Katieshook her head, as if something the man said had actually made sense.
"Lookat him," he pleaded through grit teeth.
Katie,finally understood, and it broke her heart. She would never be the same again.She moved to the old man and pulled Kevin off of him. Immediately, he beganattacking her, and she knew that something was not right. The thought ofdisease sprang to her mind, and the fact that the boy in her arms was cold onlymade matters worse. She shoved Kevin away, hoping that something would bejarred loose in his mind. He fell across the room, knocking over a bookshelf inthe corner. The books tumbled about his head, but he paid them no mind. Hisonly concern seemed to be reaching her and taking a bite out of her flesh. Adark voice in the back of her mind asked her why she kept resisting. She tampedit down in the corner of her mind where she kept her secrets, the dark ones shehad never told anyone.
Hewas upon her again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old man crawlingbackwards. He was trying to move as silently as he could. Eventually hesucceeded in dragging himself into the other room. When Katie was sure the oldman was out of the room, she tossed, Kevin, gnashing and clawing off to theside. He landed with a thump against the wall, and then she turned and ran outof the room, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
Sheslumped to the ground with her back against the door. For a second, there wasabsolute silence, except for the labored breathing of herself and the old man.Then the thumping began. For the second time that night, she held the dooragainst a loved one who now wanted nothing more than to devour her flesh.
Hisskin glistening with sweat and his shirt covered in Kevin's blood, the old manlooked at her and said, "Well, Katie, bar the door."
"Howdid you know my name?"
Theold man laughed out loud, the sort of laugh that you can't help but love. Deepand raspy with age, it echoed throughout the walls of the old man's stuffybedroom. Katie didn't know whether to laugh with him or cry. It rose up withinher, like an infection from out of nowhere. Together they laughed as her deadson beat upon the door outside. Madness was creeping in. It would serve herwell.
Chapter 22: Making Stories
The glass shattered, and that was all there was to that.Zeke had already loaded as many shotgun shells as he could into his shotgun. Heracked the weapon and steadied it with one hand. He looked at the window to seethe used-car salesman pawing through the bars. He was slicing his arm on theglass, but he didn't seem to care.
"I've had about enough of this shit," he saidto no one in particular. He pulled the door open in one smooth motion andclomped out onto the porch in his polished, black army boots. He about givingthe man a warning, but the dark part of him decided against it. Zeke raised hisshotgun as the man turned and squeezed the trigger. Shreds of flesh splatteredthe light blue porch along with a healthy dose of other red matter. The manflew backwards and fell onto the ground. Zeke reached into his pocket foranother cigarette, just as an ambulance pulled onto his street.
With his shotgun tucked under his arm, he was lookingdown trying to light his cigarette when he saw movement out of the corner ofhis eye. Zeke couldn't believe what he was seeing; the man on the porch wasrising from the ground. It didn't matter that he had just taken a shotgun blastto the chest, he was rising anyway.
The cigarette fell from Zeke's mouth as he mumbled,"No fucking way." Disbelief was replaced by rage. Somewhere in hismind, he saw the flashing lights off an ambulance, he heard the ambulance doorsslam shut, and then he heard some sort of shouting. He was too busy rackinganother shotgun shell to pay any attention to what they were saying. Withouthesitation, he leveled the shotgun at the car salesman's head, squeezed thetrigger and flinched when his face was speckled by splatters of blood from theman's exploding head.
The headless body slumped to the ground, and Zeke pumpedhis shotgun one more time. He stood over the body and gave it another blastjust to be sure. He calmly walked back to the front door where he had lost hiscigarette. He bent down to pick it up, but there was blood all over it. Hebroke it in half, and then he walked back inside. He plopped his shotgun downon the couch and then pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack in his pocket andlit it. He walked through his Spartan house and into the kitchen, a cloud ofsmoke following him. With a trembling hand, he turned on the hot water andleaned over the sink, as if he was going to throw up. Steam rose from the sinkand billowed around his head.
He had killed people before, in the name of freedom, inthe name of democracy. Somehow it was different when you did it out ofself-defense. He didn't feel good. He tossed his cigarette in the sink where ithissed.
The water in the sink was piping hot, and he put hishands underneath the tap, enjoying the burn of the water, which somehow feltright. He splashed some water on his face to get the blood off. His head stillthrobbed from where he had hit his head on the porch, and his hands burned withthe heat of the water. He dabbed his face with the old hand towel that hungfrom the cupboard handles underneath the sink. He stared out the window thatlooked onto his plain backyard. Square, completely devoid of personality, and100% unnecessary... just like him.
That's when he realized he was being watched. He turnedaround to see two cops standing in the doorway of the kitchen, red and bluelight ricocheting off the walls behind them. Their guns were trained on him.Zeke turned away from them, turned off the tap water, and giggled a little bit,more to himself
