Page 127 of His to Burn
It was that last that got me.
I glanced at Jack and saw his thoughts were the same as mine. Together, we moved quickly through the house, walking toward the source of the smell, our weapons at the ready. The house was indeed beautiful, with trendy black hardwood floors, high end appliances. A house to which a lot of love and care were clearly devoted.
The back bedroom, the place where the smell was strongest, had an open door. Jack lifted a finger, then slowly walked in.
“You can come,” he called after a moment.
I stepped in beside him, then shook my head as I covered my nose.
A man and a woman lay on the bed.
What was left of the woman’s face looked serene.
Not so for the man.
His face—what was left of it—held the anguish of his last moments.
His hand, now stiff with rigor mortis, still gripped the gun that I assumed he used on her and then himself.
“A tragedy,” I said softly, but didn’t allow myself to think about that. Instead, I looked at Jack, frowning. “There might still be bullets there.”
I paused for a moment, then shook my head. “That’s fucked up, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s fucked up,” Jack grated out, “but you’re not. It’s smart. We need that. They don’t.”
He looked at the man again, something like regret on his face. But he wiped it away quickly. Jack hated revealing how deeply he felt things. I felt humbled he allowed me to see it, however briefly.
“What are you thinking?”
“Does it matter?” he said.
I frowned, inhaling to calm myself—something I instantly regretted when the smell of decay hit me again. “I wouldn’t have asked if it didn’t.”
He tried to push me away.
I wouldn’t let him.
“I guess I understand getting to the point where you think there’s no reason to live, but this—it’s not the answer. Not ever,” he said.
I couldn’t disagree with him, but I wouldn’tjudge the man. Who knew what pushed him to this point?
Instead of addressing it, I walked over to the man and grabbed a towel that had been haphazardly tossed in a corner.
“I got it,” Jack said, his voice clipped. He took the towel from my hand, prying the gun out of the man’s stiff fingers, sparing me from doing it.
Instead of watching, I quickly searched the bedroom. “Another box of rounds here,” I said, trying to pretend I didn’t feel guilty for being excited about it.
“Good.”
He took the gun, checked it, cleaned it, and we closed the bedroom door behind us.
We made it back to the living area and found Bridget and Lourdes searching through laundry for different clothes, while Elliot and Miles gathered canned goods, candles, and flashlights.
“Not a bad haul,” Jack said.
“No vehicles, though. They have a pickup and a little electric sedan,” Miles responded.
“Still, it’s something—” Jack started.
