ROUGH DRAFT of Loser || WlW

Forty-Eight

 We're screaming. All of us.

Even my mom's eyes are wide as my dad pushes the door open and squints into the darkness. I don't know what I'm saying. Something along the lines of "Turn around. He's going to kill you. Don't come back for us."

Zachary's hiding behind the door as my dad steps down onto the staircase.

"Dad, no!" The scream is urgent, so blood-curdling that I don't recognize my own voice.

Zach takes the chance to lunge forward and pivot the knife into our dad's stomach.

Silence suffocates the room.

"No," I whimper.

Zachary's face is pained; his hand still gripping the handle of the knife. "You weren't supposed to be one of them!" His face is red; tear-stained.

"Zacho..." His expression distorts as Zachary rips the knife from his stomach and gives him a solid push. His work boot misses the stair behind him and he falls backward, each stair propelling his body further until he slides to a stop in front of me.

"Dad," I scoot toward him. "Dad, I'm going to get you out of here."

He reaches out to me with a bloody hand. "Jo." Some remanence of a smile forms on his scruffy face.

I can't stop the tears this time. "It's okay, Dad." My voice shakes. "You're the strongest guy I know." I sniffle. "Everything is fine."

Zachary lets out a pained growl from the top of the stairs and slams the door behind him.

Dad coughs, blood splattering his lips. "Jo."

"What, Dad? What can I do?" My eyes dart to the new "manager" name tag he must have gotten today.

With a pained grunt, he reaches into his back pocket and retrieves his box cutter and slides the blade out.

"Gimme," he says, motioning for my wrists.

That was always his go-to when I had an injury. He'd hold a hand out for my bruised knee or scraped elbows and say "Gimme". Then he'd proceed to make it feel better. Always.

I turn so he can reach the zip tie. My wrists burn as the cold air hits the spot where the plastic was cutting off circulation. I move to a knee and place pressure on the wound in my dad's side. "I'm going to get you out of here," I say again but his face is pale and his eyes are getting the same glazed look I saw on Trevor's face the night he died. "Dad, look at me," I order.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't move.

"Dad!" I move to start CPR when the door slams.

Zachary is at the top of the stairs again, staring down at us with the blood-soaked knife clenched between his fingers. "It was never supposed to be him." he starts toward us.

There's a dark glint in his eyes that reminds me of the urgency of the situation. I glance between my dad and the area where Brittany and Grace are sitting. We have a better fighting chance if there are more of us.

"I'm coming back for you," I whisper to my unconscious father as I slide the box cutter into my hand and run to Brittany.

"How'd you get loose?" Zachary shouts and runs toward us. He slides to a stop as I point the box cutter at him. His lips pull into a grin. "Come on, Jo. What're you gonna do with that?" He takes another step toward me as Brittany kicks her legs out in front of him. He trips mid lunge and hits the ground with a thud. The knife slides from his grip across the slick floor. "Bitch!" he snarls and throws his fist into Brittany's cheek.