lightly on the trigger. What if it jammed? Forget that, it wouldn't
jam. It had worked like a dream when she'd tried it out against a
canyon wall in a remote area above Malibu several months earlier:
automatic gunfire echoing along the walls of that narrow defile, spent
shell casings spewing into the air, scrub brush torn to pieces, the
smell of hot brass and burned gunpowder, bullets banging out in a
punishing stream, as smooth and easy as water from a hose. It wouldn't
jam, not in a million years. But, Jesus, what if it does?
The door eased inward. A narrow crack. An inch. Then wider.
Something snaked through the gap a few inches above the knob. In that
instant the nightmare was confirmed, the unreal made real, the
impossible suddenly incarnate, for what intruded was a tentacle, mostly
black but irregularly speckled with red, as shiny and smooth as wet
silk, perhaps two inches in diameter at the thickest point that she
could see, tapering as thin as an earthworm at the tip. It quested
into the warm air of the kitchen, fluidly curling, flexing obscenely.
That was enough. She didn't need to see more, didn't want to see more,
so she opened fire. Chuda-chudachuda-chuda. The briefest squeeze of
the trigger spewed six or seven rounds, punching holes in the oak door,
gouging and splintering the edge of it. The deafening explosions
slammed back and forth from wall to wall of the kitchen, sharp echoes
overlaying echoes.
The tentacle slipped away with the alacrity of a retracted whip.
She heard no cry, no unearthly scream. She didn't know if she had hurt
the thing or not.
She wasn't going to go and look on the porch, no way, and she wasn't
going to wait to see if it would storm into the room more aggressively
the next time.
Because she didn't know how fast the creature might be able to move,
she needed to put more distance between herself and the back door.
She grabbed the can of gasoline at her side, Uzi in one hand, and
backed out of the doorway, into the hall, almost tripping over the dog
as he scrambled to retreat with her. She backed to the foot of the
stairs, where Toby waited for her.
'Mom?' he said, voice tight with fear.
Peering along the hall and across the kitchen, she could see the back
door because it was in a direct line with her. It remained ajar, but
nothing was forcing entry yet. She knew the intruder must still be on
the porch, gripping the outside knob, because otherwise the wind would
have pushed the door all the way open.
Why was it waiting? Afraid of her? No. Toby had said it was never
afraid.
Another thought rocked her: If it didn't understand the concept of
death, that must mean it couldn't die, couldn't be killed. In which
case guns were useless against it.
Still, it waited, hesitated. Maybe what Toby had learned about it was
all a lie, and maybe it was as vulnerable as they were or more so, even
fragile.
Wishful thinking. It was all she had.
She was not quite to the midpoint of the hall. Two more steps would
