Twenty-Three

“He’s dead?” Mathilda asked for the third or fourth time. In the children’s room, someone wept. “He’s really dead?”

“Yes,” Sally said, tugging Mathilda toward the couch “Come on.”

Colleen looked around, unsure what to do with herself. The gun felt unnatural in her hand. It felt wrong. But putting it down felt worse. Leaving it behind felt like suicide. She’d gotten as dressed as she could, but dressed consisted of her bra and panties—her gown lay beneath Huff’s headless body, soaked through with blood.

Down the hall to her left, the sound of weeping reached a fever pitch. Mathilda looked back at her, but Colleen was already on it. She stepped into the nursery to find Lissa sitting on the floor in the dim glow of a Mickey Mouse nightlight, holding the wailing and nameless child to her chest and rocking him back and forth. The twins sat on a mat in the corner, looking puffy-faced and confused. One of them drank from a sippy cup; the other held a stuffed bear to his chest. Huff Junior sat behind the bars of his crib, a little convict with snot on his lip and tears on his cheeks. He wasn’t crying now, but it didn’t look like it would take much to set him off.

“Hey,” Colleen said, placing the gun atop the diaper changing table to her left.

“Mama Colleen,” Lissa said. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re going to be okay,” Colleen said. “How is he?”

“I can’t get him to stop.”

The nameless boy wailed, his angry little red hands held up before his face, rigid fingers splayed. Lissa pressed the pacifier into his mouth. He swatted it away and it bounced off of Lissa’s knee and onto the carpet.

Colleen stepped to where the girl sat and reached down for the child.

“Oh, God,” Lissa said, pulling the child away. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Colleen said, looking down at her hands. She didn’t get it all – there was dried blood beneath her fingernails and in the creases of her knuckles, the thin lines at the back of her wrists.

“What happened?” Lissa said. “We heard a gun.”

“Yes,” Colleen said, not knowing what to say, holding her hands to her naked stomach. “Someone shot a gun, but we’re okay.”

“Who shot a gun?” Lissa said, hysteria gnawing at the edges of her voice. “Who got shot?”

“Just wait, okay?” Colleen said, suddenly firm. “Just be quiet for a second and let me help.”

Lissa snapped her mouth shut and angled her body so that her shoulder, and not the infant in her arms, was facing Colleen. In his little cell of wooden bars, Huff Junior pawed around in search of something. Finding it, he plopped his pacifier into his mouth and sat watching Colleen as she returned to the changing table and searched for wet wipes.

The blood came away with ease. Colleen pressed her right foot to the lever that raised the lid of the diaper bin, letting loose the odor of baby shit. She tossed the pink-stained wads atop the old diapers and let the slid slam shut. Her hands clean, she went first to Little Huff’s crib, sliding her fingers through the child’s hair and whispering to him.

“Everything is okay, kid,” she said, stroking his forehead. The results were instantaneous: Little Huff’s eyelids grew heavy. “Good. Now got to sleep.”

Lissa rose to her feet and held out the weeping infant, who grew silent within seconds of being held to Colleen’s chest.

“He likes you,” Lissa said.

“I guess so,” Colleen said, looking around. She was suddenly cold. “Can I have a blanket?”

“Sure,” Lissa said, and walked over to the small dresser next to the changing table. One of the twins yawned. The other, the one holding the sippy cup, had fallen asleep leaning against the wall. The nightlight to his left threw his misshapen shadow across the wall in a black arc. His brother took the sippy cup from him and knocked it back. Liquid sloshed, and the kid’s fat cheeks deflated.

“You should get back in bed,” Colleen told him.

“I tired,” he said. “Carry me.”

“Arms full, little man. Why don’t you—” Colleen stopped. Throughout her time in the kids’ room, she had been aware of the hushed voices of Sally and Mathilda in the next room. She could not make out what they were saying, not all of it, only that Sally was doing most of the talking, and that both of them seemed calm. A new voice had joined them, one considerably less calm.

“Oh, damn,” Colleen said, facing Lissa, who stood with a blanket in her hands and a frown on her face. Her eyes were on the door leading into the hall. Out front, someone screamed:

“Let me in there right now.”

“Stay here, okay?” Colleen said, gently placing the infant next to Huff Junior. The infant’s eyes popped open. He looked confused and terrified.

“That’s not where he goes,” Lissa said, and someone grunted, slammed against a wall.

Colleen hissed low. “Stay here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Lissa said, sniffing once. “You don’t have to yell.”

Colleen grabbed the gun, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind her, locked it. On the other side, the infant wailed, but Colleen barely heard it over the sound coming from the bedroom in which she had killed Huffington Niebolt.

Sally stood near the couch, her hair a mess, her left eye swollen from Sam’s attack, a line of blood running from her nose. Mathilda stood in the bedroom doorway, looking in.

“What happened?” Colleen asked.

Sally touched her nose, winced. “She elbowed me. No big deal.”

“Who?” Colleen asked, but it was a stupid question. Unless there was someone she’d yet to meet, who else could it be but the bride closest to Huffington Niebolt, the one who’d been with him longest?

“Embeth,” Sally said. There was sweat on her forehead, and she was pale.

“Are you okay?” Colleen asked.

“No,” Sally said. “But I’m okay for now.” She held her stomach in both hands, caressed it.

“Sit down,” Colleen said. Sally listened.

At the bedroom door, Colleen peered past Mathilda and at the horror playing out upon the floor. Kneeling beside his headless body, Embeth clutched Huff’s severed head to her chest, rocked it like one would rock a baby, like Lissa had rocked Huff’s nameless child.

Huff’s face was paper white. The wet flesh and exposed muscle beneath the shelf of its bearded jaw was the color of ground beef. Its blood-soaked braids wagged, and its cheeks were pressed together like those of someone on the receiving end of an intense hug. Its pursed lips revealed toothless gums, and its eyes lolled.

“Beth?” Mathilda said. “Beth, honey, you need to calm down.”

Embeth didn’t hear this. Colleen barely heard it over the sound pouring from Embeth’s mouth, a ragged warble that sounded like a mind snapping.

Colleen found herself thinking about the gun hanging from the end of her arm. It was weighted in two directions: the natural heft of gravity tugging her hand toward the ground, and a second, unaccountable force, subtler and maybe stronger, the gun wanting to ease her arm upward, telling her to aim and fire.

“Easy now, Beth.” Mathilda said, her voice crumbling. She took it all in, and Colleen braced herself. Mathilda was about to lose it, too. The pull of the gun grew stronger.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Mathilda said, and took an uncertain step into the bedroom. She nearly tripped on Max’s splayed legs, and stumbled onto Sally’s bed. She began to gag. Yelping, she clambered from the bed and, hopping over Max’s legs, pushed past Colleen and down the hall.

Embeth exclaimed something that was prayer or curse or both. She stopped rocking and held up Huff’s head, her thumbs on its cheeks, her fingers cupping the back of its head. Its braids hung straight down, their frizzy ends touching the bloody carpet. Embeth gazed into her dead husband’s eyes.

The severed head bit the air. The braid hanging from its chin swung back and forth. Gasping, Embeth crushed the head to her breasts and covered the top of its head in kisses. The gun said: this woman was insane, hysterical. And if she ever came down, she’d be a problem.

Colleen listened as the nursery door was unlocked and opened, the sound of the weeping child momentarily growing louder. She heard Lissa greet her Mama Sally, and her thumb tightened on the pistol’s hammer.

Mathilda appeared at her side, stepping once more over Max’s legs, far more gracefully now, her slipper-clad feet sinking into the pooled and congealing blood soaking into the carpet. She stepped past the ruin of Evie’s head and placed a hand on Embeth’s shoulder. She stood between Colleen and Embeth, so Colleen did not see the syringe until Mathilda had tossed it aside. It landed on Huff’s back.

“Hey,” Mathilda said.

Embeth grunted. Huff’s severed head hit the ground, and Evie pitched forward, arms at her sides. Mathilda tried to catch her. She lost her grip, and Embeth collapsed face first onto Evie’s back.

Mathilda looked back at Colleen. The look on her face told Colleen all that she needed to know: she was in shock, she was shutting down. This was too much for her, and soon she’d have no choice but to leave it behind for a little while. But first, there was work to be done.

“Can you help me?” Mathilda asked, her face pale, her bottom lip quivering. Her hands were shaking, just like Colleen’s.

Colleen placed the gun atop the dresser, grateful to be free of it. Together and with some effort they cleared a path, beginning with Max. Mathilda took his hands, Colleen his feet. He was heavy and limp. When they lifted him his head lolled and what was left of his brains slid from the hole in his forehead and fell to the floor in a series of moist plops. Mathilda backed into the narrow strip between Sally’s bed and the wall, easing him to the floor. Colleen did the same on her end.

Mathilda crawled over the bed, and they repeated the process with Huff’s body, though less thoroughly. Max had been the primary obstruction in their path. Each grabbing an arm, they tugged the headless body into the space between beds. Cautiously, Colleen lifted Huff’s head by one of its braids and tossed it onto Sally’s bed. It bounced once and came to a stop facing them, expressionless, unmoving, like something truly dead.

Colleen stared at it. She couldn’t get used to this.

“God,” Mathilda said, bringing her right hand to her mouth. “Is it…?”

Colleen said nothing. Huff’s severed head closed its mouth and worked its jaw like that of an old man gumming oatmeal. It blinked its eyes once, a slow, laborious process. The eyes drifted, unfocused, until it found them. The mouth drew open once more, a thick rope of pink saliva connecting the bottom lip to the upper lip, and the skin between its eyebrows bunched into a frown.

“Come on,” Colleen said, looking away and tugging on Mathilda’s arm.

Their path clear, they carried Embeth into the living room. She was smaller than Max, though just as lifeless, and she was easy to move.

“Not on the couch,” Mathilda said, stopping and easing her half of the unconscious older woman to the floor. Colleen followed suit. “Not until we clean her off.”

Colleen shrugged. Even now, in the face of all that had passed and all that was to come, Mathilda was concerned with getting a little blood on the couch.

“I’ll take care of her,” Colleen said. “Can you find me something to wear?”

Mathilda looked her up and down once. “No problem,” she said, leaving the room.

Colleen stepped into the kitchen and tore away two sheets from the thick paper-towel roll. At the sink, she soaked one of them completely through and then squeezed it out.

Kneeling beside Embeth, she wiped Evie’s blood and little chunks of brain from the unconscious woman’s face. Folding over the wet and stained paper towel, she wiped once more, erasing the last smears of blood. With the other sheet, she patted dry Embeth’s face.

The unconscious woman did not stir but her big chest continued to rise and fall. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were not fully closed. Colleen considered pressing them shut with her index and middle fingers, like someone in an old Western, and decided otherwise.

In the kitchen, standing over the trash can, she opened the moist paper towel and stared at the small curl of brain matter and wondered if there were still thoughts living within it.

“Here.”

Colleen looked up. Mathilda tossed some faded jeans and a long sleeve shirt over the kitchen counter. She walked to the couch and sat down, staring at Embeth.

Colleen closed her fist around the bloodied paper-towel and dropped it into the trash can.

“Thanks,” she said, washing her hands and then slipping into the clothes. The shirt was baggy and the pants were a little too tight, but they would do. She needed shoes.

“Kids are quiet,” Mathilda said.

“Yeah,” Colleen said. “Shouldn’t we get her off the floor?”

“She’s fine,” Mathilda said. She had yet to regain her color. She stared at Embeth and chewed on her bottom lip.

The door leading into the nursery opened and Sally stepped out, easing the door shut behind her and ambling into the living room, her massive stomach leading the way.

“Good work,” Sally said, stepping over Embeth and sitting next to Mathilda.

“You okay?” she asked Mathilda, drawing one of the woman’s hands into her own. Mathilda stared down in Embeth’s direction, but it was clear that her gaze was not on the unconscious woman, but somewhere else entirely.

“I’m not surprised he did it,” Mathilda said.

Colleen glanced at Sally, frowned. Sally nodded once.

“He and Huff didn’t get along,” Mathilda said, looking at Colleen and wringing her hands together upon her lap. “I expected something, but not this.”

Mathilda no longer needed to be strong. Her face crumpled. “The bastard,” she said, and Colleen was certain that she was talking about Samson, that her devotion to Huffington Niebolt was as strong, or nearly as strong, as Embeth’s.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Mathilda said, shattering Colleen’s certainty.

“The bastard.” A tear ran from her left eye, and she wiped it away, her face contorting, lips twitching, pale cheeks blossoming red. “I loved him, I did, but he took my life away. Didn’t he?”

“He did,” Sally said, reaffirming her hold on Mathilda’s hand. “But he’s gone now.”

“Why did he kill Evie?” Mathilda asked, and Colleen had no idea which one she was talking about: Sam or Max. As Colleen had tried to comfort the children, Sally had given Mathilda an explanation of events that did not involve Colleen seizing an opportunity and beheading Huff, nor Sally’s executions of Evie and Max. This, Colleen decided, was for the best.

“He was out of control,” Sally said. “Like an animal. Like he was insane. He did what he did to Huff, and when Evie came in he—oh, you don’t need to hear this again.”

There, Colleen thought, watching as Sally sat beside Mathilda and wrapped an arm around her. Sally had pinned it all on Samson. God knew where he was.

“We’ll have time to cry later,” Sally said, and Colleen realized that, should they need one, they had a leader. “For now, we need to get ready. He’s out there, and we’re going to have to deal with him.”

“Embeth,” Mathilda said.

“What?”

“She’ll know where the guns are. Huff told her everything.”

Colleen knew where her gun was, and she excused herself long enough to go once more among the dead and retrieve it.

“Tomorrow,” Sally said, looking at Colleen. “We’ll find out tomorrow, and you and Colleen will go get them. We’re okay for now.” She touched her own gun.

Colleen looked down at Embeth. Her cheeks were red, her chest visibly rose and fell, and her eyes danced behind her eyelids. Colleen didn’t like it.

“What if he comes back?” Mathilda asked.

“We’ll kill him,” Colleen said, infusing her voice with as much confidence as she could muster.

Colleen poured Mathilda a straight double shot of whisky, and within twenty minutes the older woman had returned to the kids’ room, where she crawled into bed beside Lissa and passed out, as much from shock as from the booze.

“What do we do now?” Sally asked.

“We wait,” Colleen said.

“Do you think he’ll be back?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her gun, traced her left hand along the barrel. “He took a pretty bad beating.”

“Yeah.”

“If he’s okay, he’s going to want the place.”

“Our place?”

“Yeah,” Colleen said. “Our place.”

In the bedroom, they watched Huff’s head gum the air. There was something reptilian about its eyes, its lips, its movements.

“Bastard,” Sally said and pressed the barrel of her gun between its eyes.

Colleen said, “Don’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“He said he was going to live forever,” Colleen said. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Sally said, and Colleen really didn’t have to say any more. She saw the light of understanding in Sally’s eyes.

“Let’s make sure he does.”

Colleen grabbed a pillow from the bed and slid it from its case. Tossing it aside, she seized one of Niebolt’s braids and picked up the head, dropped it into the pillowcase. She spun it shut and tossed it under the bed.

“Good enough for now,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They closed the door behind them.

“What about her?” Colleen asked.

Embeth lay where they’d left her.

“She’ll be out for a while. Mathilda gave her a big dose.”

“Yeah, still.”

“Wait,” Sally said, and left the room. Colleen sat down on the couch and stared at Embeth, whose hands rose and fell upon her chest. She inspected her own hands, which were still stained here and there.

Sally returned with one of the stupid red gowns. She wondered what, if anything, they represented, and realized just as quickly that she did not care. Let Huffington Niebolt’s insane bullshit die with him.

Sally had a pair of scissors. Colleen watched her take them to the fabric, wanting to help but not knowing where to find a second pair. They used the strips to bind Embeth’s wrists and ankles.

“Gag her?” Colleen asked, holding up a wad of red cloth.

“No,” Sally said. “No need. She’s going to be a groggy mess tomorrow.”

“You mean today.”

“Yeah,” Sally said.

“What do we do now?”

“We need to sleep,” Sally said. “We need-” Her face crumpled. The tears came. They hugged one another, and Colleen wept, too. She squeezed her eyes shut, and there was a new image in her mind: Huffington Niebolt facedown in the center of a spreading pool of blood.

They cried until no more tears came, and then they drank a little whisky, ate what food their stomachs could hold, and, at last, in the thin darkness before sunrise, fell asleep pressed against one another upon the couch.