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eaten for over twenty-four hours now if I didn t count
the make-believe meal with Alice on the Mile-High
Building. I realized that somewhere in the home there
might be a kitchen with food. The thought made my
mouth water and I started down the hall, figuring the
kitchen must be somewhere on the ground floor.
Pay dirt. I went straight to the refrigerator, opened
it, and discovered a jar full of mold that according to
the label had officially once been beets Otherwise
the frig was empty. I was halfway back down the hall
when I heard the floor creak behind me, back in the
living room.
And then I heard voices, so faint I couldn t quite
make out what they were saying to each other.
I drew my gun, put my back to the wall, and
listened.
Come on hot boy, someone whispered.
Nobody s here. Quit being a xonk and get in here.
I let out my breath and shook my head. Great, I
thought. A couple of punks had followed me in
through the opening I d made in the side of the
house. It seemed like no one had any pride any more.
Couldn t they figure out how to hit a place on their
own? Now I d have to work around them.
I quietly replaced the heavy duty government
armament and withdrew the ancient Jennings .22
auto I d borrowed earlier that evening. I only wanted
to scare the two of them, not plaster them across the
walls. I waited, ready to run them off if they headed
my way. Fortunately they didn t come into the hall,
instead opting to head up the stairway for the upper
bedrooms where people generally keep their
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valuables.
I stood still until they were nearly up the stairs,
then carried on a debate with myself about the
wisdom of heading back out to the street rather than
waiting around to see what happened. Instead of
being smart, I stayed inside, straining my ears for the
confrontation I knew must be coming.
Twenty seconds later, the confrontation came.
Hey! one of them yelled.
The other simply said a few very old four-letter
words.
Then there was a flurry of rapid footsteps above
me as someone ran a few paces, as if trying to
escape. This was followed by two heavy thumps of
bodies hitting the floor with the finality only
unconscious carcasses can achieve.
Silence.
Not a peep or any hint of life in the stale house.
I found myself sweating. What happened? I had
expected gunshots, screams, pleading for mercy.
It had been too quiet. Too efficient. There hadn t
been a hint of a firearm s report not even the pop of
a silenced weapon. Nor had anyone screamed in
pain. Their deaths must have been almost
instantaneous from the sound of it.
Now s a great time to leave, I informed myself as I
left the hallway and crossed into the living room.
Curiosity killed the cat, I warned as I stood at the
base of the stairs that looked amazingly similar to
those in the 3-D remake of Psycho. If I d been smart,
I would have dived out the hole in the wall and said
good-bye to Huntington and his cheery little abode for
good.
Of course I ve never received any medals for
being smart. So I cautiously crept up the stairs to see
what had happened to the two amateur burglars.
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CHAPTER 20
reeping up the steps, I switched back to
the gov-issue elephant pistol, figuring I
needed some serious firepower to deal
with whatever had taken out two kids
without making it sound like work. I
checked to be sure the auto was set to
burst fire, and continued up the creaking planks.
Since each squeak undoubtedly alerted anyone
that might be listening that I was headed up, I took my
time, One potato, two, potato for each step. And I
kept watching through the rungs above me for any
sign of the silent killer that had caught the previous
intruders.
As my eyes came in line with upper floor, I could
see the two bodies of the punks. I forced myself not
to study them, instead concentrating on the closed
doors along the upstairs hall, keeping my eyes
moving while wondering whether the prize I d be
facing was behind door number one, two, or three.
Little by little, step by step, I continued upward
until I was standing on the wooden floor covered by a
strip of worn carpeting, now adored with two punks
put into early retirement. I knelt and waited, taking
deep breaths in an effort to calm down.
Rule one of surviving an indoors gun fight was to
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make your opponent fight on your terms, not his.
Make him come to you.
My terms were out here in the upstairs hallway
where I could see what was going on and was
prepared to shoot first and ask questions later when I
was far, far away. Now all I have to do is out wait my
opponent.
I must have knelt there, motionless, for at least ten
minutes. After five minutes, sweat started trickling
down my brow and into my eyes with a stinging, drop-
by-drop progress. The heavy gun got clammy in my
hands. I started to relax.
There was a low groaning, Ohhhhhhhh of a noise
which made me jump, bringing my gun to bear on the
nearest doorway, and then switching it to the next
entrance, watching for a movement of the knob.
The groan came again.
This time I could tell where it came from. It wasn t
from a hidden figure about to attack from behind any
of the doors. Rather, it was one of the two intruders. I
cautiously glanced at them again, then back to the
doors, fearful my distraction would get me killed.
I continued to watch the doors, mulling over the
fact that one of the two punks was obviously still alive.
Most likely both were alive since there was no sign of
blood.
But what had caused them to run? What had
lowered the boom on them? They must have seen or
heard something before getting taken out taken out
very, very quickly.
Both were lying with their heads pointing toward
me. That meant they d been running away from
something toward the end of the hall. I moved my
firearm s point of aim farther down the hallway. The
only thing there was a low mahogany table with an
antique Tiffany lamp on it. The tiny bulb cast its green
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and blue hues on the wall behind it and
Tiffany lamp?
Way out of place in this dump, I muttered. And
just the treasure an inexperienced thief would make a
beeline for. Perfect bait for a booby trap to separate
the chaff from the elite.
I cautiously stood and advanced, stepping over the
two boobies, my gun still at the ready. Glancing down,
I saw that both were still breathing. Must have been
hit by some sort of electrical shock or maybe a gas
though I couldn t think what type of chemical might be
used in a counter-personnel trap that would act so
fast.
I stopped about two meters from the lamp,
inspecting it and the area around it from what I hoped
was a safe distance. I searched for some sign of an
offensive system. The lamp and table looked pretty
normal. No extra cords to the lamp, nothing visible
under the table. The lamp might have been
electrified but that would have only accounted for
one punk and he d be draped under the table instead
of three paces from it. Had to be something else.
I took another step closer, then froze...
There, I told myself. Under the carpet.
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