What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I pressed myself against the wall beside the open doorway, the sound of gunfire having long stopped. All four of them were idiots, wasting their ammo like that. I knew they had no idea someone was outside watching, but to not only give away their position and to use all that ammo just because they could? Fucking idiots.

I decided to wait another five or so minutes before I went inside. When I heard more mundane noises, like murmurs of conversation and cupboard doors opening and closing, I crept through the back door. I was outnumbered, but that was the least of my worries.

I found two of the four guys downstairs, one asleep on the couch in the lounge room and another ransacking the kitchen for food. It took no more than five minutes to kill them both. The one in the kitchen had his back to me, so he never saw it coming; the guy lying on the couch took a knife to the temple and never woke again.

But the two guys upstairs were suddenly wary, even though I hadn't made a sound. That was what gave me away. There was no way of luring them downstairs to me, and there was no way I was going to go up there without knowing where they were first.

Positioning myself by the staircase, I took a long look through the scope of my rifle and spotted someone sitting right at the top of the stairs, boots visible through the balustrade. I shot the boot nearest me, and with a howl of pain, him and his friend open-fired through the floor.

I retreated outside after that, with the guy I shot cursing every bitch and every fucking piece of shit of a son they had. Then he proceeded down the stairs, shooting in my general direction, not caring in the least that he was basically screwed.

I stuck my head through the door and quickly jerked back upon hearing a gunshot. There were no accompanying footsteps, no voices, nothing; then I realised, as I took a deep breath and let my head fell back against the peeling wood of the farmhouse, what I'd missed: that gunshot wasn't from inside. It came from outside, the single shot echoing like a thunderclap.

My blood turned to ice, and my heart stopped.

Emmi.

When my heart started again, it thundered in time to her name like a tattoo, and all I could think was Emmi, Emmi, Emmi. I was torn, with my need to go and find her, to make sure she was alright; the other part made me stay put, to neutralise this threat before I went searching for her.

So I decided to move back inside the house, footsteps slow and light. I found the first guy, the one with the bleeding foot, and forced a bullet through his skull, red matter bursting onto the wall behind him as he dropped useless to the floor.

The second guy I found upstairs waiting for me, right behind a door. He fired through it as soon as he heard the floorboards squeak under my boots but unfortunately for him - and fortunately for me - the bullet went straight through my non-shooting arm, just below my shoulder.

I wasn't in the mood for any of it. I kicked the door in, the force causing the wood to smack right into the guy's face and knock him off his feet. He was sprawled on the ground, grunting, holding his nose; he didn't try to stop me as I knocked his gun from his hand.

But he did try to stop me from blowing his brains out. And he succeeded. So I shot him twice in the belly.

I left after that, not caring in the least how much noise I made. I skipped every second step on the way down the stairs, and once outside I jumped from the porch, reloading my rifle as I ran, snapping the bolt back into place. The sun finally penetrated the trees and light fell upon the farmhouse, every inch of it a dirty grey.

I only slowed to a stop when I saw Emmi. Her face was pale, almost as white as a bedsheet, and her eyes were huge and red. She was safe, she was okay, and I almost collapsed from the relief.

Charlotte stood before her, her back turned to me, and in her hand was a bloody knife. A body lay on the ground between them, right at Charlotte's feet.

I made to call out to Emmi but as soon as Charlotte took a step toward her and over the body, Emmi ran to her. Her name got stuck in my throat as I watched her wrap her arms around Charlotte's waist and held onto her.

"Emmi!"

Ripping her face away from Charlotte's clothing, Emmi turned and looked around her to see me. Some colour had returned to her face, but she was still pale, with red splotches across her nose and cheeks. Charlotte turned to me too, but I didn't know what I expected to see. She said something to Emmi in a low voice which saw Emmi release her, take a few steps back, and go over to Dog, who was by the tree where I'd left Robbie and our belongings.

Charlotte crossed the space between us within seconds. She didn't say a word as she lifted her fist and punched me, right where she'd hit me last night.

"You bastard!" she shouted as I righted myself, after I thought I heard a bone snap in my cheek. "How could you!?"

"Wh–"

"You should've let me have my gun!" she spat, and if looks could kill. "We could've died! Emmi could've been shot!"

I wasn't going to explain myself, least of all to her, so I remained silent. Charlotte, on the other hand, was on a rampage. She shoved her hands through her long, dark hair, not caring in the least that one hand was dripping blood. "I can't believe you!" she continued when I said nothing. "It's bad enough I couldn't protect myself, but your daughter!? You left her to die!"

I looked at her hand now, realising she'd punched me with the one drenched in blood.

"She had you, didn't she?" I said, but I was never going to admit to her that I had severely underestimated the situation. My heart was beating so hard against my rib cage at the thought of Emmi getting hurt that I thought I was going to be sick.

Charlotte looked like she wanted to punch me again. Instead she settled on shoving me, hands pushing my chest that only saw me take half a step back.

"Fuck you," she spat, and she shoved me again. Then she tossed her bloody knife at my feet, and what I guess to be the guy's handgun. "Fuck you," she said again. "Your main priority should be keeping your daughter safe." I had a feeling she was about to say more, but she snapped her mouth shut and gestured to Emmi, who now had Dog in her arms and was standing under the shadow of the tree where Robbie was.

"Come on, Emmi," she said, and she held her hand out to her. As she spoke, she kept her eyes on me, refusing to look elsewhere. "Let's go inside. Nate can grab our stuff."

As the two brushed past me, I was left alone to deal with what came very close to happening – my knees threatened to buckle but I stayed standing as my mind conjured the images of Emmi lying dead on the ground. I had to do better. I had to be better.

I threw up. And I threw up again as I turned to Robbie, who had taken another gunshot to his leg.