Page 33 of Not This Place

The porch loomed, and Lazarus mounted the steps. His breaths were short, ragged gasps that cut through the silence. He paused at the door, listening. A beat, two, then he lashed out with his foot. The door splintered inward, hinges screaming their defiance until they gave way. Gun raised, Lazarus entered the breach.

"Who's there?!" The shout erupted from within, muffled by walls and distance.

Lazarus advanced, his weapon leading the way. Every corner of the room declared itself to his senses—rough-hewn furniture, the lingering scent of wood smoke, the faint rustle of movement somewhere beyond his line of sight. Fear hung in the air, palpable as the dust motes that danced in the light spilling from the shattered doorway. He moved deeper into the house. Only two rooms. He'd built the damn thing after all, hadn't he?

Before they’d taken it.

The bedroom door gave way with a muted thud against the carpeted floor. Lazarus's eyes, two flints in the darkness, assessed the scene – a man and his wife, startled awake, tangled in the sheets of their modest bed. The moonlight slanted across their faces, casting half-shadows that accentuated their terror.

"Please—" the man's voice broke, strangled by the fear clenching his throat.

Lazarus didn't flinch. His finger tightened on the trigger. Once. Twice. The gunshots cracked the night apart, twin thunderclaps that reverberated through the small farmhouse and spilled into the open landscape beyond. Silence rushed back to fill the void they left behind.

The bodies lay still, the finality of their end stark in the moon's cold scrutiny. Blood bloomed across the linen, dark roses unfurling in slow motion. Lazarus stood over them, his chest heaving from exertion and pain, but his heart encased in ice.

He knew the man in the bed, had known him once when such things seemed to matter. But now, recognition did not stir empathy within Lazarus's battered frame. He had chosen this ranch with precision, ensuring no innocent would be caught in the crossfire of his retribution.

Three farms he’d driven past. Eighteen miles.

He’d been in pain, bleeding.

But he’d driven eighteen miles to end up at an appropriate location.

He had a code, and he refused to break it.

His own injuries screamed for attention, but he pushed the pain aside, a mere inconvenience on the path to his ultimate goal. There was more work to be done, and Lazarus was far from finished.

Lazarus turned from the bed, a specter of death in the dimly lit room. He stepped over the fallen lamp, its light extinguished, and made his way to the medicine cabinet. The wood creaked under his weight, a soft protest against the night's violence. His hands, slick with blood, trembled as they reached for the cabinet door.

Inside, bottles and boxes lay in disarray—a chaos of remedies and bandages. His fingers closed around a bottle of disinfectant, the label worn from use. Cotton swabs, gauze pads, tape. Each item landed with a soft thud on the counter, their banality a stark contrast to the scene behind him. Lazarus gritted his teeth against the pain that each movement sent stabbing through his ribs.

The gasp came from his left—a sharp intake of breath that ripped through the silence. He spun, gun raised. The woman on the bed, her body wracked with the convulsions of impending death, eyes wide with the realization of her fate. Another mistake.

"Shh," he breathed, almost a whisper. Her chest heaved, a feeble attempt at life. Lazarus didn't hesitate. One bullet. Two. The mattress absorbed the sounds, muffled thuds that barely stirred the air.

Her body stilled. Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the sound of Lazarus's shallow breaths and the distant hoot of an owl. His grip on the gun loosened, but he did not put it away. Witnesses were liabilities, and liabilities could not be afforded.

He returned to the medicine cabinet, movements methodical, deliberate. The concrete reality of antiseptics and sutures grounded him. There was no room for error, no space for sentiment. Lazarus cleaned his wounds with ruthless efficiency, the sting of alcohol a welcome distraction from the throbbing in his side.

No words escaped his lips now—only the steady rhythm of survival, one breath, one action at the time. The clock on the wall ticked away seconds, indifferent to the lives ended. In the world outside, the wind whispered through the Texas scrub, carrying with it the scent of dust.

Lazarus's fingers worked with practiced ease, wrapping the bandage tight around his ribs. The fabric pressed against the raw wounds, a barrier between his flesh and the rest of the world. Each movement was precise, no wasted motion as he secured the ends. It had to hold. There was no room for slippage—not now.

He leaned back against the cold wall, eyes closing briefly. Inhale. Exhale. Pain lingered beneath his skin, a constant reminder of his mortality. His hand rested on his side, feeling the rise and fall of his breath through the makeshift dressing. The quiet enveloped him, thick as the darkness outside.

Then, the moment passed.

Eyes open. Focus sharp. Lazarus reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone with a slick of blood from his fingertips. He punched in a number, familiar by heart, and brought the device to his ear. The ringtone droned on, once, twice.

"Cleaner," he said. The word echoed in the empty room—a command, an expectation.

"Address?" The voice on the other end was dispassionate, professional.

"Farmhouse off Route 7. Make it disappear." No names. No explanations. They were unnecessary.

"Understood. Anything else?"

"More guns. I'm not finished yet."

---