Christmas on the Shores of the Dead
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Chapter six, then Copper Harbor, Michigan. Merkel House, October 18th 2012 John Help May. Cindy Merkel screamed from the first floor of the house. Caleb, normally unflappable for a boy his age, spasm din terror at the fear in his mother's voice. A single squeak escaped his throat and tiny fingers dug so deeply into a sister she'd have bruises for a week. Let go, squirt! Amber hissed, trying and failing to get up from the bed. He was anchoring her to the mattresses thoroughly as any piece of iron ever held A ship to the harbor floor que live only increased the pressure of his grip. Cindy! Run! John Merkel yelled a heartbeat before the sounds of breaking glass filled the air. That was a backdoor Amber thought, her mind seizing in sudden fear. That was the backdoor breaking. It's the only glass large enough to let one of those things inside. With a final effort, Amber managed to extricate herself from her baby brother's death grip and darted to the bedroom door. Caleb called Justus, her hand grip, the door handle. Stay here, Caleb, shut the door and keep it locked. Until I come back, she ordered not looking back. She knew if she looks back, she'd see the fear and desperation on his face, and she wouldn't be able to leave the room. More screams carried up from the first floor, followed by a spine chilling moan. Amber slammed the door behind her and sprinted down the hall. What the **** are you doing, Ember? This is dumb. This is dumb. This is so ******* dumb, she thought, taking the stairs two at a time, landing with a thud on the first floor. Sounds of a struggle mixed with moaning, and the subs of her mother filled the air and chilled embers. Blood. Mom! She called out, dashing through the family room and into the dining room. Rounding the corner, Amber stepped from the world she'd always known of streaming television, junk food and endless bitching about school and straight into a Stephen King nightmare. The glass in the double French doors leading into the backyard was shattered and strewn across the dining room floor. Her mother sat on the floor, sobbing and cradling the blood soaked form of Dylan holding her hands on a gash on his neck, trying to desperately hold in the spraying blood. Her father was pressed against the wall and struggled with a man clad Onley in dingy underwear in a blood encrusted bathrobe, which flapped open amber. Frozen shocked, horror. Amber, her mother shouted, snapping Amber from her paralysis. Get the first aid kit! John Merkel, despite 50 extra pounds and considerably less hair, hadn't for gotten everything from his four years in the United States Army and brought a booted foot up and then slammed down on the attacking man's knee. The man, Amber was sure he was one of the sick people she'd seen on television fell backward without emitting a sound other than the continuous moaning. He never registered the pain of John Merkel shattering his knee. John Sweat rolling down his pudgy face once more, brought up his foot and slammed it down on the man's head, delivering the coupe de gras. The man stopped moving and the moaning ceased. That was when Ember noticed the wound on her father's forearm in the shape of a human mouth. Autopilot kicked in. An amber ran to the small laundry room off the kitchen where the first aid kit was stored, throwing detergent bottles in a box of Christmas decorations that had never made it to the attic. Last year. To the side, she hauled down the old brown tackle box come first aid kit and rushed back to the dining room. Sliding back into the dining room, she found her mother sobbing into her father's chest on the floor in front of them, Dylan late, pale and silent in a spreading pool of cooling blood. All life gone from his staring eyes, Amber dropped the first aid kit to the ground with a crash.