The Fire Witness

4

The dog is barking at her. He runs circles around her as she limps away across the gravel driveway. She knows there is no escape in the forest, and it’s several hours’ walk to the closest farm, so she drags herself behind the drying shed, toward the former brewery. Hands shaking, she opens the door, slips inside, and pulls the door tight.

“Oh God! Oh God!”

She searches her pockets for her cell, but her hands jerk so badly she drops the phone. The back bursts off and the battery flies out. She scrambles to pick up the pieces as she listens to the footsteps crunch the gravel.

She crawls to the low window and peers out. Buster, who has followed her, scratches frantically at the door. Elisabet creeps over to the masonry fireplace and crouches behind the woodpile, where with uncooperative hands she tries to shove the battery back into place.

The door flies open. There’s nowhere to go.

She can see the boots, the twisted face, the raised hammer, its heft and shine. She listens to the voice, nods, and then covers her face with her hands.

The shadowy figure pauses a moment before knocking her flat on the ground, holding her down, and smashing her hard. Along the hairline, her forehead burns. Her sight is gone, and she’s in agony, but the warm blood running over her ears and down the sides of her throat feels like a caress.

The next blow lands in the same spot. Her head is knocked askew and now the only thing she knows is how to breathe. She thinks how wonderfully sweet oxygen is.

She cannot feel her body jerk from the next round of blows. She cannot tell when the keys to the office and the isolation room are taken from her pocket. She cannot see her body lying on the floor or the dog sneaking in and tentatively lapping the blood leaking from her crushed head. She cannot sense her life ebb away.