Free Helltown by Jeremy Bates Page A

injury?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Back at the crash, you mentioned he could be paralyzed from the waist down.”
    “I shouldn’t have said anything. I was caught up in the moment. Again, it totally depends on the extent of the injury.”
    “But there’s a possibility he could be paralyzed?”
    “I’m not a spinal surgeon, Noah. I haven’t examined him. I don’t know.”
    “Be straight with me, Steve. I’m not his mother.”
    Steve hesitated. “Yeah, there’s a possibility. Even so, there’s always rehab, physio…”
    “Which could last years.”
    “Better than never walking again.”
    “Yeah,” Noah said sourly. “Better than that.”
     

     
    Noah saw the gravel driveway and white mailbox at the last moment. He slammed on the brakes. The Jeep squealed to a stop.
    “What the hell?” Steve said, alarmed.
    “A house!” Noah said, already swinging the Jeep onto the driveway.
    The house was set a hundred feet back from the road, barely visible in the spectral haze. It had projecting eaves, tall windows, and a wrap-around porch. Yellow light glowed from behind a window in a square belvedere, which protruded vertically from the eastern corner of the low-pitched roof.
    “Thank God,” Steve said. He twisted in his seat and checked Jenny’s breathing and circulation.
    “How is she?” Noah asked.
    “Her pulse is weak.”
    “That’s not good, is it?”
    “Could be due to shock, or internal hemorrhage.”
    Noah banged over a pothole.
    “Hey!” Steve cried out. “Careful!”
    “Sorry, dude,” Noah said. “I’m trying. This driveway’s in shit condition.”
    Steve sat forward again.
    Noah avoided a few more potholes and stopped next to a waterless stone birdbath. He killed the engine but left the high beams on.
    Steve hopped out. “Wait with Jenny. This shouldn’t take long.”
    Noah nodded and watched Steve hurry up the veranda steps. Several spindles in the veranda railing, he noted, were snapped in half or missing altogether. In fact, the entire house seemed to be falling apart. Broken slate shingles littered the scorched-grass lawn, while the paint on the weatherboards and ornate pediments above the windows was blistered and peeling.
    Steve knocked on the front door, waited, knocked again, waited longer.
    He turned and shrugged.
    Swearing, Noah joined him on the veranda. The knocker Steve had used was big and brass and couldn’t have gone unheard.
    “Someone’s gotta be home,” Steve said.
    Noah rapped the knocker three times, hard, angry.
    Silence.
    Steve cupped his hands against the small window in the door’s upper carved panel and peered inside. Then he reached for the door handle.
    “Whoa,” Noah said. “What are you doing?”
    “Seeing if it’s unlocked.”
    The handle twisted in his grip. The door swung inward.
    “This is trespassing,” Noah said.
    “It’s an emergency,” Steve said.
    Steve stepped into the atrium and flicked on an overhead light. After a moment’s hesitation, Noah joined him. A vase of dead flowers sat on a small deal table. A mirror hung on the opposite wall. Noah caught his reflection—and barely recognized the wide, frightened eyes staring back at him.
    Directly ahead of them a staircase led to the second floor, and beside that a long hallway, which ended at a closed door. To their left was a small dining room. The table appeared not to be used for eating, as it was covered with newspapers and magazines. Six Chippendale chairs were tucked beneath it, the decorative backings broken in several of them. To their right was the living room. Stuffy antique furniture and moody oil paintings in ornately carved gilded frames shared the space with discarded socks, dirty dishes, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and boxes stocked with an assortment of junk. A wood-paneled television sat on a small table next to the fireplace. A brown wire snaked from it across the floor to an upholstered Lay-Z-Boy recliner, on which sat a controller box the size of a large