He finished crawling to the other side of the window. He stood up — too fast — and winced at the pain from his side. He had to put one hand against the wall to support himself until the sensation passed. It took its time, too. With the broken nose and the pain spread liberally across his face, he had forgotten all about his side. For a while there, anyway.
“I’m calling the cops!” the man shouted from outside. “If no one’s coming out to talk to me, I’m going to let them sort this mess out.”
The man hadn’t finished saying the word “out” when Beckard heard the very clear sounds of boots moving on the floorboards behind him. He turned around and lifted the shotgun just as the tall, lanky hunter with the cap appeared out of the back hallway, his eyes shifting automatically to the three bound people on the floor in front of him. The sight was clearly something he hadn’t expected, and the man stared for exactly two seconds.
It was one second more than Beckard needed.
Beckard fired, and buckshot ripped apart chunks of the hallway along with the man’s head.
He turned around — again, too fast, and cursed under his breath at the stabbing pain — and sidestepped until he was standing in front of the window. He looked out, saw the other hunter trying to unsling his rifle, reacting to the sound of gunshot, while his dog began barking again.
The man saw Beckard at about the same time and he dived sideways as Beckard fired, shattering the window into a thousand pieces and sending glass shards everywhere. Buckshot pinged! against the hood of the minivan as the figure slipped behind it.
Beckard was racking the shotgun when he saw the dog — all white with patches of brown fur and sharp, salivating white teeth — racing across the yard. Then the animal did something Beckard didn’t anticipate and launched itself—
What the hell?
He was still trying to process the sight of the animal leaping through the air like some kind of furry missile when it entered through the shattered window and barreled into his chest headfirst.
Beckard went flying backward, cursing in his head even if he couldn’t get the sounds out. He was still awed by the fact that the dog had managed to run across the open ground and jumped into the cabin before he could fire a third shot. All that took a backseat when bursting pain rippled across his body from his broken nose to his chest, where the animal had slammed into him, and all the way down to his side, which may or may not have started bleeding again behind the gauze wrapping.
What the fuck is happening?
And the shotgun was gone. It had flown out of his hands at the same time the dog smashed into him like a baseball bat and sent him flopping to the floor on his back. Then his entire world shrank, with nothing but the slobbering beast on top of him trying to bite his face off occupying his frayed senses.
Beckard somehow managed to get his left arm under the dog’s chin. He pushed with everything he had — and digging deep down for more — just to keep the animal at bay. Its teeth (Jesus Christ, they’re sharp!) were snapping, trying to get at him even as he struggled against its surging, furry body.
Beckard managed to draw his knife with his free hand. He jerked his arm back and was about to drive it through the mutt’s head when a loud whistle cut through the air. The animal pulled back, cocking its head slightly to one side, just before it leaped off Beckard. The dog spun around and, showing amazing fluidity, jumped through the window and disappeared outside.
He stared at the window, sucking in one labored breath after another, the knife in his fist still poised to strike in case the creature came back in through the same opening for a second go at his face.
But it didn’t, and Beckard gathered himself and scrambled up from the floor. Or stumbled and fell and hobbled, anyway. However he did it, he wasn’t helplessly lying on his back anymore, and though his entire body was on fire from head to toe (he couldn’t blink without something hurting), at least he still had a face.
He had managed to make it onto his hands and knees when he glanced around the cabin and saw the shotgun a few yards away. Wade and Rachel were staring longingly at it, and Wade might have even managed to roll toward it just a little bit because he wasn’t where Beckard last remembered him. Or maybe he was just imagining things. It was hard to concentrate through the misery that was swarming all of his senses at the moment.
He crawled toward the shotgun and picked it up, then hurried back to the wall and leaned next to the window. If the dog charged again, Beckard would have a clear shot at the animal before it located him. Then he’d see how the little bastard liked a face full of buckshot.
Suck on some lead, Fido!
He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. It hurt too much just to think about laughing, much less actually going through with it.
Beckard wiped at sweat and what he thought might have been dog saliva on his face and forehead. Ugh. The lingering smell made him want to gag, but he had enough control left of his body to fight against that urge.
“Marcus!” The other hunter shouted from outside. “You in there? Marcus!”
He looked over at the hallway, where there was apparently another way into the cabin somewhere back there because the tall hunter (Marcus, I presume) had found it. The only part of Marcus that he could see were his legs and mud-caked boots sticking out of the narrow passageway. No signs of his rifle, but it was probably in there somewhere. Beckard’s buckshot had torn big chunks out of the wall but had also gotten enough of the man to finish him off.
From outside: “Goddammit, Marcus, answer me!”
He’s dead, asshole. Buy a clue.
He glanced across the room at Allie. She was watching him back, still trying to stab him to death with her eyes. He smiled despite himself. He admired her grit and determination. If it wasn’t for Rachel, he would have devoted all the time he had left to her. He had a feeling she would be worth it.
And sisters, too. That was a new one. But maybe, if it worked out, he might try it again, except this time on purpose—
His head snapped back to the window when he heard the sound. He knew immediately what it was even before the beast flashed by next to his head. Fur and spittle and the smell of an animal who spent too much time in the muck and stink of the outdoors overwhelmed him in a split instant.
The dog landed in front of him and whirled around as if it were chasing its own tail. The animal looked confused as it tried to reacquire him.
Ha! Stupid dog!
He was about to shoot the mutt when the door opened with a crash! and the hunter stumbled inside. The man must have been moving too fast, likely charged up with adrenaline, because he seemed to lose his balance. The sight of him staggering through the open doorway was almost comical.
Of course, Beckard didn’t get the chance to LOL (or even LMFBO) at that moment, either.
He fired, and so did the hunter.
At the same time, the dog was growling right next to him, clearly indicating that the beast had, finally, found him again.
Oh, hell.
Chapter 13
It was a piece of glass. Beckard didn’t see it, and there was no reason he should have. It was so small she would have missed it if she hadn’t been lying on her stomach staring at it, sticking out from between one of the floorboards just a foot from her head. If she had to guess (not that she spent all that long thinking about it), it had broken off when Beckard shot Donnie in the kitchen. She remembered seeing a glass on the counter, and then it wasn’t there anymore.