Free Keepers by Gary A. Braunbeck Page B

then twice to see if I could jar anything into functioning, but there was only a thick, gluey numbness; I didn’t hear so much as feel the hissing, which was rapidly giving way to a deep, disturbing thrum. I blinked, turned slowly around, saw the shotgun lying in the grass, and made a beeline for the thing. It was vital I have something to focus on besides the disorienting pressure in my head, and the Mossberg would do just fine. Looking up to where the mist met the clouds, I prayed that the blast hadn’t blown out my eardrums and rendered me permanently deaf. I shook my head once more as I swung down and grabbed the shotgun with my good hand, and as I returned to a fully upright position there was hiss and a buzz and a pop and something that sounded like a sheet being torn into shreds by a pair of teeth, then a moment of nauseating dizziness and then...sound. I could at least discern (if not actually hear ) sound again. Not much, just the echo of a dog’s bark coming from somewhere deep under the Atlantic Ocean, but it was there, and I could recognize it, and that meant that the damage wasn’t ( thank you thank you thank you ) permanent. Despite the circumstances, I smiled as I made my way up the back steps and into the kitchen. It was only as I was locking the door and shoving the kitchen table up against it that I allowed myself to acknowledge what I hadn’t wanted to admit while out there: the noise and force of the blast had been so fantastically intensified—so brutally magnified—because they had been contained.
    The mist wasn’t just surrounding the house, it was encasing it.
    I thought, this must be how a pheasant under glass feels .
    Then a remembered voice: You might say they’re not from around here . But who’d said that, and when? Where? Like with holding my ears, I should have known, but....
    I looked out the window over the sink. The mist roiled forward, stopping only a few feet from the bottom step of the back porch. Two thin red beams danced across a part of the wall, then one of Magritte-Man’s cronies stepped through and simply stood there. The glow from his night goggles made him look almost comical. He gave a quick nod of his head to affirm that he could see me. I flipped him the bird with my right middle finger and immediately shrieked from the pain. I had to do something about my broken hand and I had to it now or I wouldn’t stand a chance. The Pedestrian (I now choose to think of him and the others by this name) waved a hand to get my attention, then made an odd gesture. I stared at him, shook my head, and he repeated the gesture, albeit a bit more exaggeratedly.
    The front of the house.
    He was telling me I should go look at something in front of the house.
    Up yours , Derby-Boy , I thought. I’ll go take a look when I’m damned good and ready .
    I stumbled into the bathroom and threw open the door on the upright cabinet where I keep all breed of crap—extension cords, old lighters, duct tape, loose tools, lighter fluid, a little of this and a lot more of that...and medical supplies. I removed everything I would need: bandages—both the elastic and gauze variety—as well as gauze pads, medical tape, hydrogen peroxide, and a couple of old finger-splints I’d hung on to after getting my left hand caught in a car door about a year ago. I laid out everything on the sink’s counter and took a deep breath.
    Do it now , before you turn chickenshit .
    I gripped the broken fingers with my left hand, released the breath I’d been holding, clenched my teeth, then simultaneously pressed down and pulled out.
    The snap !of the bones as they popped into place seemed louder than the shotgun blast; the pain shot up my arm and hammered directly between my eyes; I dropped to one knee, grabbing the edge of the sink with my left hand to keep from hitting the floor, and tried to hold in the scream.
    From under the house, the dog howled as if she’d felt it, as well.
    “I’m st-still here, g-girl,”