Mort pulled his head back in the window and smiled tohimself. "So they can be killed."
He stumbled around in the darkness of the restaurant,bumping into clunky wooden tables. He swept the place settings onto the floorwith his arm, and tipped a table over on its side. He pushed it across the woodfloor and set it in front of the broken window he had crawled into. It wasn'tmuch for the moment, but it should give him some sort of warning if one ofthose things tried to crawl inside, and he simply couldn't do anything elsewith his knee in the condition that it was in.
Car alarms blared and the occasional sound of rifle firemasked all the noise that he made. He was tempted to turn on a light, but hedidn't know if the light would draw those things to the house. Rather than riskit, he felt his way around the dining room, and then made his way into thekitchen. Cold metal counters and the smell of used cooking oil assaulted hisnose. He would give anything for a flashlight, but there was none to be had, atleast not that his eyes could distinguish in the dark.
He felt around the kitchen until he discovered what hethought was a stand-up freezer, visions of dead creatures in the darknessdanced though his head. He pulled it open. The light from the inside lit up thekitchen enough for him to see. The kitchen appeared to be clear, so he tuckedthe gun into the back of his pants. The barrel was cold against his skin.
By the light of the freezer, he pulled up the left leg ofhis pants and examined his knee. The swelling was awful. His knee looked likeit belonged more to an elephant than an out-of-shape homeless man. Mort loweredhimself to the ground, his leg stretched out before him. He reached into thefreezer and pulled out a pork chop, placing it on his knee. He sucked in abreath as the frozen meat touched his skin.
He closed his eyes and sat there. Enjoying the briefrespite. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. It was his lastone, who knew for how long. He lit the cigarette, took a deep breath, and blewthe smoke into the air.
He imagined that he was on a train, headed to wherever,hiding in a train car, ready to jump off at a moment's notice. Maybe he wouldgo to the country. Maybe he could find a way down South, take a look at the oldfamily homestead. He doubted it was still standing. It had been little morethan a tin shack when he had left it.
It was all just a pipe dream anyway. He took a drag offof his cigarette and then ashed on the floor. He wasn't in the mood foretiquette at the moment. As he exhaled, he heard a noise upstairs. It soundedlike the scraping of furniture on wood, but he couldn't be sure. He put thepork chop he had been icing his knee with back in the freezer and closed thedoor. He sat there, listening for any further noise as his eyes adjusted to thedark, then he rose to his feet, pulling on the counter to get himself up. Nowthat he had rested, he was calming down and the adrenaline was leaving hisbody. He realized just how sore and tired he had become. He didn't know howmuch longer he could go on for. All he wanted to do was sleep, but first, hehad to check out the noise.
He walked into the dining room, and checked the tablejust to be sure. It was still there, ready to be knocked over at the slightestdisturbance. In the darkness, he found a door that opened onto a steepstaircase that led upstairs. He pulled his purloined revolver from his pantsand took a deep breath.
His climb up the stairs was slow and arduous. The housewas old, and the stairs squeaked with every step. When he reached the top ofthe stairs, he stood there shrouded in silence, clutching the pistol.
"Hello? Is anybody there?"
From somewhere in the house, he heard footsteps comingtowards him, shuffling steps, uneven. He couldn't tell what direction they werecoming from. It was too dark to see who or what was approaching him. His lefthand instinctively searched the wall for a light switch, while his right handshook with the pistol in it.
"Stop where you are."
The footsteps continued, shuffling across the woodenfloor.
"I have a gun. I don't want to hurt you."
The fingers of his left hand touched on a switch, and heflipped it up just as an elderly black woman reached for his throat. He hadtime to see vomit dribble from her mouth before they both tumbled down thestairs.
Somewhere in the tumble, the gun went off. Blood drippedonto him as he fended off the woman's bites. She was straddling him, and it wasonly a matter of time before he was bitten. He fumbled around on the ground forthe pistol, but he couldn't find it. With his left arm locked at a ninetydegree angle, he pushed the woman back as far as he could, which wasn't farenough as far as he was concerned. Vomit dripped from her mouth onto his face,and her cold weight sent fear through his body.
The fingertips of his free arm brushed against the metalof the pistol. It was just out of his reach. He pushed the woman backwards andsat up, straining abdominal muscles that hadn't been used in years. Holding thewoman at arm's length, he finally managed to grasp the butt of the gun. In onesmooth motion, he brought it up under her chin and pulled the trigger. Theflash temporarily blinded him in the darkness.
The
