Page 55 of The Compound

It advanced on him, its front paws crisscrossing.

Tom was panting; I could hear his breath sawing through the distance between us.

I could see that it was a four-legged animal, some kind of wild dog, perhaps a coyote.

It paused, not taking its eyes off Tom. He was standing by the table, under which I had hidden chunks of meat.

I thought that it probably wouldn’t attack, only wanted the meat.

But Tom was adjusting his grip on the leg of the chair, and he was leaning forward, his breath leaving him in white puffs.

The creature slunk forward, just an inch or so, and Tom struck out, slashing the air in front of it.

Even with a wall between us, I could hear the whoosh of the chair leg as it cut through the air.

The animal moved closer still, crouching low to the ground as if ready to spring, and let out a sharp growl.

In response to the animal’s growl Tom let out a shout, and lunged toward it once more.

This time his aim was true, and the chair leg hit the coyote with an audible thud.

The animal moved with devastating speed, and I saw its teeth flash, but not much else.

Tom’s piercing cry broke through the night.

I pressed myself against the window, and saw that the coyote had sunk its teeth into Tom’s hand.

He seemed frozen, lost in the pain for a few moments, until he brought the chair leg down on the coyote’s back.

It howled and moved away, but kept its teeth bared, a low snarl spilling from its mouth.

Tom had dropped the seat, his makeshift shield, and was brandishing the chair leg in his uninjured left hand, making a wild noise in his throat.

It was then that the second coyote appeared at the other’s flank.

The newcomer turned its head to look directly at me.

Tom’s head twitched around to follow its gaze; when he saw me, he turned his head fully, keeping his body facing the animals.

The fear on his face wasn’t pleasant to see—but it wasn’t unpleasant either.

“Let me in!” he shouted, his voice a frenzied rasp. “Let me in!”

His hand was mangled and bloody; but then again, mine were, too.

“There’s meat behind you,” I called. “Under the table. They don’t want to attack you. They just want the food. Throw them the meat and get away from there.”

The coyotes had moved no closer, but the second one was growling now, too. Tom’s head snapped back toward them.

I wondered if the crew were nearby. I wasn’t sure at what exact point they stepped in, how they determined the moment that a life was in danger.

Was Tom safer now than he had been when Becca had a belt around his neck?

Safer than Becca was when he had forced her head beneath the water for sixty seconds?

Was it solely the risk of death that they measured, or did they weigh it against the relative entertainment of the scene?

Then Tom let out an almighty cry, a loud, bellowing roar.

He rushed forward, arms thrown out, driving the coyotes back.

He chased them backward again, and again, until they were past the reach of the lights and were hidden from my view.

I could hear them, though: they weren’t growling anymore, but making yipping noises, and Tom was making that same bellow, though it cut off abruptly, and one of the coyotes growled, then howled.

The sounds faded. He might have chased them into the garden, or he may have gone all the way to the desert.

When I couldn’t hear them anymore I stepped away from the window.

I went back to the front door and did my calculations again.

On the floor my bloody numbers had dried.

I had two thousand, five hundred and eighty, but I needed to adjust based on the current time.

It was dark, probably half an hour after Tom’s shower, which I had always imagined to happen around eleven: Tom went to bed late and woke early. Was it twelve, then?

There was no noise at all, the house silent, waiting, and then a sudden, violent crash at my back.

I jerked forward, my heart in my mouth, skidding on my hands and knees.

I turned to the cabinet blocking the door, still sprawled on the floor.

An enormous thud again, and the sound of Tom’s grunt.

He was throwing his entire body at the door.

I knew, with some certainty, that if he managed to knock the cabinet down and get inside now, he would kill me.

He launched himself again, and though the door rattled, it remained shut.

Even in my terror, the thought crossed my mind that he should have gone for the boarded-up window: Sam had made the door, and it was a sturdy thing.

The window was all Tom, and even I could tell it was shoddily done.

He slammed against the door again, and this time the cabinet was pushed forward, just an inch.

I sprang to my feet at once, but he must have known that he’d gained some ground, as he hit the door again, quickly.

I barely had time to scramble out of the way as, with a groan, the cabinet fell over heavily, spilling all of the odd accoutrements and detritus that we had placed in there over the past months, and the heavier objects I had loaded intoit.

I climbed over it and threw myself at the door, reaching it at the same time he did.

We collided painfully on either side. He pushed, and I wedged my foot desperately at the corner, but he had the momentum, and the strength.

The door opened another inch—another—another—until I could see the angle of his jaw, the scruff of his beard.

We both knew that he would force the door open, that I would be bested, just as Becca had been: beaten and humiliated.

I was half crouched, low to the ground with my shoulder against the wood.

Some of the cabinet’s contents had landed within arm’s reach.

I knew its contents well enough. It was where we put random objects and bric-a-brac which we had found no other place for.

We generally put the cleaning materials under the sink, but sometimes, if I was lazy, I would throw them into the top drawer of the cabinet.

I kept my foot at the door, my shoulder pressed hard against the wood, and reached back with the other hand, my fingers stretching, seeking. My foot slipped another inch, and the door opened wider. Tom’s teeth glinted white in the dark.

I had a sudden, clear image of the girls I had worked with in the shop watching me, howling with laughter.

My fingers found a bottle of detergent. I wedged myself between the cabinet and the door, at the limits of my strength, and fumbled with the cap, my fingers struggling to twist it off.

I could see his hand, and then his arm, wedging themselves in the crack of the door.

I removed the cap—his hand grabbed my shoulder.

He wrenched the door open, lunging at me, just as I threw the contents of the bottle in his face.

He reared back at once, his hands flying up to cover his eyes, a terrible cry ripped from his mouth.

I didn’t hesitate: I shut the door, heaved the cabinet back up against it, and stood, waiting, my limbs trembling, the bottle twitching in my hand.

It was made to be used on stubborn kitchen grime.

There was a picture of a shining oven, twinkling with ethereal cleanliness.

The label told me that it was the nation’s favorite kitchen cleaner.

No fuss, no muss, the slogan read in pink, cheery letters.

Outside, Tom was still making terrible noises. I let the bottle drop to the ground.

After a very short while, there was a knock on the door, a single thud.

“Let me in,” Tom said, his voice a quiet rasp now. “I can’t…Lily, let me come in. I need to get inside.”

I waited. I clutched the edge of the cabinet. Then he said, “Two thousand, five hundred and twenty.”

I moved the cabinet and opened the door. He fell in, his eyes red and streaming, his towel gone.

“Two thousand, five hundred and ninety,” I said.

He sat naked and bloody on the ground. “Check the big screen,” he said.

I went in. It was green. While I was there, the voice rang out. It said, “Good evening, residents. The answer is two thousand, six hundred and eleven. Tom, you are banished.”

When I returned, he was still sitting on the floor. “I need help,” he said.

I stayed where I was, at a safe distance. The knife, which I had dropped in the struggle, was beside him now, not quite within arm’s reach, but close enough that he could grab it before I could run.

“No,” I said.

“Please,” he said. “I can’t see.”

I stayed where I was, looking at him. His eyes were a vicious red. He wasn’t looking at me, but to the left ofme.

“I need to wash my eyes out. I can’t see anything. Lily. Please.”

I inched toward the knife, as quietly as I could, my eyes not leaving his face. His gaze stayed fixed in the same spot. I picked up the knife and pointed it at his face, an inch from his eye. Still, he didn’t move.

“I have the knife,” I said. “If you try to hurt me, I’ll kill you.”

Wordlessly, he held out his arms. I realized, after a beat, that he wanted me to lift him.

I took one of his wrists and hauled him to his feet.

He cried out, and I saw that his ankle was a raw and bloody mess.

I led him to the kitchen, his weight heavy on me, brought him to the sink and ran the tap.

I stepped back and let him figure it out himself, unwilling to stay close by him.

He cried out as the water hit his eyes and stayed hunched over the sink dabbing at them for some time.

When he straightened up, he faced out the window, where I could see the moon hanging high in the sky, luminous and brilliant.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I can’t see anything.”