Criss Cross

Chapter 47

The man had his massive forearm pressed so hard against my windpipe, I thought he would crush it. His head was jammed tight next to mine, so even over the wind, I could hear his high-pitched wheezing and grunting.

I am not a small man by any means, but Oates dragged me backward as if I were no bigger than a child as I choked and clawed for my weapon. He slashed my right wrist with a blade of some kind, and it went through flesh and tendon right down to the bone.

I moaned in pain. He grunted with pleasure and dragged me back another few feet.

“I don’t care who you are,” the Meat Man said in a weird nasal voice. “You don’t come into my house without an invitation.”

I felt him square his feet as if he meant to use that blade again. A deep, instinctive will to survive took over. So did all my years of training.

I dropped my chin hard against his forearm, dug in my heels, and drove myself back. It threw him off balance, and that gave me just enough leverage to twist left and drive my elbow hard into his solar plexus. It knocked the wind out of him, and his grip on me eased enough that I was able to break free of his hold.

The strobe was still going, and there was still a bright blob in my vision as I jumped away from him. I attempted to draw my pistol left-handed, but I tripped and landed on a paint can, breaking one of my ribs.

I heard Oates shouting at me over the roar of the wind outside, and I knew he was coming. I started scrambling away on all fours, thinking, Get some space. Get the gun. Shoot him.

Then I felt something slam into my calf and cut right through the meat of it.

The gaping wound was agony. I grabbed at it as I rolled over. I could see him standing above me in the pulsing light of the strobe, which revealed the bloody meat cleaver he held.

Oates was grunting and wheezing so hard it sounded like a pig with asthma. He seemed ecstatic as he raised the cleaver high over his head and started to swing it down at the center of mine.

A shot went off.

Oates jerked, screamed, and let go of the cleaver in midswing.

I heard it slam into something six inches behind my skull.

Another shot rang out.

The Meat Man jerked, stumbled, crashed against the freezer that held the severed heads of his victims, and then sprawled lifeless in the trash.

Peaks ran to me, grabbed my hand, and pressed it hard against my gaping calf wound, which was spurting blood. Then he tore off his starched white shirt, ripped it in two, and wrapped one piece tight around my calf and the other around my wrist. When he was done, he said, “Let’s get you help.”

“What about him?”

The wind outside had gone beyond the roar of crashing surf. It sounded like a freight train blazing at us down a tunnel.

“Jesus,” Peaks said.

“What the hell is that?”

“Twister! It’s coming right at us!”