Steve's immediate reaction was to claw himself up from the floor. His legs were shaking in an unbalanced tremor but he dismissed it, his mind focused on the whereabouts of the intruder. One hand went automatically to his hip, feeling for the familiar solidness of his ever-present gun. It wasn't there.
Damn it!
Steve wracked his mind trying to recall where his gun could be. He was careful with it; always was, but the pounding in his head made thinking with any semblance of clarity difficult.
Where did I put it?
Steve ran one hand through his sodden hair, an electric-like needle of pain shimmering through his head as he brushed against the point which had impacted hardest with the ground.
Where did I put the gun?
Steve had never felt so vulnerable. In most situations he perceived himself as a strong, protecting force. And now he was injured, unarmed; defenceless.
Where the hell is the gun!?
He scoured his mind, trying urgently to retrace his steps of the day, but the evening's events and his head injury made what was should have been a simple task of memory a remarkably difficult chore.
I parked the car and came into the house. Dad wasn't home yet… I started dinner… The kitchen!
The kitchen!
He'd left his gun in the kitchen. The drawer next to the sink – he'd been making dinner.
He had to get to the kitchen.
Steve stared for a moment at the footprint. It was pointing in the direction of the living room. He took a step and found that the dizziness he had felt since his fall had not lessened by any discernible degree. Leaning heavily onto the wall he took another step forwards, taking only shallow breaths and walking as gently as his shaky legs would allow for fear of being heard.
With any luck he could make it to the kitchen and his precious gun before the intruder heard him.
Or found him.
Sure enough he found that a second footprint followed the first, and a third after that. The intruder had left a trail.
Like the forecourt outside, the house now appeared strange, unfamiliar. In the dark every door hid untold threats, and every corner secreted hidden menace. Steve felt like an alien in his own home; an overwhelming sense of foreboding sent a current of ice shivering down his spine.
Where is he?
Steve took another step. He was nearing the entrance to the living room now, where only moments earlier everyone had been planning the escape; oblivious to the threat which had now, only by chance, presented itself.
He turned his back to the wall, unsure of how to progress. Any normal situation, if there was such a thing, would have seen him pouncing forwards, gun in hand, bursting brazenly into the room where he would hope to catch the suspect unawares. But standing in the twilight of the hallway, hands empty…
Deciding that there was no way out of the situation Steve took in a deep, determined breath and slowly edged himself around the wall, hoping that the inky surroundings would hide his presence long enough for him to catch the intruder unexpectedly.
Holding his breath Steve stepped into the living room, his mind spinning as he searched his mind as to what in the room would make a suitable weapon. His eyes sought frantically for any signs of movement, but there was none. The room was completely empty.
His breath caught in the back of his throat.
The soft flickering of the candles offered only the pretence of light, and the shadows which fell carelessly in all directions appeared to jump out at him. Steve half expected to be set upon at any moment; his heart pulsed so violently that he felt as though he would choke. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed however, and the tightness of apprehension binding his chest eased slightly.
Stepping further into the room Steve was conscious to keep his back towards the wall, not wanting to leave himself open to attack if the intruder should come up from behind him.
It was impossible to make out the footprints in this room. Steve himself had ventured out into the rain more than once, as had Mark and Amanda. The flooring was a mass of smeared mud, rain and blood, and no perceptible distinction could be made between their own prints and that of the unknown menace.
Where did he go?
The air in the room was suffocating, hot. Steve wondered fleetingly why candlelight connoted romance to so many of the women he had dated – he found it oppressively stifling, and after the events of the evening thought that he would never be able to sit through a candlelit dinner again.
Steve crept forwards, nearing the kitchen. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, and the drumming of his heart in his chest.
And then he slipped.
Catching his foot on the side of a bookshelf Steve stumbled forwards and threw out one hand to steady himself, knocking a frame from the unit as he did so. He watched it as it fell to the floor, eyes open wide. It was as though it happened in slow motion but he was powerless to do anything to stop it. It hit with a clatter that broke the crushing silence, and Steve froze, positive that there was no way it couldn't have been heard. Not daring to move Steve focused his hearing, listening out for the slightest of noises…
The noise pulled him from his reverie. It had come from inside the house – somewhere nearby. He turned his head sharply to one side, then the other. Listening. He could detect nothing. And yet he knew he had heard it.
They're playing with me…
He smiled. It was like a game. Cat and mouse. He was the hunter and they were the prey. He liked games. They made life interesting.
The knife was still clenched in one hand. He released his grip slowly and took the handle into the other hand, ready for use. Blood stained the silver blade red; it looked right –, as it should be…
He dropped one hand to the floor and pushed himself up, leaving a clear imprint of his bloody palm on the clean tiles.
He was ready.
Steve could hear nothing. He didn't want to move, but all sense was telling him that if he didn't go now he would be caught before he had a chance to arm himself. The intruder would have heard him and would have the upper hand.
Go now… the voice in his head shouted at him, but his body refused to move.
GO!
Steve ran the last few steps to the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. Silhouetted against the brief beam of light that had managed to break through the blanket of storm clouds for the first time that evening, Steve could see a man. Tall, gaunt. He didn't move, his face shrouded in darkness. But in his hand a knife, the lustrous metal glinting dangerously in the moonlight, an ominous substance drip, drip, dripping to the floor.
They faced each other.
Neither moved.
And then he pounced.