The River Runs Dry (27 page)

He inched closer now, so close that he could see the flat plains leading right up to the doorstep. He switched his lights off and continued, slowly, towards the house. When he stopped the car he stepped quietly from it, trying to shut the door in silence. He listened, hearing for the sound of voices or a radio coming from inside, but there was nothing, only the light sound of the wind whistling past his ears.

His eyes scanned the outside of the house, searching for a car, but he couldn't see one, not at the front. He crept forward now, towards the front door, stained and chipped and rotting, and lifted his hand to the door. He held his other at his side, gripping his gun as he knocked, and spoke, his words ringing out in the silence.

“Hello, is anyone home?”

He waited for the sound of an answer, of movement, but heard nothing. His pulse continued to increase as he stood there in the silence, speaking once again. “Hello, is someone in?”

He knew from the light coming on that the house was occupied. Someone was inside, someone who didn't want a visitor.

He waited still, listening for something, but still heard no sound. His hand gripped tighter at his gun now, and he lifted it from its holster. Slowly he reached with his spare hand and twisted at the door handle. It clicked as the lock opened and gently fell open, creaking on its rusty hinges as it revealed the inside.

He stood, just outside the doorway, his hands now pointing forward with his weapon. The inside was dirty and decaying, broken slats running along the wooden walls, doors hanging off their twisted hinges, a staircase leading up to the floor above, its steps cracked in places, missing in others. He looked down the corridor to the back, where a door lay open, a darkened kitchen inside.

The corridor was lit, a light buzzing quietly on the ceiling, dust floating around it. Beyond, however, up the stairs and through doors running off it, it was dark, dark and silent. Jack stepped forward now, his foot creaking on the floorboards, and moved into the house. His nerves were on edge as he paced forwards, his arms stretched out in front, his eyes running down the sight of the weapon.

He moved down the corridor towards the first door, to his left, and peered inside. It was dark, shadows of old rotting furniture pushed up against the walls. There was a rug underfoot, motheaten and patchy, long since filled with grime and dust and dirt from the world outside. Jack lifted his hand to the wall near the door and clicked the light switch, but nothing happened.

His hand quickly fell to his pocket and his flashlight illuminated the room, drawing details onto the old decaying furniture and crumbling walls. But there was no one there, no sign of life, no sign that anyone lived in this place.

He stepped back into the corridor, his wits still alert, his breathing steady, and kept through the house, moving into another room to his right. It was empty as well, nothing inside but a small wooden table in the corner, and two broken chairs on the floor. Spiderwebs and old bits of debris dominated the corners of the room. It looked like nature had claimed this place long ago.

But someone was here. He knew someone was here.

His eyes lifted up the stairs and he pointed his light to the top, seeing nothing but a bare landing and an open door to his right. Then he turned and peered down towards the kitchen ahead, creeping forward quietly, his eyes twitching to his back at any sound of a rustle of wind of the lightest crack of wood.

He moved straight into the kitchen, stepping forward over twigs and debris, a heavy smell of dust lifting to his nose and causing him to suppress a cough. The door groaned loudly in the silence as he pushed it open with his foot, holding his gun straight ahead and lighting up his view with his flashlight.

He stepped in quickly, suddenly, and moved his eyes around the room, but once again saw no one, no sign of movement, no hints of life. He turned, quickly, and looked behind him, the darkness and the dread now settling inside him, shredding his nerves and making his movements erratic.

He thought he heard something, a creaking stair, the swish of air as it passed by his ears. He looked back through the door, down the corridor, and silence once more descended onto the house. His eyes were staring now, his heart blaring.

Someone was here, someone had seen him.

He crept back to the kitchen doorway and his eyes drifted to his right. He could see a light shining from around the corner, through a crack in a door. He moved through an empty room, and towards the light, shining out from below. His hand pushed gently at the door to reveal a narrow staircase, steep and old, leading down into a basement.

He checked behind him once more before stepping forward, hearing the stairs creak heavily beneath his feet. One by one he descended, further down into the belly of the house, a fear rising inside him as to what he'd find.

His hands were out ahead, gripping tightly at his weapon, his finger lingering on the trigger, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. Then he saw a leg, lying against the wall on the far side of the basement, an ankle locked and chained to the floor.

Jessie...

He moved quicker down the steps, the lifeless body coming into view, lying slumped against the floor. She wore rags, dirtied and soiled, with cuts and burns littering her dirty, pale skin. Jack rushed forwards, reaching the bottom and quickly moving to the far side of the room. He lifted the head up from the floor, and came face to face with the eyes, shut behind their lids.

It wasn't Jessie.

His finger reached for a pulse. She was alive, only knocked out. There was a fresh bruise forming on her face, her cheeks red and stinging.

Then a groan sounded behind him, against the wall behind the bottom of the stairs. He turned quickly, his hands back on his gun, and pointed to the source.

He lost his breath for a second as he lurched quickly forward, dropping the gun and his flashlight quickly to the floor where the woman lay.

“Jessie, Jessie,” he said, lifting her up against the wall. She had a swelling to her cheek, just like the other woman, a recent punch intended to knock her out, to keep her from calling for help.

“Jessie, are you hurt, has he hurt you?” Jack said, his voice hushed but quick. He ran his fingers over her, searching for a wound, for signs of torture, but could see nothing, nothing but a few slices along her forearm. He lifted her chin up, slumped as it was against her neck, and felt blood. He saw a thin slice along her throat, and his heart lost it's rhythm, shooting out of his chest. He felt at the wound, but it was shallow, light, nothing serious. Her pulse was steady. She seemed OK.

Then a sudden noise sounded above him once more, the sound of a creak over floorboards. It came from the top of the stairs, a definite movement at the entrance to the basement.

Suddenly, without warning, the light went out, the switch flicked at the top of the stairs, and a voice rumbled down to the bottom of the pit.

“You won't take them from me detective. I know it's you.”

Jack's hand felt quickly for the gun on the floor, scrambling to pick it up and pointing it forward in the pitch darkness. As he did he felt his foot hit his flashlight, sending it sliding across the stone floor.

He crouched to the side, sidestepping his way across and feeling with his spare hand for the light. His other pointed to the staircase, or where he thought it to be. Now all was dark, no light reaching his eyes, nothing to guide him but his other senses.

His ears pricked up as he heard another creak, the sound closer than before. He continued to scrape his hand along the floor as another sound came from above and ahead, even closer. He zeroed his gun in on the sound, steadying his hand and pulling the trigger. The flash lit up the room momentarily, illuminating a figure in front of him, descending the stairs like a shadow, a knife locked in his grip.

In that flash of light he saw the face he'd been tracking, the man he'd been hunting. His eyes burned as the bullet zipped past him, embedding itself deep into the wooden stairs at his feet.

He pulled the trigger once again, the room lighting up a second time, but the Butcher moved too fast, shooting forward like a lion and powering in towards Jack. Before he knew it he was on him, his weight crashing into him like a cannon. In the darkness Jack reached out instinctively, his gun once more preparing to unleash its firepower, but his arm was brushed away as the Butcher's hand came swiping across it, sending Jack's third shot cracking into the wall.

In that flash Jack could see the Butcher's blade, rushing in towards him. He grabbed at his arm, arresting its momentum, but it wasn't enough. He felt the sting of steel against his abdomen, his tip of the blade slicing a shallow pit into his stomach.

But it didn't go far, Jack's strong arm holding the knife at bay. He pushed with all his strength, forcing the killer's arm backward and the knife from his flesh.

Locked arm in arm, one holding back the knife, the other holding back the gun, they wrestled, equally matched, equally strong. Grunts and groans filled the quiet room, the basement now a fighting ring, a place to live or die. For Jack it was kill or be killed, there was no middle ground.

In the darkness they flung each other from side to side, kicking at each other's legs, trying to topple the other to the floor. Jack stepped backwards as the Butcher pushed again, his foot landing on the flashlight that he'd lost across the floor. It slipped under his weight as he came down upon it, causing him to lose his footing and fall to the floor.

The Butcher came down on top of him, their arms still locked together, his weight heavy as he landed on his stomach, forcing the air from Jack's lungs. The blow weakened him for a moment, giving the killer the chance he needed. He tore his knife wielding arm from Jack's grip, and in the darkness, sent it quickly back down in towards him.

Even in the darkness Jack could see what was coming, reaching out again with his arm to try to stop the blade. He felt the entire weight of the man come down, the sharp tip of the knife slicing past his oncoming arm and drawing blood from a glancing wound.

But it didn't stop there. Jack tried to turn his shoulder in, to shield himself, but he couldn't. Before he knew it the bloodied tip of the knife was once more penetrating his soft flesh, this time moving deeper and deeper through his body.

Even the adrenaline flowing through Jack's body couldn't mask the agony as the knife plunged through his stomach lining. He screamed out in pain, a guttural roar that rocked the foundations of the house and echoed out onto the wide open plains beyond.

The Butcher breathed heavily on top of him, his words creeping from his mouth as Jack continued to bellow.

“Now, now detective, you really shouldn't have come here. I never intended on killing you, but you've given me no choice. Your girl though....oh, I'm going to enjoy killing her.” His voice was almost a whisper, his tongue snaking into Jack's ear as the knife stayed locked inside him.

Jack could feel his body weakening fast now, his gun hand locked down onto the concrete in the Butcher's grip. He tried to lift it, but it was no use, his energy was spent, blood already seeping from his wound and weakening him.

He gripped tight still, though, his fingers locked around the gun. The Butcher shook violently at Jack's hand, pushing the knife further through his body as he gasped once more in pain. Eventually Jack's fingers began to loosen, the gun shaken from his grip and onto the stone floor.

Again the man above him whispered, his voice cold and empty.

“I'm impressed you made it this far detective. But I'm afraid this is where your journey ends. And don't worry, I promise I'll stop once I've had my fun with these two. It was really only about them anyway.”

Jack couldn't speak, his mouth filling with blood as he choked and spluttered. Then, as slowly as possible, the Butcher pulled the knife from the wound, leaving a thin slit through which blood began to seep.

“Now, detective,” came the voice in the darkness, “it's time to die.”

Jack felt the weight of the man lift from his body, his arms pulling the knife up to a height, ready to thrust it down into his chest, into his heart, to finish the job.

The world began closing in, his legs still locked under his weight, preventing him from moving, from fighting, from surviving. In the blackness his final thoughts ran through his mind, thoughts of failure, thoughts of guilt, but, above all, thoughts of Jessie. He was about to die, and now she'd follow the same fate. And it was all his fault.

He heard the final movement on top of him as the killer, his killer, prepared to bring the blade down once more, this time a fatal blow to the heart, a killing blow to shut off Jack's light forever.

Most people would close their eyes at such a sight, but Jack didn't need to. He was looking only at darkness anyway, murdered in the black by the devil.

But it wasn't black. Suddenly, in a flash, it was light, but only for a flash. The room lit up, a sound roared, clattering around the basement and out into the desert, and a splatter of blood shot onto Jack's face.

Then, again, a roar boomed inside the room, and the place was once more lit. This time Jack looked forward, past the man above him, to see Jessie holding the gun in her hands. Blood was tricking down her neck, her cheek was bruised and swollen, but her eyes were as bright as fire, staring straight forward at the man kneeling with his back to her.

In the same flash Jack felt the weight of the man fall off him, two bullet wounds bursting through his chest. He wobbled for a second, then fell to the side, hitting the floor with a thud and going still.

“Jessie...” Jack said, his words muddied by the blood in his mouth, “...are you...all right.”

As he spoke a final flash and boom burst through Jack's ears and he heard the sound of chains rattling along the floor, followed by the creaking of stairs. A moment later, a light spilled into the room from above, causing Jack to shut his eyes as the spotlight above shone brightly down onto his body.

Jessie came rushing down the stairs, her own legs weak, her head still groggy, and saw Jack for the first time. He lay, holding his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. Next to him lay the Butcher, face down on the floor, his legs awkwardly arranged and blood trickling from beneath him onto the hard stone floor.