After he finally regained consciousness, Mitch managed
to pull himself up enough to rest his shoulders against the bedroom wall. He reached up, found his wound to be in his lower neck, adjacent to his right shoulder. Luckily, considering he wasn’t dead, the bullet passed clean through without hitting bone, but in doing so, allowed two holes for him to bleed through. He also felt severe pain on the left side of his head, could feel dried blood, cracking as his facial contortions changed.
To his left, his deputy lay motionless behind the closed bedroom door. His face, pale in the strange orange glow coming from outside, his head, jolted awkwardly forward by the corner of the room with a black hole above his left eyebrow trailing a line of blood around half his eye socket, and looked to be staring coldly at the broken, blood-spattered window, where beneath, lay the body of Helen Ferris.
The room, apart from Mitch’s laboured breathing, held an eerie silence along with the strong stench of Cordite. Peter Ferris’ body lay beyond the left-hand mirror in a similar position to his own, his eyes closed, his chin resting on his chest. Helen, again in a similar pose but with her legs folded underneath and her skirt riding high on her thighs, stared directly at him. Above her, two bullet holes in the window, both approximately the same distance apart as the wounds she’d suffered.
He looked where he’d seen the body of Elizabeth fall from the mirror but the floor was bare. Had he dreamed it all? Was he still dreaming? Was he at home, still in bed? No, no way, the pain searing through his shoulder dispelled all hopes of that. But if he wasn’t dreaming, then the truth of what’s happened here beggars belief. He’d seen the corpse of Elizabeth Ferris, walking, talking, and shooting dead his deputy, then turning the gun on him. He needed to think about this, needed to get his own story straight. No one would believe his explanation; they’ll think he’s insane, think he’s seeing dead kids all over again.
Contemplating his copious lack of options, Mitch felt something weighty in his right hand; he looked to see he was still holding his own gun. Raising it painfully to his nose, he sniffed at the barrel to find the scent of cordite strong. Knowing for certain he hadn’t fired any shots, he emptied the magazine to see two spent shells, and remembering full well how he’d aimed the gun but couldn’t pull the trigger. He replaced the bullets, including the empty shells, back into the magazine and closed it again, wondering what the fuck was going on here, and, even more so, how the fuck he was going to explain it all.
Okay, all paranormal shit aside, he had a choice – sit on his butt and quite possibly bleed to death, or somehow get to the phone downstairs and call out Doc Grayson. Putting away the gun, he rolled to his right managing all-fours, then, placing both palms on the bed in front of him, he pulled his knees in to it. That’s when he got a clear view across the street through the blood-spattered window to see Mrs Winkle’s house burning; the flames leaping through an upstairs window, licking the tiles on the roof.
Mitch pushed off the bed, legs unsteady he rocked backwards using the wall for balance. Now he saw the whole of the house across the street, could feel the heat on his face. He put his left hand over his wound and applied as much pressure as his nerve-endings could tolerate in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. He stumbled his way over to the door, and, as Painful as it was, pulled on the handle with his right hand and stepped out onto the landing. Then, using the wall and the banister rail to steady him, made his way to the top of the stairs. All the time, not realising what had been placed in the pocket of his shirt. He managed to get down three or four when he heard the distant, but nearing honk of Dennis Howell’s fire truck.
*
Volunteer Fire-fighter, Dennis Howell, and three others, Matt Harvey, Mike Dresden and Sue Tirrell, turned left onto Woodsman road to see an ominous orange glow six hundred yards ahead of them. All, sleepy-eyed, and all, but Dennis, pulling on their fire-fighting equipment, each of them, secretly fearing they were inadequately trained for this, their last three fires being in almost as many years. Two of which were small bush fires started by out-of-town campers, and the third being an old, disused barn, purposely ignited by its owner because it was quicker and cheaper than having it demolished by hand.
Pressing down hard on the gas pedal, Dennis pushed the aging fire-truck to its limit. His balding head a sparse scattering of grey, wet with the sweat of anticipation, which ran in narrow rivulets down his long, thin face. ‘Mike, once we stop, I need you to run to the back of the house, make sure that damn still ain’t no where near them flames., we don’t’ want that thing goin’ up on us if it’s full!’
‘Gotcha, Chief.’
‘Matt, Sue, you reel out those pipes and get ‘em wet A-sap.’
‘Right, chief,’ they both said.
As the fire-truck passed the McGreal’s place, Dennis saw Mitch’s cruiser up ahead, as they neared, he noticed Mitch wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but saw Mrs McGreal standing beside the car in a long coat and slippers.
‘Jesus, it’s an inferno,’ said Matt Harvey, snapping shut the studs on his jacket.
Sue looked out. ‘Oh Christ, I hope to God she ain’t in there.’
Seconds later, all four bailed out as Dennis stopped the truck closer to the burning house than he felt comfortable with, three of them following the instructions they were given, and Dennis, now snapping his own studs shut, approaching Mrs McGreal. The Intense heat hit him like a blast-furnace, and the noise sounded more like the jet engines of a 747.
He had to shout to be heard. ‘Have you seen Dorothy?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No.’
He glanced at the cruiser. ‘Where’s Mitch?’
‘I’ve no idea; I’ve been here waiting for you since I called. His car was already here but I haven’t seen him.’
Fearing the worst he shot round, looked at the fire. ‘Is he …?’
Mary shrugged, insistently. ‘I don’t know.’
Sue called out. ‘Hey, Dennis, we could sure use some help over here!’
He turned to see her and Matt dragging the two dilapidated hoses closer to the house, each of them springing at least a half-dozen leaks. ‘Yeah, one minute,’ he said, then to Mary. ‘You need to stay well back.’
Mary looked down the road. ‘No, Dennis, what I need is to get home.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Just find Dorothy, okay?’
Dennis nodded as she turned to leave.
‘Hey, chief.’
‘Yeah,’ he said turning round. ‘I’m comin’ for Christ’s-’
‘No, look!’ Sue pointed.
Dennis turned back to the old Evans place to see Mitch slumped against the door post, his arms hanging limp with his head lowered, and the right side of his khaki shirt-front, heavily blood-stained.
