The Last One Home

Part 20

It was if it was all happening in slow motion. His mother's hands stretching out in front of her as she screamed. Lana turning to run. The killer rising slowly from the floor.

Max couldn't believe how stupid he had been. Of course the man in the mask had swiped the officers vest. Had probably taken his radio too.

Hoping that the man didn't know the gun was empty, he trained it on his head.

"Stop! Or I'll put another hole in you!" He bluffed.

The killer kept coming.

"Damnit."

Max drew his arm back and threw the gun as hard as he could at the masked face. The gun bounced off of his wounded shoulder and clattered to the ground. The man hesitated momentarily, but continued to advance.

Standing his ground, Max knew he had the advantage of the knife, but the officer had been shot. The killer must have a gun, so why wasn't he using it? Was he enjoying the thrill of the hunt without it?

Max pulled the knife from his waistband. He was surprised at the weight of it. It felt cold and deadly in his hand.

He swiped wildly at the man who was now within arms reach. He missed. As he brought his arm back he took another swipe. He was closer this time.

The killer stopped and stared at him.

As Max prepared to take another swipe, the masked man's fist crashed into Max's stomach.

Max felt himself deflate like a neglected party balloon. Bent over at the waist, he struggled to take a breath. He knew that he was vulnerable so he took several unsteady steps back, trying to put distance between him and the man.

A second blow came, this time catching the right side of his face. Max's vision dimmed, threatening to leave him entirely. Pain seemed to radiate from his already swelling face. The worst part, he no longer felt the weight of the knife in his right hand. He had no idea when he had dropped it.

At this rate, he didn't feel like he was going to last much longer. The masked man stood a head taller than he was and probably outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. His fists had felt like solid blocks of concrete.

His vision recovered enough in time for him to see his mother streak across the living room with a banshee shriek. Suddenly, she was on the mans back with her arms wrapped around his neck. The killer flailed wildly, providing Max with a precious few seconds to recover. 

As much as he wanted to run over and help his mother, he knew he needed the knife. After several seconds he spotted it lying under a table, six feet to his right, its point resting against a table leg.

In one fluid motion Max dropped to his knees and snatched up the knife, nearly knocking the table over in the process.

He looked up to see that his mother was no longer on the mans back. She was just behind him on her hands and knees looking battered.

Even so, the man was still flailing around as if he were fighting someone. That's when Max noticed the handle of the letter opener sticking up from his left shoulder. His mother had buried it to the hilt. The man pawed at it as if not sure if he wanted to pull it out. Max hoped it hurt like hell.

Approaching the man, Max held the knife out in front of him. His mother got to her feet, giving him a knowing glance. He smiled at her. He wished she would've stabbed him through the neck, but beggars can't be choosers.

The masked man, realizing he was outnumbered, finally pulled his gun out of a cargo pocket at his right leg. Max wondered if he hadn't underestimated his prey. He was no longer going for the thrill of the kill. Now he was just surviving.

Max rushed the masked man, catching him at his midsection and slamming him into the wall by the staircase. The handle of the letter opener made a dull thud as it struck the wall and drove deeper into the mans shoulder. The gun went off, but the bullet fired harmlessly over his shoulder. Using both hands, Max drove the gun up; pinning it against the wall behind him. The man grunted in fury.

Max knew he currently had the advantage, but it wouldn't last. Eventually the masked mans height and weight would allow him to overcome his smaller opponent. Suddenly his mother was next to him, adding her body weight to his in an attempt to keep the killer subdued.

Max stared into the eyeholes of the blank, learing mask. A set of lightless dull eyes stared back at him. The eyes of someone who saw no value in human life.

The mans chest heaved as he struggled against his captors. More than once he was able to push back against Max and his mother. They knew they couldn't hold him forever. Max had hoped that a couple of bullet holes and a knife wound would've weakened the killer, but he only seemed to be getting stronger.

With a loud grunt, the man shifted his weight forward, breaking free from the grasp of Max and his mother. He leveled the gun at Max's face. Max closed his eyes, waiting for the shot to ring out.