Her eyes are open, but she’s paralyzed, naked, and like the others, her abdomen is littered with scars.
Her pale skin is a stark contrast to the blood oozing out of her side; the man has his fingers in half of the incision that is about ten inches long on her left side, slightly inwards on her stomach, shoving them in and out with each thrust while the stitches are barely holding the rest together.
She’s obviously just had surgery.
Alongside the blood splattering on the floor, clear liquid joins it. The yellowish fatty tissue is clearly visible, red muscles and his fingers fusing it all together.
Then he rams his hand wholly inside the laceration, ripping the rest of the stitches out.
Stirring his hand inside of her, he sets about towing organs out of her and placing them on top of her stomach and chest. Scattering them over her like a blanket. His head lowers, drawn to the nearest organ, part of the intestine, that looks like the colon with its lumpy structure, and he drags his tongue across it before sucking a piece in his mouth.
He tears into it with his teeth and downs it in one motion.
He’s not a man at this moment. There’s nothing human in it. Ugly, consuming, and driven by impulse and nothing else.
Cassidy is stagnant beside me. I’m not sure she’s even breathing. Her mind is trying to make sense of something it doesn’t want to understand.
Not wanting to witness another second of it, I lift my Glock with the suppressor still attached and aim it at his head.
I pull the trigger.POP.
The shot tears through the room, and he drops immediately, falling on top of the woman, slack, heavy, and dead.
Cassidy staggers beside me, like a wire pulled tight and snaps, her breath catching as the moment releases her from whatever had her locked in place.
In a few strides, I push the man off the woman, and his body slams onto the floor, his head rebounding from the sudden collision.
I stand in front of her at the end of the bed, my eyes uniting with hers.
I raise my hand to my earpiece, switching over to whoever is leading the rescue crew tonight, my voice hushed, “First room on the right is clear. One female and male inside, both deceased.”
The shot still rings in my ears as we step back into the hallway.
Something moves in my peripheral, and it’s Cassidy, proceeding to the next room.
I take my place at her side, the sounds of the rescue crew behind us, boots, radios, clipped commands, but it all fades as we get further down the hallway and closer to the last door.
“Last one,” I stress.
Cassidy doesn’t answer. Her focus is zeroed in on the handle as if she’s already inside the room in her head, running tactile equations.
Without thinking, I pivot in front of her, again.
“Don’t,” she warns with a slight edge.
“Not blocking you,” I reply casually. “Covering.”
We stand toe to toe, our breathing falling into the same rhythm, neither of us willing to back down.
Finally, she gives a reluctant nod.
Padding silently as we come up to the door, the change in the atmosphere is palpable, as though the house is holding onto something it doesn’t want to give up.
I rest my hand on the handle and hold it there, listening. No voices. No movement. Only the oppressive silence that’s pursued us through the house.
I look at Cassidy. Her attention is already on me, poised and ready for the signal.
“On me,” I insist. “Quick sweep. Corners first.”
