Moans.
Not just one voice.
Many.
So many.
She stared into the rain with mad eyes.
“Come on, you pussies!” Dez jammed the shotgun stock against her shoulder and fired into the wind. Again, and again. She turned and fired, turned and fired. The buckshot was wasted on the storm, but she didn’t care. “Come on you … you…”
Her words disintegrated into sobs and Dez sagged to her knees. She shook her head as the moans floated toward her through the rain.
“I can’t,” she blubbered as tears and snot mixed with rainwater on her face. “I can’t do this…” Not with JT gone. Probably Billy, too, the bastard. And the chief, and Flower … and everyone. All gone. How the fuck was she supposed to go on without any of them still left?
She let the shotgun fall to the asphalt as she collapsed forward onto her palms, head hanging down between her heaving shoulders. Voices—a thousand variations on her own voice—spoke inside her head. Telling her to get up. Telling her to give up. Telling her to just let go. Telling her that it was okay, that she didn’t have to be afraid anymore. Telling her that this was all just a dream. A dream and Daddy will come and tuck her in and kiss her good night and make everything better. Nothing but a dream. Only that.
The moans changed into a hummed lullaby. A dozen voices humming in her daddy’s voice.
No matter what happens, pumpkin, I’ll always come back for you.
Come back for you.
She looked up, her eyes wide and desperate as if she expected to see her father come lurching out of the rain, his body twisted and torn by the explosion that had killed him. Daddy, coming for her. To take her. To consume her, the way these monsters wanted to consume her.
“PLEASE!” she screamed.
The moans were louder now. Dez closed her eyes. If it hurts, so what? It won’t hurt for long.
It won’t hurt for long. And then …
And then what?
The voices muttered and yelled and whispered, but none of them had an answer.
And then what?
Death? Sure … that was certain.
And then what?
Dez heard a sound. A soft scuff, and she raised her head an inch, opening her eyes to a squint as if afraid of a bright light. Raindrops swung pendulously from her eyelashes.
She saw a foot. Small, with a bright red sneaker. White tights.
Dez looked up. White tights and a plaid skirt and above that…? Blood.
The face that came out of the rain could have been her own, years and years ago. Big blue eyes, corn yellow hair. Round cheeks. A pretty little girl.
A …
… little …
. . …… girl …
The little girl reached out her hands, a soft and plaintive gesture. A child wanting warmth, craving the safety of strong arms to hold her and keep her safe from the boogeyman.
The little girl could have been her.