"They've breached the gate, Martha," Eric Gaiman muttered as he peeked fearfully through the boards on his window.
Martha Gaiman cradled her snub-nosed .38 in her lap as though she were comforting a small dog. She had constructed a couch cushion fort at the top of the cellar steps and spent the majority of her time kneeling behind them for cover. "Good Lord, save us! What now?"
"We defend what's ours."
Eric's knees cracked like gunshots as he crouched and waddled to the front door, where he began to snap open the deadbolts and chains.
"Can't we call the police once more?" Martha shouted, fumbling with the cylinder of her pistol. She checked the primers for the fifth time in an hour before snapping it back into place.
"They ain't coming, woman! It's every man for his-self!"
The final deadbolt slid back and Eric eased the door inward; grateful that he oiled the hinges religiously. The only sound was the bottom of the door rasping against the welcome mat as he swung it open just enough to slide his rifle through. Eric peered through the scope, cursing his failure to buy those infrared optics he found on Ebay last month. The scope was all but useless, revealing only the shambling silhouettes of the invaders that stalked the streets.
Sounds. The night was alive with ghoulish sounds of prowling monsters. Some wore chains around their necks that jangled like Jacob Marley with epilepsy. Other groaned with otherworldly hunger, their arms outstretched and grasping for victims. And worse yet, some were approaching homes and battering at the doors.
"Naturally, not a damn one of them is standing their ground," Eric muttered. "Guess it's up to me to get this war off on the right track."
His old eyes weren't what they had been, but they had adjusted to the inky blackness that hid the ravenous tangos. Squinting, he settled the scope on an undulating figure. The crosshairs were invisible, but Eric knew well enough that he was honed in on the center mass. Gently, just like his father had taught him 60-years earlier, he squeezed the trigger.
When it goes off, it's gotta be a surprise, his father had said.
Across the street, the shifting form exploded in a spray of latex and plastic scraps.
"Did ya' get 'em!? Did ya'!?" Martha shouted from her fort.
No, no he hadn't. What he had gotten (forgotten, more like) was the damn animatronic witch Henderson trotted out every year. Judging by the silence of countless listening ears, Eric would pay for his foolish act of accidental vandalism dearly.
"Yeah, hon'. I got one of them. And now we've just got to hold off the rest, lest they're deaf," Eric called over his shoulder. No reason to believe she'd ever see his faux pas. It'd be bad for morale, besides.
Martha checked her rounds again, and held the small gun with both hands close to her breasts; exactly the way Eric had told her to stop doing more times than he cared to remember. No matter. If he did his job, she'd never have to sock herself in the jaw using the damn thing.
Like ants on a distressed anthill, the night-walkers scrambled every which way. Shadows moved away, and through yards. But some approached, with anger bubbling up from their inhuman throats.
"There! Son of a bitch!" one of them screamed.
A round drove itself into the door, slamming it against Eric's shoulder. Frantic now, Eric forgot the face of his father and began to yank at the trigger. His straining eye sought out shadows that moved.
"You didn't say they'd shoot back! You said they wouldn't!" Martha shouted. She thrust her gun at the window looking out on the front lawn and flung a round through the glass. The gun yanked her wrists painfully backwards, and with a twitch of her finger she put a second round through the roof.
"Goddamnit, woman, I told you to stow the fucking thing 'til I was dead or disarmed!" Eric barked, half expecting the batty old ball-and-chain to slip and put a bullet through his ass. Wouldn't that be a delightful end to this whole mess?
Another shot came from the dark, this time shredding the aluminum siding just to the right of the door. Eric felt a trickle of warmth slide down the knuckles of his left hand. He gripped the weapon even tighter and returned the shots in kind. How many rounds were left in the clip? In his panic, Eric had neglected to count. Today was going very, very poorly.
The view through Eric's scope turned a deeper shade of black. Too close. They were far too close. He had failed.
"Fuckin' asshole!" the figure roared.
More loud reports came then. As the last one reverberated into nothing, all that remained in Eric and Martha's gated neighborhood was the stink of gunpowder and the shadows that moved.
From behind her fort, Martha jostled to her knees and leveled her gun at the front door. She pushed the snub-nose towards the doorway until her biceps and forearms burned.
"You got them, Eric? I know you did. You got them dead to rights," she said. It was a dumb question, and she'd be scolded for it, but she needed to be confident that the fight was won. Even if it wasn't.
Eric didn't answer. He lay prone by the door just as he had before, his rifle jutting out into the sliver of night that lay beyond. His shoulder kept it from swinging inside all the way. Wasn't that just Eric, a strategist in the worst of times?
The barrel of Eric's rifle began to drift to the right.
"There still more Eric? You need another magazine?" Martha asked, shuffling into a squat so she could hop the cushions if need be.
The stock slid from Eric's shoulder and bounced against the carpet as the rifle spun in his motionless arms like a compass needle. Just before it stopped turning, Martha saw the gleam of a polished boot pressing the end of the barrel away from where the moving shadow was standing.
"M'am, I am coming in. And when I do, I suggest you have both hands up and empty," the person outside said. His voice was deep, confident, and tingling with adrenaline.
"Are you one of them? What did you do to my husband?" Martha stuttered. She wondered if her gun could punch through the door to where the invader was standing. It was plenty powerful, for sure, but how many chances would she have to shoot before they descended on her?
"Nothing I ever wanted to do, lady. If you turn around and place your hands on the wall, I promise that you won't have to see anything," he replied. A large, dark hand grasped the corner of the door and began to push.
Eric's head rolled to the side, revealing the wet hole where his eye had been. Martha's frantic eyes darted from Eric to the hand, and then to the widening gap that lead into the darkness. And now it was coming inside. And now it would appear, any second, it would appear and consume her with its wrath. Martha closed her eyes and fired once.
The front door met the wall and spat its stained glass window across the carpet, where it glittered like green and amber jewels. And Martha was falling too, thoughts and memories breaking into jagged pieces that she wanted to gather and piece back together. Maybe the ugly parts of Eric could be set aside, and shining, beautiful pieces could go in their place.
But maybe it was okay to leave them as they were. Maybe they were even more beautiful than before, and they could color the sunlight if it ever returned again. And if it never did, maybe that was okay too. Maybe it was okay to sleep and let the pieces fall where they may.
--------------------
Lieutenant Terrance Carver stood stock-still for a time, his ears searching for the metallic snap of gun actions. The soles of his feet searched for the rhythmic vibration of human footsteps. When he felt the time was finally right, he swept the sweat from his forehead with the side of his hand.
"Echo 15, what's your status?"
Carver thumbed his receiver. "Still could use that backup, and two EMT's. No hurry on those. Two suspects down, scene looks clear."
"Copy that, Echo 15. Keep it secure for a few. Calvary will be there soon enough."
"Not soon enough," Carver muttered, as he stepped over to an old CRT monitor humming away on a desk in the living room. The screensaver hadn't even had time to kick in yet, from the looks of it. Keeping his body facing the two downed suspects, he squinted at the text.
It was a forum post on a site called Free Republic, not completed or submitted yet.
"What's the point of living in a SECURED community when the THUGS get access to it so they can beg for candy along with all the decent kids. And don't believe for a second those feral urban THUGS aren't casing every single American who's foolish enough to open the door. Well not me! I'm putting a stop to it TONIGHT. RAHOWA! RAH--"
Carver sighed and wiped a fresh crop of sweat from his forehead. His pores would take any excuse they could to start flowing. He found himself wondering if he could ask to wear a hat when they asked him to go on Good Morning America over this.
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