He slumped against the wall and slid onto his butt, feeling the fatigue wash over him and the tears burning his cheeks. He swept the cellar with his flashlight, but was no longer looking for monsters. Now he would’ve settled for a familiar shadow, the grumble of an accustomed voice, even an insincere “You tried, Hoss.” But he already knew he was alone. His brother had gone, and an air of bitterness was all he’d left behind.

5

Chapter Five

Stiles retrieved the boys’ gear from the cloakroom and stalked back through Danner House with a quick, determined stride. But his movements were no longer as cautious or focused as before. The hunt was over once again: still no Enemy. So the adrenaline rush that drove him, that kept him on a razor’s edge, was fading, leaving him weary and disgusted and haunted by thoughts of Alex. He rationalized that it wasn’t his fault, just as he’d always done in the past. Alex led you here. It was Alex’s job to find the evil. It’s his failure, not yours. But none of the excuses could assuage his guilt or make the hurt go away.

His mind was still preoccupied with his brother as he stepped through the doorway to the garden, so he didn’t notice the quivering red dot that suddenly appeared on his chest. It was only a split second later, when the laser touched a wisp of fog between the porch and garden and became visible, that the realization jolted him. He barely had time to drop his burden and dive back through the doorway as the H & K’s sputtering report rolled across the clearing like muffled thunder. Three rounds tore into the doorjamb just above Stiles’s head, while the rest of the volley sizzled past him and stitched a ragged pattern on the nearest wall. “Whoa, kid, waitaminute,” he called. “It’s me!”

“Oh, lordy. I’m sorry,” came an adolescent voice, cracking with fear. Stiles dared to peek around the doorjamb and found the two boys still in the garden where he’d left them. The older one had regained consciousness and was propped on an elbow, feeling at the wound in his neck, while the younger kneeled beside him and still held the machine gun at his shoulder. When he saw Stiles’s face he gave a nervous smile and finally lowered the muzzle. “I, uh, didn’t know, you know, that it was you, and I, uh . . . sorry.”

“Never mind,” Stiles sighed as he stepped back onto the porch. “You only did what I told you to. I should have yelled first.” He picked up the sleeping bags and backpacks, carried them down, and piled them at the foot of the garden steps. Then he took the machine gun from the boy’s trembling hands, flipped the safety, and slung the weapon over his shoulder on a nylon strap.