Then, from behind them, a deep growl filled the room.
“Fass!” Danny shouted.
Sherman stormed into the room and latched onto Griffin’s thigh, violently jerking it back and forth, pulling him away from Jenny. Without hesitating, she stole the opportunity, scurrying off into the corner. Not the greatest position, but she couldn’t bring herself to slink past Sherman. Distracting him from Griffin was the last thing she wanted.
“Someone call him off!” he begged.
The thought never crossed her mind. Instead, a vengeful pleasure swelled inside her—to see him finally getting what he deserved—to see him struggling, pushing, prying at Sherman’s muzzle like she had done to him. Now, their fates had reversed. He was the prey, and she reveled in it—the horror descending upon him, his pain. All her time at the Depot she had been suffocating, but now, she could breathe.
Sherman’s teeth continued to gnash at the thigh, unrelenting, spurting blood through Griffin’s tattered pant leg. “Help!” Off-balance, he tried to escape, but crumpled to the floor. “Come on, Danny!” The pain in his voice rang out louder than his words. Terror in every outburst that followed.
Danny’s face showed no pity, no mercy. “Fass!”
With the command, Sherman released for only an instant then clamped down again, harder, into his calf. Never had Jenny seen something so violent. She expected Danny to call it off at some point, but he remained stoic, unflinching. Not moved by Griffin’s need for this to stop. Not moved by his pleas for help. It seemed Danny had made up his mind. Griffin was guilty, and this was the sentence.
Crack!
The gunshot startled the room, and Sherman released his bite.
“Hier!” Danny called to him.
Griffin raised the revolver from his coat pocket and toward the fleeing canine. Crack! Crack! Crack!
In a panic, Jenny dove behind the desk to avoid the sporadic gunfire, landing in the mess that had toppled over earlier. The scissors! She snatched them from the floor. I have to end this.
Crack! Crack! Click. Click.
The clicks echoed a million times louder than the shots in Jenny’s head. He’s dry!
“Shit…” Griffin cursed his misses and tried to stand, but his wounded leg was unable to bear his weight. Again, he fell to the floor, his back crashing against the desk. His head lolled from side to side, woozy from the loss of blood. “That mother…” he muttered, his voice weak, barely able to part his lips.
Jenny peered over the desk, rubbing her thumb along the scissor’s blade. Watching him, she knew he wouldn’t make it. Too much blood. Now, her decision was whether or not to walk away knowing he died or to play a part in it. It seemed simple enough with all he had done to her. All the nightmares he had given her. The constant angst that stalked her through the Depot. Can I really be the one who does it? Griffin’s head fell into the nook of his shoulder. No way. You’re not leaving until I get my last word. You’re not taking that away. Not after what you did to me!
Jenny came from behind the desk with only one thing on her mind. The rest of the room didn’t matter. Nothing did. Except this. She crouched down in front of him and lifted his head, staring into his eyes, watching him fade from this world. Click. Click. His finger still pulled at the revolver’s trigger. Jenny grabbed hold of the gun, ripped it from his failing grip then released the cylinder—all the spent brass pinging against the floor.
“What you did to me…” She clenched her jaw. “You…” An exhale, second guessing what she was about to do. “You know what… it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re already dead, not worth it. Fuck you.”
“I…” Griffin’s eyes fluttered, struggling to find hers despite them being right in front of his face “I… already did.” His lips bent into a crooked smile.
“You…” Jenny shook her head in disgust. Any chance of her walking away passed with his arrogant remark. It crossed the line, flooding her body with anger. Even on the verge of death, he offered no regret for what he had done to her. No repentance. His death was justified, and Jenny was now more than willing to assist.
Gazing into his dimming eyes, her breaths sped forth. Her hands shook, clutching the scissors. You deserve this. One last inhale—she held it in then plunged the tip of the scissors into Griffin’s throat, driving it as deeply as she could, twisting it the whole way through. A rasping groan. His body shuddered, but the wound barely bled—the crimson pool he sat within left little doubt why. She stood, considered pulling the scissors out, but decided against it. When the others found him, this is how he deserved to be. A coward who died screaming for help. Slumped against a desk. His clothing torn, blood soaked. Scissors jutting from his neck.
An unsettling silence shook her as she turned from Griffin. Apprehensive, her eyes gathered the room, trying to reassess the situation. Where’s— Her gut tightened. “Danny!” His boots lay just inside the door. His body out of view. Rushing over, she rounded the corner into the hallway. He lay there motionless, face down, pistol in hand while Sherman circled his body, whining, nudging him with his muzzle.
She knelt at his side. “Danny…” she whispered. He didn’t move. She took hold of his coat and tugged, then shook him, then more and more, harder and harder. “Come on…” Her voice broke into sobs and gasps. It couldn’t be helped. “No, no, no. Danny. No.” She tried to swallow her cries, to keep them down, but they continued to surface. “This isn’t right… It can’t be how—” Sherman pushed at his head again. “I’m sorry, boy. You might not want to see this.” Sobbing, she eased Danny’s head to the side, hoping it wasn’t true.
Only a vacant stare. Lines of blood from mouth and nose. From a wound just below his right eye. She ran her shaking hand over his eyelids. They accepted the darkness. Never to see the light again. “Why…?” Fucking Griffin. She shuddered from the cold, from her emotions. Everything in this moment. “Damn it, Danny…” Jenny stood for only a moment before panic struck her again.
Matt and Grant…
It wasn’t over. Not even close. Her head was spinning—too much happening at once. I know it’s not right to leave you, but… She bit into her lip. You know if I didn’t leave now, you’d be yelling at me. You’d be telling me not to waste any time. Well, you’re right. I have to go. Jenny steeled herself against the loss of Danny. Mourning would have to come later. She wiped the tears along her bare arm. It’s time.
Jenny undid the holster from his leg and fitted it around her own. Next, she took the Smith & Wesson from his hand, mindful to peel his finger away from the trigger. Fully loaded and ready to go, she reholstered the weapon. Alright… A moment of hesitation. What she was about to do was distressing, uncomfortable. His body was limp. Moving him felt wrong, but necessary. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this without your help. She eased into his pockets, respectfully searching for anything else she might need. Only his keyring and Sherman’s lead seemed useful. This isn’t good-bye. I’ll be back. I promise.
A strange gurgling noise came from inside the office behind her.
What now? Taking a deep breath, she took the pistol from its holster and brought it eye level. She positioned herself near the door jamb. Ready but nervous, only now did she remember the revolver she left lying at his feet. Take it slow. The muzzle wavered slightly while she cleared the room in sections. His body came into view—still slouched against the desk in his own filth. She took cautious steps toward him to retrieve the gun, cursing herself for leaving the damn thing, but when she had seen Danny, her concern for him had gotten the better of her judgment.