2. Error

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Hank swore to himself quietly in the dark. The cellar door had been left carelessly unlocked, and he had taken every precaution in opening it slowly so that the heavily rusted hinges did not creak. He carefully placed every step on the right edge of each ancient, cracked wooden step so as to limit their groaning. All his meticulous care did not account for the errant pail placed at the bottom, which clattered deafeningly in the close, dank basement.

He had instructed Penny to walk around to the front door; he would try to leave that way when the time came. The first lights to go out would be the child’s room, and that window was situated right above the front porch. It was likely that the stairs led directly to this room. Walking up, grabbing the child and running back down the stairs and out the door would be one of the simpler jobs he had done. “If only they were all this easy”, he complained mentally to himself.

Despite his large frame, Hank moved with feline grace. The moonlight provided just enough light to see the outlines of objects littering the floor: old boxes of jars, buckets of sawdust, scattered pieces of machinery. He navigated the debris to the stairs, and after testing the first few for noise, quickly climbed up into the kitchen, tightly gripping his rifle.

Penny shifted her legs beneath her. While she understood having two people in the house would only complicate matters, she still hated squatting in a bush while Hank did the fun part. She nervously felt for the revolver holstered in her pocket. There were no sounds from inside the old house, but that could change any second. She’d no qualms about shooting someone, but that would hardly be the hardest part of her job. This was a big house, and possibly a big family. And there were only two of them.

Hank moved through the house towards the ground floor stairs. “No moonlight here,” he mused. “Bastards got some thick curtains.” Ascending to the top floor of the house, he noted the first sign of difficulty. The child’s room was at the top of the floor as he thought, but the door was closed. The adjacent room had two older children in it, and had no door. The next room down the hallway was also door-less, and he could barely make out at least one bed. At the end of the hallway, another closed door, which he assumed was the parents’ room.

He sidled along the wall across the landing to the closed door, and grasped the knob between his thumb and forefinger, very lightly turning it. The door opened soundlessly into a room. Besides the crib, there was no indication that this was a room for a baby: a dresser was placed by the door, and a nonfunctional clock hung on the wall. In spite of himself, Hank smiled at the thought of a baby needing a dresser. He leaned his rifle against the dresser and leaned over the crib, peering at the sleeping child. “Got ‘im all wrapped up and ready to go for me,” he thought. Slowly, gingerly, he pushed his hands under the baby and lifted it up. He cradled it in his arms, making sure it was fully supported.

As Hank turned to leave, the child’s blanket caught on a lamp. It smashed on the floor; the noise waking the baby. As its piercing cried grew in intensity, Hank heard a door opening, voices, and the metallic click of a weapon. He reached for his rifle, his hands shaking.

“Shit,” he thought.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.”