The Last Woman (All That Remains #1) (4 page)

The turkey is soon plucked,
cleaned, and stored in the freezer. The successful hunt is all Carson can talk
about at dinner, and Airen is really chipper too. I love to see them so happy.

“It was a great shot. You
girls should have seen it. I’m proud of you.” Airen nods at Carson, who smiles
and looks down at the table.

“So am I,” I add. I know
hearing it from Airen means so much more to him. He’s never had a father, and
here is a man treating him like a son, giving Carson confidence he’s never had
before. I’m so grateful to Airen for how he has stepped in and filled that
role.

The next day, I’m filling a
generator with gas when I get the feeling I’m being watched. “I could use some
help,” I remark cheerfully, thinking one of the kids must have followed me
outside.

“So could I,” a gruff,
unfamiliar voice responds.

A man stands a few feet away
from me, and he’s huge. He stands at least six foot three and probably weighs
two hundred fifty pounds. He’s filthy, and I can smell him; a mixture of body
odor, piss, and rotten meat. His beard and long hair hasn’t had even a passing
acquaintance with shampoo. I’m so shocked it takes me a moment to find my
voice.

“Hi,” I utter. Aren’t I
brilliant? He’s eyeing me up and down like a particularly succulent steak when
I notice the shotgun propped on his shoulder. “We don’t want any trouble,” I
whisper, my voice trembling.

“Well then, girly, I suggest
you keep quiet and get your ass in gear,” he growls. He sounds as if he’s been
gargling gravel. “You aren’t goin’ to do anythin’ to make me hurt that little
boy of yours, are you?”

Oh no. This can’t be happening.
I’m panic stricken, but his threat against Carson keeps me focused. “No, I’ll
do whatever you want me to do. Please, just leave my son alone.” I don’t know
if he’s aware of Jayla or Airen and I have no intention of mentioning them if
he doesn’t.

“Damn right. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” I don’t
know whether to stall or hurry. I’m terrified of letting him take me, but I
can’t risk him hurting the kids or Airen.

“Home!” he barks.

Airen appears around the
corner of the house, walking fast, no doubt hearing the stranger. No! What do I
do now? I hold up my hand as he starts toward us.

“Stop! Airen, don’t!” He halts
and stares from me to the disgusting man standing beside me holding a gun.

“Airen, listen to me,” I
plead, trying to control the tremor in my voice. “I have to go. Please tell
Carson I love him.” I’m struggling not to cry while I stare into Airen’s eyes,
willing him with all my might not to fight. Indecision is written all over his
face. “Please, he has a gun.”

The tension is palpable as they
eye each other. Finally, Airen says, “I’ll take care of Carson.”

“You stay the fuck away if you
want to live long enough to take care of him,” Mr. Disgusting threatens.

Airen’s fists are clenched and
his body taut, like a panther preparing to strike. Anger rolls off him in
waves. He’s fighting the urge to run at him, weighing the odds of reaching him
before he can shoot. Mr. Disgusting shifts the gun so it’s pointing at my head
and gives a rotten toothed grin, daring him to try. Airen looks at me
helplessly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I’ll be okay.” I try to
reassure him, though we both know that’s probably not true. Somehow, I doubt
this man wants to sweep me away for a free Caribbean vacation.

“Don’t worry, pretty boy. I’ll
take real good care of her.” Laughing, he pulls me away and into the woods. We
managed to get through the confrontation without anyone getting hurt. Now I
just have to find a way to escape.

We walk north through the
woods until we come to a gravel road. This monster lives less than two miles
from us. How is it possible we haven’t seen him before? I’m lead to a large A-frame
house that looks right at home in the forest, a fairytale house.

“Get inside,” he orders.

He’s drunk. I can smell the
whiskey even over his stench. Ugh, so much for fairytales. The inside of the
house is filthy. Dirty dishes and food wrappers are scattered over the tables,
couches, and floor. I’m ankle deep in whiskey and vodka bottles, and the smell
is so foul I have to breathe through my mouth.

“I ain’t much of a housekeeper,
girly, but I got you for that now. You’re gonna cook and clean and keep me
happy, or I’ll go back for pretty boy and that kid of yours.”

“Can I start by opening a few
windows? It needs aired out.” I need time to think and until I can find a way
out, I feel like the smart thing to do is play along.

He laughs. “Start wherever you
want. I ain’t gonna watch you every minute or chain you to a table. If you run,
I’ll kill your boy. It’s as simple as that.”

“I won’t run.”

He plops down on the couch,
ignoring the puff of dust and the screech of overstretched springs. Propping
the gun beside him, he opens a fresh fifth of whiskey.

Wading through the garbage, I
proceed to open windows. I really need some fresh air, but I also want as many
escape routes as I can get. Should I escape? There’s nothing to stop him from
following through on his threats. My heart sinks as I realize I can’t just
leave, even if I get the opportunity. We would have to be on our guard
constantly. He could hurt Carson or Jayla. I have only one option. I have to
kill him.

He has to pass out eventually,
doesn’t he? The way he is guzzling the alcohol, it’s inevitable. I’ve never
seen anyone drink like that. I’m afraid to even glance at the gun beside him.
Surely, he expects me to try something. It’s better to keep busy. I want him to
think I’m scared enough to obey and way too terrified to attempt an escape.

I find a roll of trash bags
and start with the kitchen floor. Whoever lived here before Mr. Disgusting
commandeered the place had obviously stocked the cleaning supplies. I can’t
imagine he popped down to the store for antibacterial wipes. To my relief,
there are also rubber gloves, an apron, and clean towels in a closet beside the
stove. After slipping on the gloves, I begin picking up the trash. Oh, it’s so
gross!  Piles of mouse droppings hide underneath the layer of garbage, and mold
grows in patches on the floor. I can’t believe he doesn’t have roaches, but I
suppose they’ve had more than enough to feed on lately. I can feel his creepy
eyes on me as I bend over to pick up a pile of soda cans.

“That’s quite the show you’re
puttin’ on there, girly. That’s the sexiest ass I’ve seen in a long time,” he
slurs.

Terror is trying to freeze me
in place, but I can’t let it. I can’t panic, or I’ll never be able to defend
myself. His eyes narrow when I glare at him, and he raises his voice.

“Got somethin’ you want to
say? Well?”

My mind is spinning with
things I want to say, but I control myself. “You need some mouse traps. They’re
getting into your food,” I calmly reply.

He stares at me for a few
moments as if I’m some puzzle he can’t solve. Finally, he chuckles. “Ayuh,
little bastards are takin’ over.”

“It would probably be easier
to get new dishes than to try to wash these.”

“Sure, girly, I’ll get you
some tomorrow. We’ll go to the store, and you can get whatever you want.”

How about a gun and a hacksaw?
Oh, I hate him! “Thank you.”

“I tole you if you take care
of me, I’ll take care of you,” he slurs. “Not gonna be alone no more.”

What he had actually said was
if I take care of him then he won’t hurt my son. If it wasn’t for that, I may have
been able to have some sympathy for this piece of human garbage. He’s probably
been alone for months and obviously decided whiskey was the answer to his
loneliness until he saw us living so close to him.

“You just keep on cleanin’,
girly. I’m gonna get some air. Gotta make sure that pretty boy you lived with
don’t try to take you back.”

“He won’t.”

“Ayuh, I thought he looked a
little fruity.”

The screen door slams behind him,
and I watch out the window while he plops into an oversized armchair and leans
the gun between his legs. I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. At
least now I can think without him staring at my ass. There must be a way to
poison him or knock him out, I think, searching frantically through the
cabinets. Damn! All the cleansers are non-toxic or organic. The former
occupants must have had small children, or perhaps they were really
environmentally conscious.

“Hippies,” I say aloud, laughing.
I’m on the edge of losing it, struggling to stay calm and focused. I can’t
panic. The sound of a deep rattling snore drifts through the window. He’s
passed out in the chair! I can’t take my eyes off of the gun. Do I dare? I have
only fired a shotgun once, years ago, and I’m not exactly confident using one.
If I screw this up, it’s not only my life at stake. He could kill us all, but I
can’t just stand here. I snatch up two of the trash bags I’ve already filled
and head outside. I need to determine if he’s really unconscious and if I can
creep near enough to grab the gun. If he wakes, I’ll pretend to be carrying the
trash to the pile beside the house.

As carefully as possible, I
ease out of the squeaky screen door. I walk softly across the porch, down the
steps, and into the yard, watching him closely the entire time. He never moves,
but he’s not snoring as loudly. Pretending the bags are too heavy, I place one
on the ground and carry the other to the garbage pile. He’s a statue, a nasty,
revolting, ugly, malodorous statue.

I return for the second bag
and move until I’m right in front of him. Three steps and I can grab the gun. I
have to do it and
now
. Quietly, I place the bag of garbage on the
ground. Three steps, I coax myself, wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, you can
do this. I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life. Three steps and my
fingers close around the gun as his eyes pop open.

“You fail the test, girly,” he
growls.

His hand cracks across my
face, hard, sending sparkles and pinpoints of light dancing across my vision.
It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m on the ground, and I struggle to get
to my feet. My vision clears and he’s pointing the gun at me, swaying as he
tries to stay upright. He’s so close, and it’s a shotgun. It doesn’t matter how
drunk he is. He doesn’t need the ability to aim to kill me at this distance.

He pumps it. This is it. This
is how it ends. After all the struggling and heartache it comes down to one
crazy fucking drunk and a shotgun. I think of Carson’s freckles, his smile, and
his everlasting mouth. I see Jayla shaking her head in exasperation at him, the
small smile she tries to hide. I know Airen will take care of them, but I’ll
never see them grow up.

Airen
. His dark eyes and lovely lips, how I wish I could’ve
kissed him just once. This asshole is going to have to look me in the eye while
he kills me. I glare at him with my heart hammering in my chest.

A flash of color catches my
eye from the corner of the house. Mr. Disgusting sees my eyes dart to look
behind him, and he starts to turn, but not fast enough. It’s Airen. He tackles
Mr. Disgusting from behind at the same moment he pulls the trigger. The sound
is deafening, and I scream as the burning pain streaks up my arm.

“Abby!” Airen cries.

“I’m okay!”

Mr. Disgusting may be drunk,
but he’s strong and heavy. He flips Airen and pins him on his back in the dirt.
Straddling Airen, he wraps his massive hands around his throat just as I wrap a
wire around his.

Large dirty hands grasp at the
wire. I don’t know where it came from or what it’s made of, but it’s sharp.
It’s sinking into his throat as it’s choking him. I twist it as tight as I can
and the blood pours from his neck, raining down on Airen while he struggles to
get loose. He manages to slide out from under him just in time as Mr.
Disgusting collapses face first into the dirt.

“Abby, let go. Let go. He’s
dead. You’re cutting your hands, sweetheart.” Airen’s voice filters through the
buzzing in my ears. He takes my chin and turns my head until I’m looking him in
the eye. “Let go. He’s dead.”

“He’s dead. He’s dead,” I
mutter, trying to convince myself it’s over. It all happened so fast. A few
hours earlier I was at home, filling a generator. Now I’ve killed a man.

“Yes, Abby, he’s dead. You’re
safe darlin’. Let me see your arm.” I hold it up mindlessly, and he moans, “We
need to get you home.” Tugging off his sweatshirt, he gently wraps it around my
bleeding arm.

“It’s numb,” I reassure him.
“It doesn’t hurt. My hands sting, though.” The wire has cut a line across both
of my palms, and they’re dripping blood. “There are some clean towels on the
kitchen table.” I giggle, and Airen eyes me closely. “I’m fine, go ahead. I
can’t go back in there.”

When he comes out of the
house, he is cursing a blue streak. “Fucking low life son of a bitch.” He wraps
a towel around each of my hands. “Can you stand up?”

Can I? I stand, and a second
later his arms are around me, pressing my face to his bare chest. I try to hold
him, but it’s not easy with my hands and arm wrapped. We stand there in the
yard beside the bloody mess that was Mr. Disgusting, and he holds me as if I
may float away or disappear.