Face to Face

1

He looked in the window.

Two guards were playing cards at the table. One was older, about sixty, the other about thirty. Both looked very capable. The younger one was telling some story while the older one chuckled.

So… I'll have to eliminate them.

2

Familiar fidgeted with the rifle in his hands. What had I done?

His hand reached for the already started bottle of whiskey by itself. Taking a sip, he tried to concentrate again: What to do next?

He was sitting on the sofa on the second floor. To his left lay a box of ammunition and his father's unloaded gun. He had taken it with him in case he had to get involved in close-quarters combat, but fortunately, that had not happened. He managed to escape, but it was still a mystery to him what to do now. Maybe…

Familiar turned the muzzle towards himself, pressed it between his legs, and closed eyes. Pull the trigger? He did not want such an end for himself, but it was all his own fault. He had failed. He had tried to solve his problem independently, without the help of his father, and had failed miserably. I am pathetic. Simply pathetic!

Throwing the rifle on the sofa angrily, he got up and took two steps towards the window. He pushed back the curtains, opened the small ventilation window at the top, and then took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. His father did not like it when the room smelled like smoke. As if it really mattered.

Familiar lit a cigarette and looked out the window. The moon was covered with clouds, and large flakes of snow were falling. In the morning, the roads would have to be cleared again. Yeah… I need to get away as soon as possible. No matter how much he didn't want to leave his business and friends, he had no life left in the city because of his actions today. Attempted murder was no longer just a threat. To top it all off, he had not taken the cartridge cases and forgot the bottle! This was really the end.

Tomorrow, at any cost, I need to leave. But to where? Would it be enough to change cities, or would I have to get out of the country? My bank accounts would surely be seized, and I would have to make do with whatever I had, which was too little to start a new life.

Damn…

Familiar was pensively looking at the surroundings. Suddenly, a disturbing thought came to him: Something in the landscape was wrong. Something unusual. He noticed the lights were off at the checkpoint, and the gates to the summer house settlement were wide open.

What the—

Suddenly the silence was disturbed by the barely noticeable but clearly audible approaching rumble of a motorcycle. Familiar stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and walked into the bedroom, the window from which overlooked the courtyard. He did not see the motorcyclist, but the rumbling had ceased. Meaning he had stopped.

Damn. Damn. Damn!

This is all for a reason. The extinguished light at the checkpoint, the unknown motorcyclist, and me, all alone here.

With a quick step, he returned to the sofa, from which he grabbed his father's hunting rifle. One cartridge in the barrel! He wanted to put it to his head. Damn it! His hands were trembling with excitement as he loaded five more cartridges into the gun. He grabbed the pistol and then threw it back: it was empty, and there was no time to load it.

I am fucked!

Okay, maybe I am panicking for nothing. Perhaps another one landowner decided to visit a summer cottage in the middle of winter. The only thing was to understand why.

Taking his gun held at the ready, Familiar cautiously walked out onto the area at the top of the stairs. The light in the hallway was on, and there were no extraneous sounds. Everything seems in order…

He walked down the stairs and opened the front door, then turned on the porch light and looked around: no one, but…

Fresh tracks led to the shed with the gardening tools, and the door to it was ajar.

It couldn't be. Long ago, because of the snowfall, Familiar had gotten the snow shovel and put it on the porch so that he didn't have to walk through the snowdrifts. There it was, by the way. But whose tracks were those?

Keeping his sight on the shed entrance, Familiar sneaked towards it. Three meters away, he stood up:

"Who's there? Come out!"

And then he thought: I shouldn't have broken silence. Whoever was there now knew exactly where he was. You idiot!

He walked over to the shed and abruptly opened the door. Nobody. He turned on the light. Everything seems to be normal.

Having calmed down a little, Familiar left the shed and, in his peripheral vision, noticed a new detail: to the left side of the house, there was another path of footprints going around the corner. His pulse quickened. Familiar again held the gun at the ready and headed back when suddenly he heard breaking glass.

"Damn!" Familiar whispered.

There was no doubt that there was someone in the house, and these were not robbers. What kind of fool would trample into the single lighted home when there were dozens of uninhabited ones all around them? Understanding gradually came to Familiar: Someone had come for me. There were no more living guards at the checkpoint, which is why the lights were turned off. The motorcyclist…

Okay. I need to calm down. I am armed, and I am in my home. No, I won't be easy prey for anyone.

Familiar returned to the house, and his gaze fell on the open door to the unlit veranda. Had I left it open or not?

Damn it, damn it, fucking damn it!

Familiar took a step forward, still aiming at the entryway. Suddenly he heard a blow—and the lights went out in the house.

It had been a sold hit of metal on concrete, and it looked like someone had cut the generator wire.

Am I sure nothing is missing from the shed?

Familiar breathed heavily. The realization that the enemy could be armed destroyed his barely emerging confidence. He felt like a victim. He closed his eyes. I need to come to my senses.

He opened his eyes, and in the distance, on the veranda, saw a human silhouette with an ax.

He blinked—and the silhouette disappeared. Am I hallucinating again?

Accustomed to the darkness now, he stealthily entered the veranda and saw the open trap door to the basement. I had definitely closed it! After checking around the corners and finding a broken window, Familiar went to the edge of the hatch, which led down into the basement, and used a lighter to see into the darkness. He saw the severed wire lying on the floor.

Familiar sensed movement from behind and turned quickly, pulling the gun around as he did so. There was no one else on the veranda. He sneaked towards the hallway, keeping his sight on the doorway. The house was also empty. Who the hell was it? A ghost or something?!

Entering the hallway, Familiar felt a slight breeze. The door to the kitchen was now open, but when he had just passed it on the way to the veranda, it had been closed…

Plucking up his courage, Familiar rushed into the kitchen and suddenly aimed his gun at a man sitting on the windowsill with his legs hanging outside. Hearing Familiar's stomping feet, he turned and grinned.

"It's not me!"

And then he jumped out of the window.

Taken aback, Familiar just stared blankly at the place where the stranger had just sat. Shaking his head, he ran to the open window and leaned out of it with the rifle. The stranger was gone, and a new chain of footprints led to the left of the house.

It was useless. No matter how Familiar prepared to face the enemy, he could not get himself to shoot. In that brief moment that he had seen the stranger's face, a thought had flashed through his head: This is just a boy! A boy, a teenager! But who is he?

And what does it mean: "It's not me!"?

Familiar listened. Not a sound. But his heart was still beating too fast.

So what should I do? Get in the car and leave? But if there is someone in the house, he will surely hear the car and come after me. Familiar would not have enough time to open both the garage door and the entrance gate, especially now with the electricity off.

Stop. What if no one else is in the house? What if it was just that kid? But why did he come?

Familiar left the kitchen and lifted his head. If anyone had stayed in the house, they were probably on the second floor. There was a gun! Albeit unloaded, but next to it was a box of ammunition…

And if I am not mistaken, the enemy has an ax.

Okay, but why am I running around? Am I a man or a cream puff? I have a rifle, and this is my fucking house! I am the boss here! No bastard can break in here and waltz around with impunity!

Stoking up his courage again, Familiar grabbed the rifle more comfortably and climbed the stairs. The door to the hall was open, as he had left it. There seemed to be no one inside. Familiar checked around the corners and headed for the bedroom.

Okay… Empty. So it was just that kid.

Familiar returned to the living room. He couldn't stay in the house anyway now because without a heater and with a broken window, he would simply freeze. Damn, I hadn't closed the window in the kitchen.

Familiar's gaze fell on the sofa. A shiver ran through his body.

There was a box! The small cardboard box that had come from nowhere lay right in the center of the sofa next to the unloaded pistol and box of ammunition. What? What is this crap? Maybe a bomb? Maybe the smartest thing right now is to get the hell out of here? However, the box doesn't look dangerous. Probably, I am just winding myself up again as usual.

He took the gun in his right hand, and with his left, gently pushed back the top of the box. Inside there was something pinkish. He lifted part of it and rolled it between his fingers. Silicone or something like it?

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the ax coming at him and, out of pure instinct, bent down just in time: the blade flew about five centimeters over his head. He cocked the gun and fired towards the enemy. The bullet went through the window, shattering it. The enemy jumped over the sofa and swung the ax to the right. Familiar jumped out of the way, and the ax flew half a meter from his face. He shot again. His hand trembled, and the bullet hit the TV.

Damn!

Familiar backed into the passage, but the enemy stayed within striking distance. Shoot! Miss! Hit! The ax buried itself in the doorframe and stuck there.

The enemy dived under the protruding ax handle. With his left hand, he deflected the rifle, which thundered another shot that went somewhere to the left. With his right hand, he delivered a powerful uppercut.

Familiar's teeth clicked. He was disoriented, but instinctively took two steps back.

The enemy attacked again. Two blows to the chest, one to the stomach. He pinned Familiar to the railing. Right hook, left hook!

Familiar's eyes were going dim. He tried to aim the gun at his enemy's stomach. Shoot! But a moment before that, the enemy had hit the rifle, sending it downward, and the bullet went into the floor between his legs. Near again, but not on target.

A thought flashed in Familiar's head: There was only one cartridge left.

The enemy grabbed him by the chest, dragged to the stairs, and sent him tumbling down with a kick in the stomach.

Rolling head over heels, Familiar landed in the hallway below. He miraculously did not let go of the gun, so he still had a chance. He tried to concentrate. When he was falling, he had hit his head hard, his eyes were seeing double, but in that moment of mortal danger, his brain was mobilized.

Familiar aimed, but the enemy was no longer there. Where did he go?

Move to the left!

Time seemed to slow down. Familiar moved the barrel towards the enemy. He noticed how the enemy was tossing the ax from his right hand to his left. How he sped up and swung to strike.

One step.

Nearer…

Another step.

Even closer!

Another step!

Shoot!

…

And then Familiar realized he had missed.

The next moment, an ax buried into his chest.

3

Flames in the eyes of a father—that is what's scary. The crackling of the fire, the shouting of the firemen—and the cold realization that his son could be burning up in the house.