The Storm

Based upon Betty's Challenge No. 178: Steve is home alone sick. While alone at home the house is robbed. Steve is injured when he comes upstairs to investigate. While the gang is all here, this is a Steve-centered story.

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Part One

Steve jerked awake, his eyes flying wide. He lay sweaty and disoriented on top of the bed covers, trying to reconcile the sound of thunder with the dim light reflected into the room. He blinked up at the ceiling, pulled the frazzled edges of his consciousness together and turned to look over at the bedside clock.

Two-thirty. In the afternoon. That explained the eerie lighting.

Rolling slowly, stiffly, into a sitting position, he settled his feet onto the floor and allowed his elbows to rest on his knees. It followed that his head settled into one of his hands, while the other ran along the damp skin at the back of his neck. The motion did nothing to relieve the body ache that he knew meant that the touch of flu he'd woken with had become full blown load-up-on-cold-medicine illness. That probably explained why he had fallen asleep on top of the covers.

Though he knew it wasn't a good idea to take a shower during an impending thunderstorm, he felt he had to do something about the uncomfortable stickiness he felt. Maybe he'd splash a bit of water on his face, grab something for his aching head.

Course decided, his pushed his aching body into a standing position, tilted a bit at a slight wave of unsteadiness, then set off in stocking feet toward the bathroom. As he neared the bathroom door, a loud thump, seeming unrelated to the storm raging outside, caught his attention.

Frowning slightly, he wondered if his dad was home. He'd left early that morning, expecting to have a full day at the hospital. Steve wasn't expecting him until close to five.

Moving through his apartment and up the stairs that led to his father's portion of the house, he was surprised at the dimness and the stillness of the place. When his father was home it was full of light and life.

"Dad? You here?" he called as he rounded the stairs and headed toward the den. Mark liked storms, so maybe he was sitting there watching mother nature at work.

As he rounded the corner into the den, lightning flashed through the French doors revealing the shadow of a man's skulking form. Adrenaline rushed Steve's system like a bolt of electricity, sending his hand automatically to his side where his gun was normally holstered.

He froze in confusion at finding nothing there. He was home. He'd been sleeping. The gun was tucked safely away in a drawer in his bedroom downstairs.

The form, now cloaked in dimness, seemed frozen as well for several seconds. Thunder boomed on the heels of the lightning, and the tableau was broken. The man moved, running toward the French doors. Steve could almost make out something bulky under one arm.

"Stop right there! Police!" Steve called and set off after him, aches and pains forgotten. He dove, catching the man just as the doors opened. They both tumbled to the wooden surface of the deck in a heap, the item under the man's arm rolling away into a corner of the deck behind a potted plant. Steve wasn't able to do more than glance at it as the man began to fight.

Lightning again flashed as the thief struggled to one side, trying to pull his larger bulk from beneath the arm Steve had pinioned across the back of his neck. "You picked the wrong house to burglarize!" Steve informed the man. "You're under arrest!" The booming sound of thunder punctuated the phrase.

The man, face down on the deck, began to whimper. Disgusted, Steve pinned both the guy's arms behind his back and pushed himself to a standing position. He wavered slightly, fighting the returning weakness that seemed part and parcel of the flu. With gritted teeth, he hauled the man up as well, then turned him back toward the house and the den where he kept a pair of hand cuffs.

Just as they were turning, the man settled a foot against the support at the side of the door, throwing them both off balance. Steve caught a brief glimpse of something shiny and metallic in his peripheral vision as the man made a sharp motion with his left arm.

He moved to block, but he was too off balance. A shock of pain pierced his right side, adding to his out of control momentum. He tumbled backward and over a deck chair landing hard against the flooring just as the sky opened up. . . .

Steve lay on the ground, stunned at the unexpectedness of the attack and fall. The cold rain was pelting down on him and he started to cough, which caused his already sore body to throb with pain. Without thinking too much about the pain, he tried to pull himself up, knowing it was important to get warm and dry, but the pain in his side shot through him again and he collapsed back, nearly passing out with the agony. Gasping with pain, he reached down to try to feel what the problem was, and he was dismayed at the sight of the blood on his hand. The rain was still falling on him, and he could only watch as the blood was washed away. He glanced down at his side, and could see the ragged tear in his side. He'd obviously been stabbed. Taking as deep a breath as he dared, he turned onto his uninjured side, wanting to protect his face from the falling rain. If he took it slowly and easily, he should be able to crawl into the shelter of his home. He'd been only vaguely aware of the footsteps of the burglar running away, and he knew he was on his own. His father wasn't due home for several hours, so he had to help himself.

With strong determination, he inched himself forward, very slowly and with a great deal of difficulty.

His aches and pains generated by the flu had paled in insignificance to the stabbing and his fall, and his slow and laborious crawling was causing him further problems - his entire body was aching, and he was completely soaked through by the rain. He was fighting the need to cough, knowing it would only hurt him more, but it was growing more difficult. The storm was building up in ferocity and the wind was now blowing hard which further slowed his progress. Struggling badly, he managed to move a few inches before he collapsed again.

The sound of footsteps approached him and he sighed with relief. His father must have come home early.

"Da...." he whispered, surprised when the expected warm and comforting voice didn't respond, nor was there the expected touch and concern. The footsteps walked past him. He could only watch the black boots as they stepped past him and went back into his home. The burglar had returned.

Steve tried to gather his waning strength; there was no way he could allow his home to be burgled, but his weary body had other ideas. The sound of more footsteps startled him, but he soon realized it was the burglar's accomplice and he could only watch as his house was robbed. He closed his eyes, knowing he couldn't fight.

"Hey, he's a pig and tried to arrest me." The laughter mocked the weary Steve but he could only lie there. "Don't look like he's gonna arrest me now," more laughter floated over Steve's head.

"What are we gonna do with him?"

Steve groaned in pain as he felt himself being lifted into a sitting position, leaning against the house wall. He was soaking wet and shivering violently, but despite his poor condition he tried to concentrate, so he could identify the robbers. They weren't going to get away with this. The faces which floated before him were young, but his focus wasn't good and he couldn't pick up any identifying features. He closed his eyes against the rain, and against watching his father's belongings being taken. Some cop he was.

"Why do anything with him? We can leave him here."

"He's seen us now, you idiot!" The voice was annoyed. "Why did you lift him up like that?"

"Look at him, he ain't gonna be able to identify us. He can barely keep his eyes open!"

"Take him for a swim," the first voice barked.

"What? He ain't gonna cause any trouble!" the second voice protested.

"Do as I say! Take him for a swim in the beach. Nice day for it!"

Steve shuddered at the thought. There was no way he would survive the ocean if that was what they had in mind. He was tired, sick and already so very cold and weak. Knowing what this would do to his father, he determined to use the last of his strength to fight.

"Look, I signed on for burglary - I ain't killin' no cop! You know what they do to cop killers?"

"Oh, for God's sake, take a look at him, dodo! You're just as guilty if he dies after we leave - he look like he's gonna make it to you? At least if he's in the ocean it'll take 'em a while to put it together - or maybe they won't even make the connection between the burglary and him buyin' it. Or maybe the fishes'll have a nice snack and nobody'll be the wiser."

Very funny, thought Steve wryly in the pause that followed. Damn, there had to be a way out of this... There was a shifting of feet near him.

"Yeah, all right...you and that damn knife of yours. Why can't you use your head just once?"

"I did keep my head! He was gonna arrest me!"

Steve felt someone grab his left arm ungently and yank it upward, then the added support of a grip around his waist. He groaned involuntarily at the sudden movement. Still...maybe he could use their squabbling to his advantage somehow... They were shuffling forward now, slowly, the rain lashing against them like a wet blanket. He pushed aside a quick, wistful image of his bed that sprang, unbidden, to his mind. He had to do something. These guys looked like they were settling in for the long haul, and he had to make sure they weren't here when his father got home - that he got help, warned him somehow.

The floor disappeared underneath them and he realized they were on the stairs that led to the deck. He let the burglar take all his weight, trying to take stock. His arm on the side where he'd been stabbed was virtually useless; his left one was in the burglar's grasp. He was shivering violently - shock or blood loss or fever or cold - he really couldn't be sure which. He managed to pry his eyes open...looked like they were about halfway down the stairs. All right, this might not work, but it was all that he could think of... He waited until the burglar was reaching a foot for the next stair, then he thrust his left leg forward, into the bending knee, and pushed. The burglar went down with a yell of surprise. They tumbled together down the remainder of the stairs in a tangle of arms and legs, landed at the bottom with an "oof", as the air rushed out of the burglar. Steve was on top, for the most part, and his friend seemed winded - he took advantage and with what strength he could scrape together, grabbed the head beneath his by the hair and slammed it into the concrete patio. He didn't wait to see the effect. He crawled off of the body under his, kicking himself free of the half-hearted grip and ducking under the patio. He rolled until he felt his shoulder hit the wall, then dragged himself carefully into sitting position, swearing helplessly as the action pulled on his wounded side. The world fuzzed dramatically and he slid down the wall toward the ground, just stopped himself from collapsing on the concrete. No. No time. He gave himself one half second to get himself back in hand, then crept forward, fumbling with his good hand along the French doors, trying to find one that was open. That goon could be on top of him any second...where was the other one anyway? Upstairs still? He wasn't really sure...he pushed desperately at every door in turn, the sawing pain in his side protesting with every movement. Damn. Just...damn. That's what came from being a cop - everything locked up nice and tight from the inside. For safety. If he'd had the strength, he would have laughed.

All right...he wasn't getting inside that easily. He needed to think of something else...whether to try for the front door, or to go for help. Clutching his side in an effort to slow the bleeding, he pushed himself up onto his left hand and his knees. There was a sound of an angry voice not far off, and a muted, complaining groan. He was running out of time. One problem with living at the beach, he thought, as he inched painfully forward, was a relative lack of trees and bushes for cover. It had seemed like a good idea when they had purchased, but now he thought that just a couple of more trees would be a lot of help. He reached the corner of the house and slid around to the other side, leaning back against it. He had to rest, just for a second. He closed his eyes. The good news was that the rain would take care of his blood trail. The bad news was that the deck overhead had offered him some small respite from the downpour, and now that was gone. The wind threw the rain against him like a wall of water, leeching his strength. A weapon. That's what he needed - some kind of weapon...maybe...maybe he could use it to break in, too...get inside...the wall seemed to be slipping under his back again, and this time he wasn't able to catch himself. He jounced against the ground, making a soft sound of distress as he landed on his tattered side. He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be cemented shut, to push himself up, but his body didn't move. The rain was pooling under him, a pink-tinged puddle, running off of his already saturated thin cotton singlet. It was funny, but he really didn't feel cold any more.

To be continued . . .