She made fists and pounded her thighs several times, trying to focus, trying to force courage. Then she began to rock back and forth again. This time when she caught Mandy’s hand she held on and pulled. She pulled for all she was worth.
But instead of freeing herself, all Jessie Lee did was drag Mandy off of her roost. Her friend slid across the corpse beneath her and then headed face-first down the pile. Jessie Lee tried to hold on, but the strain on her knees became too great, and then Mandy tumbled to the floor. She landed in the pool of blood, arms and legs akimbo, her eyes staring up at Jessie Lee accusingly.
Jessie Lee again tried to scream, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.
Not even when Taylor began to bite her knee.
Fran 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.
Duncan 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 …”