomach twists. I try to think of something to say. I can’t. It’s all so big and ugly. Instead, I let myself sit in this moment. I let myself feel the warm throb of the cut on the back of my head; the give of Emma’s biceps pressing against mine; Ripley’s soft fur and the curve of her ribs under my fingers. I can’t save my dog, I couldn’t save my mom, but maybe I can still save Emma. I have to at least try.
“We have to go,” I say. “We can jump.”
I use the umbrella to limp behind Emma to the window. It comes open easily. Smoke billows in to grease my cheeks and throat. The roof below is barely visible through the mixture of smoke and night. I don’t know how many feet it is from here to there, but I do know Emma can make it. She was a skater kid up until junior year of high school. She knows how to fall. She knows how to get hurt and still be able to stand.
I bash the screen with the umbrella until it pops out to clatter on the shingles below.
“You first.” She looks at me incredulously. “You have two working knees. Gonna need you to help me down.”
Her face pinches, but she relents. Emma hoists a leg through the window. I keep my arm around her waist to steady her as she contorts herself to get her head and shoulders to the other side.
“Here. Hold on to this.”
The umbrella is the ginormous golf kind that’s longer than the window is wide. I brace it against the frame and hold it steady as she gets a firm grip.
The floor outside the room creaks. We both startle when something strikes the door.
