Vacation

catching that one in the skull, dead center. A head shot always took them out.

Always, that is, except for those freakish moments when they didn’t and somehow the thing could still move with a chunk of skull and brain matter missing.

This time, though, the Can Head got kicked off his feet. A third hesitated, perhaps smelling death.

Jack fired at it. At the same time, he dug out his Glock.

Anything could happen with an M16. A jam, some malfunction.

Two guns gave him some security.

With all three attackers dead, Jack hurried to the guard, now with one Can Head riding his back, mouth open. Another had locked itself to the guard’s midsection.

Not a job for the rifle. This was up-close work.

Jack took aim at each Can Head, knowing that mere inches separated a shot that could save the guy’s life from one that would just make the Can Head’s work easier.

Jack’s first shots were tenuous. Not wanting to get too close. But each second brought deeper wounds to the guard.

He adjusted his aim, taking a chance that a sudden jerk of the guard’s body would expose him to a killing shot.

The Can Head on the guy’s back caught one shell. It fell off the guard as if thrown from a horse.

The guard fell to his knees. Jack fired three shots at the creature digging at the guy’s midsection.

It stopped moving.

But as if clamped on, it stayed stuck to the guard.

Jack walked over and crouched down, not knowing whether he’d just saved a dead man.

The guard’s eyes were open. He could speak.

“Th-thank you.”

Hard to tell about his wounds. Guy could be bleeding out all over the place.

Jack pried the dead Can Head off the man, like undoing a blue crab from a net.

Its claw hands, even the feet with their uncut nails, all dug in.

Then the man was free.

“Can you stand?”

What little light there was caught at least three nasty wounds, all oozing.

But the blood wasn’t gushing out; it wasn’t pouring onto the forest floor.

With his own gun silenced, Jack could hear gunfire around them.

“Can you stand?” Jack asked again.

The man seemed to wobble as he tried to make his legs work to get himself up.

But then, like some amazing feat of science, the guy stood.

“You have some bad wounds.” Jack nodded at the woods. “Things still going on in here. Think you can manage to shoot some more of them?” The guy made a face that looked about as unsure as any Jack had ever seen.

“I’ll be with you. I have a little experience killing these suckers.”

The man nodded.

“Good. Clear this area. Then you can get your wounds tended to. Okay?”

Another nod.

“One thing: remember to reload whenever you can. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Jack wanted to get back to his family.

But then from behind the lodge, more gunfire.

Fuck, he thought.

The snaps and pops insisting that he go there.

He left the guard and ran as best he could in the direction of the gunfire.

*   *   *

He stopped.

The figures ahead—shadowy. But he could see Lowe, Shana, a few other guards, surrounded.

Christ, had to be ten … twelve Can Heads. Circling. That hunting shit they did.

Everyone’s guns out, maybe thinking about conserving bullets. Their own panic making them do just the wrong thing—turn to look this way, then that way, feeding their panic, fueling the disorientation.

Only seconds before the Can Heads would pounce. Lowe and his workers would be turned into mincemeat.

Jack took a step—a twig snapped.

One Can Head shot his head around, the sound of the dry stick just able to penetrate its consciousness. One of Lowe’s guards fired a gun at another. Then another shot, only this time—a click, the weapon empty.

Another Can Head spun toward Jack as if smelling the new interloper.

Right, thought Jack. I’m here.

He started firing.

For every shot that hit one of the Can Heads between the eyes, another barely grazed a shoulder, an arm. Now the group of cannibals was equally divided between moving toward Lowe’s group, and moving on Jack.

Jack started walking toward them, reminding himself: stay steady, take time to aim. Try to fucking anticipate the Can Heads’ next crazy move.

Anticipate.

As if.

The rifle kicked one back on its heels. Another blast removed one’s head clear from its shoulders. And still the thing walked another few damn feet before collapsing to the ground.

Jack kept walking into the circle, as if bridging the gap between Lowe’s party and his weapons. The closer he got, the better he could aim and shoot.

Only two of the things were left standing; sniffing the air like pigs, snorting, smelling the blood, mad with hunger but also seeing the death around them.

Got you, fuckers, Jack thought.

He easily took these two out in their confusion.

And then it was quiet.

Lowe and his people safe.

Jack’s guns smoking in each hand like mini-chimneys.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what you get for ruining my fucking vacation.”

27

10:41 P.M.

The alarms stopped.

“It’s over,” Christie said. “I think you should try and get some sleep.”

Kate asked the obvious question.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’ll be here. I’m sure he helped.” She forced a smile.