Twitch and Die!

Ch.9: Scratching the Surface

Chancho shuffled toward the only window in the study and found it closed like the rest of them. He drew the curtains shut after staring into the empty street. The abandoned houses still felt like props in a film. Abortively, he pondered his role in the story.

Conscious of being the lone actor on stage, he placed the battery-powered lamp under an overturned wicker wastebasket before switching it on. A subdued glow swelled within the room, creating shadows and pushing darkness into the corners. His breath shone like crystalline clouds in the dim light.

Shivering, he rubbed his arms beneath his serape. The room was too tidy. Who cleans their study before an emergency evacuation? Nothing had been in the wastebasket either.

He lowered his gaze to the surface of the desk. Much of it remained covered in a thin layer of dust, save a ragged swath sweeping from one side to the other. On the far end, a rectangular shape devoid of dust had been disrupted by the irregular path—possibly a hand brushing across the surface.

Chancho closed his eyes. He imagined groping for an object, looking for something in the dark. But what had the person found? What had been resting on the edge of the desk? A book? He scanned the bookshelf for a gap in the neatly arranged spines, but didn’t find any clear evidence. What would that prove anyway?

He swiveled the chair from side to side before taking a seat. Another thought occurred to him, and he bent to inspect the floor beside the desk. Coming up empty at first, his eyes seized on a small object—an ink pen. He picked it up, tapped it on the surface of the desk. A journal.

Before his mind could carry the thought further, a faint scratching pricked his ears. He froze, holding his breath. The sound seemed omnipresent, so slight it could be drifting on the wind from miles away. Or it could be coming from directly beneath his feet. He peered at the floorboards and strained his ears. It came again, like teeth or fingernails scraping a wooden surface.

It has to be mice. He clutched the thought as a drowning man would a lifesaver. But his body continued to act of its own volition. He scooted the chair back and sank noiselessly to his knees. For a long moment it stopped. Then again, a muffled scratching—from beneath the floor—accompanied by tiny vibrations in the wood. With each shudder no bigger than the pulse of his heart, he’d assumed them one in the same. Digging?

As he lowered his ear to the floor, gunfire erupted from outside. Jolting upwards, he slammed his head into the underside of the desk and toppled backwards into the chair. He clutched his pistol. Bounding from the chair, he pressed himself against the wall and threw back the curtain.

Two more shots thundered from across the street. As he peered into the darkness, a handful of human shapes scattered—one in his direction. He bolted for the front door, stumbling over the sofa. Catching the knob enough to release it, he burst through the opening and rolled onto the porch, pistol drawn.

A shadow crouching at the base of the porch flinched before spinning in his direction. A dull glint appeared at the end of an extended arm. Chancho squeezed the trigger. Dual explosions battered the porch ceiling as a pinch gripped his left shoulder. The shadow beyond his barrel pitched forward, smacking its forehead on the porch and disappearing.

He edged toward where he’d last seen it.

“What de devil is going on out here?” Angelo braced himself against the door jam, his pistol aimed at nothing but the darkness beyond.

Chancho snatched a quick peek over the front edge of the porch. The human shadow lay motionless. “I don’t know, mi amigo, but—”

Brick fragments ricocheted over their heads as two more gunshots rolled across the blanket of night.