The Last One Home

Part 16

The wind picked up as Max approached the house. Stinging snowflakes seemed to scratch at his cheeks as they tumbled from the trees in the front yard. Bowing his head, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans against the biting cold.

Marching past the black truck, he had the sudden urge to break into a sprint towards the front door. He wanted to kick the door in and rush headlong towards his family. Put himself between them and whatever had caused his sister to send those desperate messages.

Of course, isn't that what the police were there for? It suddenly became clear to him why there was only a single police car parked at the road. Whatever had happened was now over and an officer was taking a statement from his mother and sister. They were probably sitting in the living room filling out a police report right now. His sister was probably embarrassed that she had gotten so frightened by a strange noise outside the house or a nosy neighbor.

Nonetheless, Max was hesitant to just push open the front door. What if the officer was trigger happy and mistook him for an intruder? He preferred to leave his guts on the inside of his body. He wasn't too keen on knocking on the door as well. If someone was in the house that shouldn't be there, he hated to announce his arrival with a cordial knock. Max crept carefully around the side of the house. It was no use trying to be quiet. Each step crunched in the freshly fallen snow. With his hands pressed against the cold siding, he peered through the window. He saw nothing but darkness beyond the sheer curtain that hung in still silence. The house was unnaturally quiet, dark, and ominous. Every window he could see told the same story. He would've thought no one was home if the cars in the driveway didn't beg to differ.

Resigned to the fact that he would get no answers out here in the freezing cold, he returned to the front door. Squeezing the familiar handle he let himself into the house. The first thing he noticed was the warmth that greeted him. It took only seconds for the persistent chill to evaporate from his bones. He pushed the door closed with a soft click. The living room was pitch black. He could only make out the shapes of the furniture in the center of the room.

Had they lost power? It was certainly possible with the wind and heavy snowfall they had gotten tonight.

The second thing he noticed was a peculiar smell. It was a heavy metallic smell. Almost as if someone had left a rotting piece of meat out for a few days and covered it with pennies. The stench was causing his stomach to flip flop and his nose to wrinkle in disgust.

Max took a step back towards the door, feeling along the wall for the light switch. As he brought his foot up, it almost felt as if it had suctioned to the floor.

What had he stepped in? It was certainly something wet. Something wet and sticky.

Max broke out into a cold sweat. His knees threatened to give out on him. His head swam with the possibilities of what he was standing in. 

Flipping on the light, he nearly screamed when he saw the blood on the floor. A sickening rusty puddle that he was standing in the middle of. The blood was partially congealed and beginning to dry. Whomever it had come from, it had not been spilled recently.

Smeared stripes of blood created a path leading from where he was standing into the kitchen; rusty red fingers reaching across the stark white floor. Something heavy had been drug through the room leaving a gory mess behind.

Suddenly the tears came, stinging his eyes. He had not been expecting it, but the thought of his mother or sister dead brought on a wave of anguish. Was he too late? Had he actually done everything he could to get home to them? Did they wonder why he wasn't there for them as they were mercilessly slaughtered?

Those thoughts were too much to bear. He had done everything he could. He was the protector of the family. He was the good guy. He was.

Max wondered if any of this would've happened if his father was still alive. Somehow he would've made sure that nothing like this ever threatened their family. He was strong like that. He was the protective shell that was impenetrable by evil. But now he was gone, and it was up to Max to fill his shoes. He had apparently failed at this task.

The warm house began to feel suffocating. Max found it hard to breathe and his pulse raced staccato in his chest. Even though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, he knew he had to follow the blood trail.

Stepping carefully from the puddle in the middle of the floor, Max stepped to the side of the smeared blood trail. With each step his shoes stuck stubbornly to the floor. Max followed the trail from the living room into the kitchen. It was here that the blood smears began to lighten and break up. Still the trail continued into the dining room and disappeared under the door of the broom closet.

Trudging through a dark house in search of a body did not seem like the smartest thing to do, but he was so distracted by the blood he had not turned on any more lights. The darkness pulsed in suffocating waves around him. Max checked over his shoulder but saw nothing. No one.

Standing at the door to the closet he reached out with a shaking hand. The knob felt cold and unforgiving in the warm house. Did he really want to know what was on the other side of the door. He knew he would have to find out. No matter how painful it may be, he would need to know what, or who is on the other side of the closet door.

Max pulled the door open.

He let out an audible sigh of relief when no body fell out of the closet and into his arms. He couldn't see anything in the darkness, but the smell of blood once again invaded his nostrils. Something was dead in here. He reached up and yanked the cord for the closet light.

He immediately saw a large pair of boots. Black tactical boots. The kind that military or law enforcement wear. Attached to those boots were two legs clad in blue. The heavy equipment belt and badge identified the police officer. The bullet hole in his face identified how he had met his demise.

Max was alternately disturbed and relieved. He held fast to the hope that his family may be unharmed. But it was made hideously clear that a murderer had been in his mothers house.

Max left the officer and began to run from room to room. He found no more blood downstairs. No sign of a struggle. Aside from a few kitchen chairs pushed out from the table and the trail of blood, it didn't even seem like anyone had been home tonight. The upstairs was similarly deserted. Where the hell was his family?

Max returned to the kitchen. He felt that if he was going to get any answers they would lie within the kitchen. He knew that it made no sense but it was all he had to go on at the moment.

Maybe the police officer could help him. Cops carried radios. If the officer had one on him, he could use it to get help. Once again, Max looked at the officers lifeless form in the closet. No radio was clipped to his belt or shirt. Whomever killed the man had probably taken it with them.

Why had he and his sister insisted that their mother had no use for a landline anymore? Just nine months ago his mother still had a house phone that would've really come in handy tonight.

Max paced the kitchen. His cheap tennis shoes made a slapping sound on the linoleum floor. The sandpaper in his throat was at odds with his sweating palms.The swirling thoughts in his head seemed jumbled and confused. The house no longer felt comfortable, the heat was suffocating him. He peered out into the snow covered backyard. Max wanted to throw the door open and welcome the chilled air into the kitchen. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the cool glass.

It was only then that he saw the footprints cutting a path through the deep snow. The prints were large, definitely too large to belong to either of the females in the house. The depth of the impressions in the snow made it clear that these prints were relatively new. Opening the door, he could see that the prints did not wander around aimlessly. They provided a clear path from the back door and around the back of the house towards the neighbors. The rest of the backyard, all the way to the privacy fence, was virgin snow.

Max stepped out of the house and into the backyard. His feet sank all the way to to the tops of his shoes. He was relieved to see that mother nature was still holding off on a fresh round of powder. He was careful not to disturb the footprints. He kept to the outside of the makeshift trail. Other, smaller prints did seem to be interspersed with the larger ones. Some of the prints were smeared and distorted, almost as if someone were struggling or being dragged. Max continued to follow the prints, but now he was running.