JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID (17 page)

Jessie Lee again tried to scream, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.

Not even when Taylor began to bite her knee.

F
ran kicked Erwin in the stomach and he released her arm, which allowed her to also twist away from Josh and run back to the blazing house.

The second floor had collapsed onto the first, blockading the doorway with smoking debris. But Duncan was still alive. She felt it. All she had to do was get to him.

Fran ran through grass wet with sewage, around the side of the house, eyes scanning for window wells. She found one and hurried over. It had been filled in with concrete.

Damn Mr. Teller, the paranoid lunatic.
Toward the end of his life he’d lapsed into dementia, thinking people were out to get him. Mrs. Teller had mentioned the bomb shelter he’d built in the basement, but Fran had never asked for a tour. She should have. What if there wasn’t any other way in?

She ran to the back of the house, saw another concrete plug, and swore. Maybe they could dig, break through the walls …

There! A few feet away from the filled-in window well. A metal grating, about half the size of a manhole cover, set into the foundation at ground level. Smoke billowed out. Fran slid across the grass on her knees and banged on it. The square duct was covered with wire mesh, bolted to the concrete.

“DUNCAN! DUNCAN, CAN YOU HEAR ME!”

Josh came up next to her, then Erwin.

“Must be the ventilation for the shelter,” Josh said. “Stand back.”

He carried the sledgehammer Fran had dropped. Fran leaned away, and Josh made easy work of the grating with two big swings. Fran pried it away, then stuck her head into the opening.

“DUNCAN!”

Smoke poked at her eyes, but the heat was bearable. She could crawl down. Fran shoved one arm in, alongside her head. But she couldn’t get her second shoulder through no matter how hard she pushed. The hole just wasn’t big enough.

“Mom!” Duncan called, faint but frantic.

“Duncan!” Fran stretched, splaying out her fingers as if she could touch his voice.

“Mom! There’s something wrong with Mrs. Teller!”

The smoke,
Fran thought.
Oh, God, no, the smoke.

Then came the thundering
BOOM
of a gunshot.

D
uncan jumped to the side just before Mrs. Teller fired the shotgun at him. It was the loudest noise Duncan had ever heard in his whole life, making his ears hum. The pellets hit the concrete floor, and one of them bounced off and hit Duncan in his leg. It stung, like someone had slapped him hard. He looked and saw some blood on his calf.

Then Duncan heard the sound of another shell being racked. Mrs. Teller walked through the smoke, looking very calm except for her eyes, where black soot clung to the tears on her face. She pointed the gun at his head.

“Mrs. Teller! No!”

“I’m so, so sorry, Duncan. It’s time.”

Duncan’s voice cracked. “Time for what?”

“Time for us to go to heaven, Duncan. It will be okay. I promise. It won’t hurt at all. And we’ll see Mr. Teller there, and we’ll all bake cookies.”

Duncan’s hand darted up and knocked the gun to the side, then he crawled away from her as fast as he could, hiding in the smoke.

The shotgun BOOMED.

“I won’t let us burn, Duncan.”

Duncan couldn’t see her through the smoke, and her voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. He hugged his knees and tried to make himself smaller. Why were all of these bad things happening? Where were Mom and Josh?

“Please, Duncan,” Mrs. Teller said. “It’s better this way.”

The shotgun fired, to his left. A large box of toilet paper fell off the shelf and onto the floor, spilling its contents. Woof continued to bark, then growled deep.

“Woof, come!” Duncan yelled, as scared for Woof as he was for himself.

His dog kept snarling. It was too smoky to see what was going on. Duncan thought he heard Mom calling him again, but he couldn’t tell. The flames were crackling really loud, and Woof was barking at the fire like it was the neighbor’s cat. Three of the four shelves were burning, and the smoke was so bad that every breath hurt.

Then the shotgun BOOMED again, and Woof was silent.

Duncan’s heart ached, but he didn’t cry—maybe he was finally all out of tears. More than ever he wanted Mom, wanted to give her a huge hug. She’d protect him. She’d make it better.

But Mom wasn’t here.

That man, Bernie, had scared Duncan. But he was even more scared now, of Mrs. Teller. She was supposed to be looking after him. How could she do this? Duncan buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaking, wishing none of this was happening, wishing it was a dream.

Then Woof barked.

He’s alive!

“Woof!” he called. “Woof, come!”

Woof whimpered. Duncan had heard him whimper only once before, when he got a rabies shot at the vet.

“Woof?”

“I’ve got your dog, Duncan.”

Woof whined again. What was she doing to him? He couldn’t see.

“Please, Mrs. Teller. Josh and Mom are going to save us.”

Mrs. Teller coughed. “I know they are. Come over to me and your doggie. We’ll all wait for them together.”

Duncan wanted to believe her. He wanted so bad to believe her. Mrs. Teller never lied to him before.

But then she never tried to shoot him before, either.

“Come over here, Duncan. Your little doggie wants you.”

Another cry from Woof.

“Give me the gun.” Duncan’s voice was tiny, almost a whisper.

“Come here, Duncan. Hurry.”

“First you have to give me the gun,” he said, louder.

“I’ve been watching you for years, Duncan. I’m telling you the truth. I want what’s best for you. For all of us. I’m your babysitter. And I’m an adult. You need to listen to adults, Duncan. Isn’t that what your mother told you?”

Mom did tell him that, all the time. And Duncan ached to hold his dog. He began to crawl toward Mrs. Tel-ler’s voice. But the pain in his leg reminded him that he shouldn’t believe her.

“Let Woof go, and give me the gun, and I’ll come over.”

“Duncan—”

“Let Woof go!” Duncan was almost yelling now. He’d never yelled at an adult before. It felt strange, wrong, but he needed her to know how serious he was. “And let me have the gun, Mrs. Teller!”

“You little brat!”

His dog snarled, and Mrs. Teller cried out. Then—so fast it startled him—hot breath bathed Duncan’s face. He recoiled, surprised, and Woof licked his cheeks and nuzzled his neck. Duncan hugged the beagle to his chest, wiping his runny nose in Woof’s fur. The beagle looked fine—he wasn’t hurt at all.

“Duncan …”

Mrs. Teller’s voice made Duncan tremble. He crawled backward, behind the fallen box.

“Duncan … your dog bit me … I need your help …”

Duncan stayed put. The smoke hung low in the air, thick as storm clouds, and it was getting hard to breathe without coughing.

“I’m bleeding pretty bad, Duncan … I need … the first-aid kit …”

Woof growled at Mrs. Teller. Duncan wrapped a hand in his collar, holding him back. He wanted to shrink and disappear. Why wasn’t Mom here yet?

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Duncan … I need your help … please, boy … the first-aid kit …”

Duncan remembered all the times Mrs. Teller watched him. The cookies they baked together. The twenty dollars she gave him every year for his birthday. She was a nice old lady. She shouldn’t die.

But what if she was lying? She was talking slow, but she might be faking. What if she just wanted him to come close so she could shoot him and Woof?

“The … first aid … it’s near the box of canned peas …”

Duncan found himself looking around for it, even though he didn’t want to, even though it might be a bad idea. It wasn’t on the shelf behind him, and that was the only shelf he could see.

“Help me … Duncan … be a good boy …”

Could he trust her? Should he trust her?

“Duncan … please …”

“Woof,” Duncan whispered to his dog, “stay.”

And then he crawled off to look for the first-aid kit.

F
ran struck the concrete foundation with the sledgehammer, the wooden handle stinging her palms like she’d pressed them next to a belt sander. She struck again. And again. And again. Chips of stone flaked away, the ten-pound head digging divots into the cement.

“Fran, we have to find another way.”

She ignored Josh, ignored all the pain, ignored everything except the task at hand. Swing. Smash. Swing. Smash. If she had to pound a hole all the way to hell to get her son, she would.

Josh put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and raised the sledge again. He tried to wrestle it from her, but she refused to let go.

“It’s a steel vent.” His eyes were glassy but firm. “Even if you break up the foundation around it, we can’t make the vent wider.”

“You heard Duncan! You heard that gunshot! That crazy old woman is trying to kill him!”

“We need to find a rope or something, pull him up. But trying to dig through ten feet of dirt, rock, and rebar is just wasting our time.”

Fran nodded quickly, letting Josh take the hammer. A rope. If they had a rope, they could snake it down the vent, Duncan could tie it around his waist …

Another gunshot echoed out through the grating.

Fran dropped to her knees and screamed her son’s name.

D
uncan found the first-aid kit next to the peas, right where Mrs. Teller said it would be. It was a large white box, made out of metal, with buckle clasps on the front and a big red cross painted on the lid. He clutched it to his chest, unsure of what to do next.

“Duncan … please help me … the blood …”

“I’ll throw it to you,” he said, then darted to the right in case Mrs. Teller tried to shoot where she heard his voice.

“I can’t see … in this smoke … you need to bring it to me.”

Woof barked at Mrs. Teller. Duncan shushed him. He knew the dog was just protecting him, but he was giving their position away. Duncan went farther right, until he was against a wall. He had to get down to Woof’s level to breathe because the smoke was so thick, but even near the floor the air was getting bad.

“Throw me the gun,” Duncan said. “Then I’ll come to you.”

“What? Duncan … I can’t hear you …”

Duncan filled his lungs and yelled, “Throw me—!”

The sonic BOOM blew a hole in the smoke, and birdshot chewed into the metal first-aid kit Duncan held out in front of him. The kit jumped from his hands like it was alive, and Duncan’s hands stung. Just as bad were Duncan’s ears—it felt like someone had punched him on both sides of his head, and the ringing was so bad he actually looked for bells. He also realized he’d peed his underwear a little.

He pulled Woof away from the wall, toward the shelves, and then put his hands in front of his face. They hurt like crazy, but there wasn’t any blood. Duncan’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry—maybe he was finally all out of tears. More than ever he wanted Mom, wanted to give her a huge hug. She’d protect him. She’d make it better.

But Mom wasn’t here. Only Mrs. Teller. And she was going to kill him unless he did something about it.

The room had gotten brighter, and the green light from the glow sticks was replaced by orange. A shelf had caught on fire. Duncan recalled Bernie’s lecture, about how bad it hurt to get burned. He didn’t want to burn to death. He didn’t want to get burned at all, not even a little bit. He’d rather get shot.

“Duncan? Did I get you? If you’re hurt let me know. I can end your pain, child. I’ll take all your pain away.”

Duncan watched the shelf burn and hugged his dog tighter. He had to do something. Anything. Or else he and Woof were going to die.

I have to get the gun,
Duncan thought. Then Mrs. Teller couldn’t hurt him, and he could keep her away until Mom and Josh rescued them.

Duncan knew he had to crawl to her, pull the gun away. She was an adult, but she was always talking about how her bones were old and brittle, how her muscles were getting shriveled up. Duncan always had to open jars for her, and he even beat her at arm wrestling once last year.

But he couldn’t move. His legs and arms felt stuck to the floor.

Get the gun!
he thought.
Go get the gun!

His muscles didn’t obey.

Then, like a slap, he heard the sound of the shotgun being racked.

Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, as tight as they could be squeezed, and waited. He didn’t want to see it coming.

“DUNCAN! CAN YOU HEAR ME!”

Mom!

Mom sounded close, almost like she was in the room. Magically, he could move again. Duncan got to his feet. Mom’s voice seemed to be coming from the left, but the only thing there was a shelf stacked with supplies, and many of those supplies were on fire.

“DUNCAN!”

Duncan picked up the big box of toilet paper that had fallen down, and used that to knock the burning supplies off the shelf. There, on the wall, was some sort of vent.

“MOM!”

Duncan yelled with everything he had. Then he climbed up onto the metal shelf and stuck his hands in the vent grating.

“Duncan! Are you okay!”

“You have to get me and Woof out of here, Mom!” He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Teller is trying to kill us.”

Mom didn’t answer right away, but he thought he heard her sob.

“Duncan? It’s Josh. Are you small enough to fit into the duct?”

Duncan squinted through the grating. Inside it was square, and not very large. But he could probably squeeze in there.

“I think so! But there’s a metal vent in the way!”

“Can you pull the vent off?”

Duncan locked his fingers and tugged. The vent didn’t move.

“It’s on too tight.”

“DUNCAN!” Mrs. Teller yelled.

He turned and looked behind him. She stood there, holding the shotgun. Fire stretched to the ceiling behind her. Duncan couldn’t see the expression on her face, but she looked very angry. He tore his eyes away and searched the floor, looking for …