When she had one shoe off and the other loose, the thing thrashed about, and she lost her hold; the feet slammed into one side of the tub, and the other shoe fell free.
The creature wore white sweatsocks – but they weren’t sweaty at all, despite the heat outside.
Something rammed into the door again as she tried to recapture the swinging feet, and she heard wood crack.
“Darn it!” she said.
Then she had them, had both feet, and in a moment of bravery, or maybe just insanity, she yanked down one sock, bent over, and bit down hard on the creature’s right achilles tendon.
It screamed, an ear-splitting squeal that echoed from the tiled walls. Annie was almost glad that her hearing wasn’t as acute as it once had been.
The pair outside the door fell silent. The banging against the door stopped.
Annie looked at the bite, and saw that she had poked a small hole in the thing’s stolen skin. She bent over and bit again, worrying at the skin like a dog at a bone.
Her captive shrieked in agony.
She kept biting, and chewing, until she had removed most of the skin from one ankle – she spat the bits down the drain as she went, and ignored the thing’s wails.
Then she peeled off the sock and the skin from its right foot, peeled the skin away as if she were peeling an orange, and looked at the stringy grey flesh beneath.
There were no true toes, just curving black claws, shaped to hold the skin out in its original form. There was no bone in the heel, no true tendon at the back of the ankle, just stuff that was something like clay, something like rubber.
She retrieved the nail file from the sink and rammed it into the thing’s arch.
It shouted, “Let me out of here, bitch!” It sounded frightened, angry – but no longer in pain.
Biting had hurt it; stabbing had not. Just as Ed Smith had said. She nodded.
Then she got up and stood at the door, listening.
The hallway outside was completely silent.
Carefully, slowly, she drew the bolt and opened the door a crack and peered out.
The hallway was empty.
She stepped out, checked carefully both ways, and made her way, step by step, downstairs. The front door was open, and she saw no sign of the other two nightmare people.
She closed the door and hurried to the kitchen, where she fished a good, strong carving knife from the drawer by the stove.
Thus armed, she searched the whole house, top to bottom.
They were really gone.
Maybe her bluffing about booby-traps and razors had helped, but it had been the sound of their companion’s pain that had sent them fleeing. Cowards!
Well, she told herself, they were gone now.
Except, of course, for the one that had ruined her shower curtain, the one that lay squirming in the bathtub, shouting obscenities at her.
She had that one.
She had wanted a chance at one of them, had wanted her share of revenge. Providing a base for the men, cooking their meals and keeping watch by day, that was all very well, and undoubtedly helped the war effort, so to speak, but she had wanted a chance at one herself, all the same.
She had hoped for the one that had gotten Kate, but this one would do.
Knife in hand, she went back into the bathroom.
Chapter Twelve:
After the Fire
1.
When Khalil turned off the engine they both heard it – something was wailing.
The two men looked at each other. Then Smith opened his door.
“Come on,” he said, swinging his crutches out.
Khalil climbed out, and led the way up to the porch. They moved slowly, step by step, sweeping the lawn and shrubbery with Smith’s flashlight.
Everything seemed peaceful – except that inside the house something was screaming and weeping wildly.
And all the downstairs lights were on, even though it was well after one in the morning.
The noise didn’t seem human – but then, it probably wasn’t.
“Damn, I wonder what the neighbors think!” Smith muttered, as he awkwardly tried to mount the porch steps. He had had little practice using crutches; it had been a long, long time since he’d broken any bones, and he had never before done anything like burning his foot this badly.
Khalil rang the bell.
“Who is it?” Annie’s voice called a moment later.
“It is Khalil Saad,” he answered.
“Oh,” Annie called, “I wonder, could you come to the front window and draw a little blood, please?”
Up until now, the standard procedure had been to open the front door and draw a few drops of blood there. Nobody had thought it was necessary to keep the door closed and use the window.
That didn’t mean it was a bad idea. Khalil looked at Smith, who tried to shrug and almost fell. They both made their way to the window.
Smith leaned on one crutch while he fished out his switchblade, then jabbed his left little finger and held it up where Annie could see it. It seemed a little stupid to be deliberately wounding himself like this when he was practically held together with bandages already, but he obliged his hostess.
Annie smiled at the sight of his blood, then looked expectantly at Khalil.
Khalil took the knife from Smith and pricked his own finger, reopening a wound he had already used several times.
Annie nodded. “Be right there!” she called through the glass.
A moment later the door opened, admitting them.
As they stepped inside Annie started to say something about the crutches, and Smith started to ask about the now-clearly-audible screaming, but Khalil cut them both off.
“Mrs. McGowan,” he said, “If you would please?” He held out the switchblade.
Annie grimaced, but she took the knife and stuck herself, piercing the scab on one finger.
Blood flowed redly.
She handed Smith the knife; he accepted it and put it back in his pocket, and all three of them relaxed.
“Annie,” Smith asked, as he closed the front door, “What’s the noise?”
“Oh, let me show you!” she said, clearly proud of herself. “It’s upstairs.”
Smith was in no condition for climbing stairs. After several attempts, Khalil assisted him up the stairs, leaving the crutches in the foyer.
2.
Khalil and Smith stared down at the thing in the tub, Smith leaning heavily on Khalil’s shoulder.
The creature’s chest was sunken in, leaving a cavity roughly the size and shape of a football. Its T-shirt had been cut open and folded back, and the human skin beneath had been stripped off. Its feet, too, were bare of both shoes and skin.
The rest of it was wrapped in the shredded remains of a thick green plastic shower curtain, bound up tightly with loops and loops of picture wire around the legs, neck, and shoulders. Elsewhere, long strips of white adhesive tape and tan package tape criss-crossed the plastic. Its arms were bound behind it – underneath it, now. Fluffy green towels were wrapped around its head and stuffed in its mouth.
The green wrapping made it look something like a gigantic ear of corn, still in the husk, with the towels forming the stem – but the grey feet didn’t look much like tassels, and the grey chest didn’t fit. It was as if the ear inside the husk had rotted away from within.
Except that rotted or not, it was moving. It twitched, and tossed its head from side to side, and it kept up an amazingly loud high-pitched moaning, despite the gag, that set Smith’s teeth on edge.
“It had your voice, Mr. Smith,” Annie said, smiling proudly. “I suppose it’s the one that was after you originally.”
Smith glanced at her, startled.
“Really?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Annie said, nodding. “That’s how it got in. It had your voice.”
“What did…” Smith began. He stopped, and asked, “You cut out that black thing, the heart?”