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I
supposed to say?
    “Where is she?” He
leans, trying to look over my shoulder, into the hall, down the stairs.
    “Who?”
    “Don’t play stupid
with me. Where the fuck is she?”
    “Meredith?”
    “The bitch with
the glowing eyes.”
    All I see is her
running into the pack of Jo-Bran. “She’s dead.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “It’s true,” I
say, thinking that there is no other way for her to have escaped such an
ordeal. “I saw it myself.”
    Then a grin
spreads over his face, the tips of his teeth showing between the cracked lips.
“Then there is no one here to save you.” His finger goes for the trigger, and I
move, my instincts taking over, kicking in to save my broken life for one more
minute.
    The shot explodes.
I’m diving through the door’s frame, but part of the shot still clips me in the
arm. The pain soaks into me, like water into sand, but there is no time to dwell
on it. I can hear Goatee already stepping across the room, coming for me. I hop
the trellis remnants and stumble down the stairs. Another shot sprays splinters
across my head and blasts a huge hole in the nearby wall. I run.
    My instincts tell
me to head for the door, but my logic reminds me that this is a terrible idea.
Instead of outside, I duck into the living room, another shot missing me by
mere inches.
    “There’s nowhere
to go,” Goatee says. “It’s either outside or inside.” His boots clomp as they drop
on each step. “Either way, you’ve got monsters to deal with.”
    I peer through the
hole he’s just blasted through, and we lock eyes, his clean blue eye, staring
into my own.
    “You’re fucked,”
he says, training the shotgun my way. Another blast, but I’m already halfway to
the kitchen.
    “Aren’t we all,” I
say.
    “Because of you,”
he starts.
    I hear the shells
slide into the barrel, the click of the gun.
    “So what’s the
point of killing me?” I frantically search the kitchen, looking for anything I
could use as a weapon, thinking about how stupid and ironic it is that I’m
running from my own gun. But the only thing of any weight or purchase are the
cans of food in the pantry. I sneak inside. Grab a can in both hands and wait.
    “Because I’ll have
that satisfaction of doing the job myself. You know the feeling.” His steps
soften once he’s down the stairs, but the crackling debris still gives away his
position. “I saw you kill that soon-to-be Banjankri. Stabbing him with a shard
of blood.” A few more crunching steps. “You’re just as heartless as the rest of
us. You do what it takes to survive.” Another crunch. “And you thought you were
different.”
    His last comment
comes so full and loud, I know that he’s entered the kitchen. I sneak a quick
look, my face to the floor, and I see his boots stopped just inside, coming in
from the living room. I stand, praying my knees don’t pop or my bulk disturbs
any of my surroundings.
    I take in a
breath. Hold it. And throw one of the cans across the room.
    His gun blasts and
I leap from the pantry, knowing that this will save me or kill me. He sees me;
my arm is in motion. The gun turns; I release the other can. It flies; he aims.
I head straight at him; the can smashes into his opaque eye. I hear the crack;
the gun fires. The wall shreds, and I’m on him, tackling him to the floor. We
land in a heap, Goatee, me, and the can, thudding to the floor with enough
force to knock the wind out of our lungs.
    The shotgun has
fallen to the floor, out of reach. So I go for the can, scoop it back up and go
to work. Goatee is still dazed from the first hit when I bring the half-frozen
can of pears onto his face. A circle cuts into his forehead, and I hear the
snapping of bone. The squish. The gurgled scream as I continue to smash and
smash and smash. I don’t stop until the can disappears into his skull, hidden
from view.
    And he was right.
I do feel the satisfaction.

Chapter Fifteen

 
    I pick up the gun
and carry it back upstairs, into the