Page 2 of A Very Killer Christmas
The only broom I find has a broken handle. I have to bend low over the ground to hide the tire marks on the snowy pavement. Shooting a final look at the shed, I nod to myself and take off with an easy jog.
They will lock down the area, of course, but that can’t last forever. All I need is a good place to hide. There must be something.
But as I look at each house I pass, my heart sinks lower while the sirens blare closer.
I have seconds to duck behind a low wall when a police car turns into the street, its headlights sweeping across the pavement. My palms sweaty, I wait until it passes. The pulsing lights color the snow red and blue.
When the car turns left, I don’t return to the street. Keeping low, I make my way to the backyard and heave myself over a wooden fence into another lot.
It’s only a matter of time before they finish their sweep and start knocking on doors. I’m almost out of time.
I pass a garden shed and a doghouse big enough to fit me, only, it’s occupied. The large, sad eyes of a black mix-breed the size ofa German Shepherd regard me as I press my finger to my helmet over my mouth, giving the doghouse a wide berth.
The dog doesn’t bark or even lift its head, and for a moment, my panic recedes, replaced by anger at its owners. Poor beast doesn’t have enough strength to bark at an obvious trespasser who reeks of blood. It’s obviously neglected. Then I notice it’s chained, and my anger turns sharper. I whip around to look at the house.
Just in time. A small boy stands on the windowsill inside, his pudgy hands pressing firmly against the glass. His mouth moves like he’s telling his parents about the strange man in the backyard.
“Bye, friend,” I mutter to the dog and jump over to another lot.
This is bad. At this rate, I’ll be found, cuffed, and locked up by seven.
I pick up the pace, straining my ears for the sounds of pursuit. Everything hinges on luck now. As soon as the police question the dog’s owners, they’ll narrow their search. I have to make it far enough without being seen again.
I risk the streets, my entire body throbbing to the rhythm of my racing heart. It feels like I’m suffocating. I’m tempted to ditch the helmet, but I can’t afford any more mistakes now.
The houses blur as I run, faster and faster. The night is an unfriendly landscape of lights, muffled music, and so muchfestive cheer, I want to strangle something. No place to hide. Hope trickles out of me with every drop of cold sweat. It’s almost over.
Defeated by suburbia.
I duck behind a parked car as headlights sweep closer. Not a police car, but I can’t be seen either way. I stand up when it passes, only to drop low again when another car turns down the street, this one dark. They turned off the lights to sneak up on me and almost got me.
As I stand, wincing when my knees creak loudly, I am almost ready to step out into the middle of the street and surrender. Then I see it.
A house, dark and unlit. It’s far from the street, perching at the back end of a long, narrow lot. The lack of Christmas lights—or any lights at all—makes it almost invisible among its festive neighbors. There is no car parked in the driveway.
It’s perfect.
I sprint across the street. The snowy path leading to the front door looks like it hasn’t been cleared in days. I still have my broken broom, so I brush snow over my footprints as best I can. As long as no one looks too closely, it should work.
The house is old and clearly neglected. Dirty paint peels in places, and the porch sags in the middle. It’s not a ruin—the windows and roof are whole—but it doesn’t look lived-in.
I circle around to the back, careful to leave no signs of my presence. If I’m lucky, the police will overlook this house.
The simple lock on the back door isn’t a challenge. I slide in, shivering from cold and relief. It’s barely warmer than outside, but I’ll take it.
I don’t look for the light switch. I need this place to stay dark and invisible, so I creep through the kitchen carefully, not making a sound. Relief pours down my back in shuddering waves.
“Thanks, Santa,” I mutter to myself, suppressing a lightheaded snicker. My adrenaline levels are about to crash hard, which usually makes me feel like I’m drunk. I have to stay sober tonight.
A narrow corridor leads me to a living room with a surprisingly nice couch and a large flat-screen TV. The kitchen seemed old-fashioned in the dark, but this is quite modern. A gaming console hums with a muted orange glow.
Enough light falls in through the windows to let me see the details. The coffee table is littered with a few greasy takeout boxes. I wrinkle my nose and lean in to take a sniff. They don’t reek of rotten food. Must be fresh.
Whoever lives here couldn’t have left long ago. I grit my teeth, some of my relief evaporating. What if they come back soon? Fuck, maybe I’ll be forced to kill an innocent, after all.
Something shuffles upstairs, as if in response to my dire thoughts. I freeze, my hand flying to the bloody knife at my hip. To run or to stay? A police siren wails nearby, and I nod grimly, knowing I can’t leave.
Let’s hope it’s an animal.
