Grace had never been athletic. Her body was frail and she wasn’t very strong, but hate and grief gave her courage and speed. Swooping past an uncomprehending Abel, who still stood with the hunter’s brains slopping from his absurd hat, she snatched up a frying pan with her right hand, pivoted, and swung. The pan swished, and even as it bore down on its target, she was thinking, Too bad it’s not a golf club; a club would be so much faster, with more angular momentum, less mass to overcome . . .
Abel was just turning. There was a hollow thud, like a head of lettuce smashed onto a cutting board to dislodge the stem, followed almost instantly by a tremendous, wet, mucky crunch. Abel’s face caved in an explosion of blood. There was a pattering sound, like rice on wood, as Abel’s teeth ticked to the floor. Abel didn’t cry out. His body jerked back a few steps and his arms shot up and out, like he was a geeky kid trying to master the jitterbug. Then he was falling, straight back. His head bounced against the rough planked floor. His eyes were open, and so was his mouth, and she could see the bloody, broken stumps where his teeth had lived only seconds before. The rest of his face was a crater. His chest wasn’t moving, but his feet and fingers were still jittering as the last of his brain died.
Total time, from the moment the bullet rocketed through the window to now: seven seconds. Maybe a hair more.
Get to the bedroom. The pan clanged to the wood. The speed of sound depends on the square root of the absolute temperature divided by molar mass. The second hunter had left her alone with Abel and his now-dead partner. Which meant that he and the men she hadn’t seen yet would hear the sound of the shot in the woods and then the rain of glass just a tad slower than if it had been summer, because sound was a bit sluggish in cold air. She had, she thought, anywhere from nine to fifteen seconds, but there were too many variables and she couldn’t account for all of them.
If whoever’s out there goes around the house to listen, I’ve got more time. If they don’t . . . I’m coming, Jed, I’m coming. She started across the room, but she was wearing fuzzy slippers, and she felt the skid begin, her balance go. Her feet flew out from under as if she’d tried running over ice, and then she was falling. The impact was solid and very hard, and she took the brunt of it on first her right leg and then the hip. She heard two sharp, brittle snaps, and then pain exploded in her pelvis and zoomed up her spine. Grace screamed, sucked in a breath for another one, and then there was blood and gore in her mouth, clogging her nose, because she’d landed facedown in the widening pool of the men’s blood. She hacked out a weak, retching cough. Her right leg was twisted, splayed at a bizarre angle, and the pain was so ferocious she was afraid to move. A second later, she realized she couldn’t.
Got to. The coppery smell of all this blood was making her sick. A surge of vomit lurched up her chest and into her mouth. Her hip was screaming, and the pain was making hash of her thoughts. The amount of blood in the body is dependent on mass, and I’m so tiny . . . Got to move, got to get to the bedroom . . . Jed, Jed . . . Over the bang of her heart, she heard the click and then the creak of the door.
Someone coming. Have to get up, get up, get up! But she couldn’t move. She was gasping like a dying trout; she couldn’t raise her head. Even the calculator in her brain had seized. How much blood hummed through her veins? Her mind had stalled; the numbers wouldn’t come.
She watched the blood pool vibrate and ripple as someone in heavy winter boots walked toward her. Then the boots hove into view, and they were different, not what she’d expected: a stained desert-style tan instead of black or dark brown. The rusty stink of blood was so heavy, she only belatedly noticed their smell: thick and somehow a little sweet.
Gasoline.
There was a burst of static and then a series of clicks, very distinct and crisp. They reminded Grace of cicadas on a hot summer’s day. A cicada’s click rate was related to temperature, but these weren’t rhythmic. A code. It might even be Morse code coming from a radio. There was a pause, and then the owner of the boots clicked a reply.
The pattern meant nothing to Grace. Her brother had been an Eagle Scout. He might’ve been able to tell her what the clicks meant, but he was dead. So, she knew, was she.
High above the boots, a new voice, one Grace knew could not have come from the men she’d seen, said, “So, it’s a boy. Tom.” Lingering over the word, savoring the name. “Where is he?”
Run, Tom. Her tongue was coated with an old man’s blood and her curdled vomit. The pain in her hip and leg kept time with her heart.
“Let me tell you something. Normally, I’d turn someone like you into hamburger, maybe even a couple of rump roasts for the Chuckies. But this cabin is hell and gone, and you’re such a skinny old bird, you’re not worth the effort. So I’ll make an exception in your case.”
Run, Tom. With the window gone, the room was growing very cold. Run, run . . .
“So here’s what I’ll do,” the voice said. “Tell me where he is and I’ll kill you now. A bullet to the brain, and nighty-night. Don’t tell me and . . .”
The air is freezing; it’s all about timing. Muzzle velocity is dependent on—
“I’ll let the fire do that instead. You’ll probably die of smoke inhalation before the fire does its work, or maybe your lungs will boil and you’ll suffocate. Or maybe not. Maybe you’ll be awake the whole time the fire eats you alive.”
The speed of sound is—
“So I’ll count to three.”
No, it won’t be three, not precisely. The speed of a thought is three hundred milliseconds, and then the time to perform the action is dependent on—
“One.”
Not precisely three. She pulled in a breath and held it. Three seconds and just enough left over, so if he’s close—
“Two.”
Run, Tom, run, run—
“Thr—”
“Ruuuuuun, Tom, Ruuuuunnnnn!” Grace screamed, the words bursting from her mouth because the thought was there, at the front of her brain, and there was just enough time, there was just enough—
29
Six more ninja-kids trudged from the woods. They were working hard, their breaths coming in white chuffs. Each pulled a long, scalloped, fire-engine-colored plastic sled.
“Oh Lord.” Ruby’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “They’ve got children.”
Twelve in all. Very dead. Girls and boys. Two to a sled, and carelessly sprawled across one another in a tangle of limp arms and legs and dragging hair like corpses from a concentration camp. She picked out a few head shots. No mistaking that drippy third eye or the misshapen skulls. But most had their throats cut and wore wide bibs of iced blood. Some—most—had died with their eyes wide open, and their mouths, too, frozen in a final, silent scream.