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Intruders by Jerry McGinley
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Not rated by the Author.
A flash fiction story.
Intruders
It was an old house, so creaks and moans were not unusual in the middle of the night. But something seemed different. The clock read 2:17. Sarah was sleeping peacefully next to me. I listened until I was sure it was footsteps I heard, not just structural shifts. I slipped out of bed, crawled to the closet, and grabbed my gun. I bypassed the heavier 12 gauge and grabbed the over-under .410 shotgun/.22 caliber rifle. I eased the weapon from the fake leather case trying not to wake my wife. She hates guns, especially now that we have four grandkids coming to visit. I’d have gotten rid of both guns, but living on the river eight miles from town, I liked the security. I opened the drawer to my night stand and dug out two .410 shells and two .22-long bullets. I eased open the breech and inserted one shell and one bullet, putting the extras into my pajama pocket.
I focused on the quiet sounds of the night. The steady tread of feet moved across the kitchen linoleum, across the carpeted living room, and down the hall toward the bedrooms. Soft voices crept down the hall. I considered my options. I didn’t see any.
I raised the gun, ready. I crept to the opened door and peeked down the hall. The moon was coming through the hall window just enough that I could make out two shapes approaching. I raised the gun and gazed down the barrel. Two figures approached cautiously. Maybe they heard me. In the moonlight I detected the glint of metal reflection in the left figure’s hand. They were armed.
I drew a bead on the figure with the gun. When he lifted his hand carrying the gun, I pulled the .410 trigger, dispatching five triple-aught pellets into his upper torso. Instinctively, I squeezed the second trigger, launching the .22 caliber slug into the upper chest of the second intruder. Both collapsed, moaning and writhing. My wife screamed behind me, and I turned quickly and shouted, “It’s okay! Call 911. I just shot two burglars. They’re still alive. Ask for an ambulance and the police. Do it now!”
Shocked, she scrambled toward her night stand and fumbled for the phone. She was punching in numbers when I reloaded my weapon and carefully approached the fallen prowlers. I inched slowly. The victim of the shotgun blast was now still, but the second intruder was making horrible gurgling sounds and whimpering. I moved closer. Keeping my gun focused on the bodies on the floor, I switched on the hall light. I gasped in disgust.
The still figure was my neighbor, a sixteen-year-old kid that kept an eye on our house whenever we were out of town. Beside him was a young girl, sucking air through a hole in her throat. Why didn’t I shout out a warning?
Good God, I thought, we never called to tell him we came back early from our trip to Miami. In his hand I now saw a silver liquor flask. Damn kids just wanted a private place to be alone. What harm would it be?
“Sarah,” I yelled, “tell ‘em to hurry. It’s Chad and a girl.” I was frantic. “I’ll try to save the girl.”
From the bedroom I heard agonizing sobs and Sarah mumble something I could not understand. I bent down over the girl and fumbled through blood to find the hole in her throat. I plugged the opening with my fingers. I felt the weak throb of blood trying to escape. Her cries kept getting weaker. I held on furiously, knowing the ambulance was still miles away.
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