This is from Derrick's Perspective
I looked around in the garage and eventually found the red wagons the kids used for their play. I gave them a once-over, checking their sturdiness. To my surprise, they seemed robust enough to handle a fair amount of weight. That discovery gave our little group more wheels to pull things. Easier than carrying.
Several plastic bins of seasonal decor were stacked at the far end of the garage. I chose two that seemed the right size to fit into the trailers. Their contents were unnecessary, and I emptied them into the trunk of one of the cars. I would be the one to clean up the cars anyway.
I placed the bins in the toy trailer, and they fit perfectly. The wagon's sides were now significantly taller, allowing me to stack more items without worrying about them falling out.
Stepping back, I surveyed my work with a sense of satisfaction. I stood a few feet away from the two trailers, estimating how much I could load up these two trailers. I was deep in thought when I heard voices from the house. The voices were unfamiliar, and a chill ran down my spine.
I soundlessly made my way to the door of the house, the unfamiliar voices growing louder. They were in the foyer, their conversation filled with crude jokes about robbing the rich fuckers. I could distinguish at least two distinct voices, maybe more.
I strained my ears, trying to pick up any sounds that would indicate the presence of Mr. Allen or Mrs. Allen. Thankfully, I couldn't hear either of them. I hoped they were smart enough to stay out of sight. And behind something somewhat bulletproof.
I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, growing slower with every beat, until I heard footsteps moving towards the living room. That was my cue. I silently turned the doorknob, took a deep breath, and burst through the door.
Time seemed to slow down as I took in the scene before me. I first noticed a man standing a few feet away from me, a gun pointed in my general direction. To his misfortune, he was close enough for me to reach out and touch. My instincts kicked in, a smile slowly spreading across my face, fire in my eyes, looking down at the intruders.
In a flash, I was moving. My hand shot out, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the gun. I twisted, wrenching the weapon out of his grasp with a swift, practiced motion. Using his momentary surprise to my advantage, I used his own momentum against him, flipping him over my hip in a classic arm throw. I held onto his arm as he went over, ensuring that the shoulder would break, and slammed my heel against his head, effectively taking him out of the fight.
As the first thug hit the ground, I was already moving on to the next threat. My eyes scanned the room, picking out three more men in masks. They were slowly raising their guns, aiming them at me. I didn't hesitate. I brought up the gun I'd taken from the first thug, aiming from the hip and pulling the trigger.
The first shot hit one of the thugs in the liver area, and the second in the chest center mass. The third shot never came. The gun jammed. Without missing a beat, I threw the useless weapon at the third thug, aiming for his face. The gun hit its mark, causing him to squeeze the trigger in surprise. There was a flash and a bang.
Time snapped back to normal as I pulled out my knife and rushed the third thug. Before he could recover from the shock of having a gun thrown at his face, I was on him. My blade plunged into his chest, crunching through the sternum with ease.
Pulling the knife out of the last thug's chest, I wiped it clean on his shirt. The room was suddenly filled with an ear-piercing scream. I spun around, instinctively reaching for my gun. But before I could draw it, I realized the scream had come from Mrs. Allen. Standing behind Mr. Allen in the hallway, her face pale with shock. Mr. Allen wasn't much better, his mouth open and eyes wide.
For a moment, I was worried they were injured. But then I realized they were staring in horror at the four bodies sprawled out in their foyer. I looked down at the men, their masks now stained with blood. "This is what I was talking about," I said to Mr. Allen, my voice steady as the adrenaline coursing through my veins slowly started to taper off.
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain erupted from my side. I spun around, expecting to see another attacker, but no one was there. The pain intensified, and I reached down to touch my side. My hand came away warm, wet, and sticky. Looking down, I saw my palm was covered in blood. The last thug's shot had grazed me, after all.
I looked over to the Allen's, but as soon as I made eye contact with Mrs. Bitch she spun around and sprinted to the master bedroom. I rolled my eyes and turned back to Mr. Allen, who was still frozen in shock, his eyes wide as they darted between the bodies on the floor.
"Mr. Allen," I called out, my voice steady despite the pain radiating from my side. "I could use some assistance here."
His eyes snapped to me, then to my bloody hand and what I presumed was the growing stain on my shirt. He swallowed hard, his face pale. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice shaky. "The phones aren't working. I can't call an ambulance. And I'm not a doctor..." He trailed off, then added in a whisper, "And I'm not good with gore."
I chuckled at that, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my side. I grimaced, pressing my hand harder against the wound. "Don't worry," I reassured him, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll walk you through this."
He nodded, his eyes wide and filled with a fear I had seen before. My mind drifted to when I first met Mr. Allen. "What do I do?" he asked, his voice trembling and barely above a whisper, snapping me back to the moment.
I tried looking down at my side to assess the damage, but the angle was wrong. I couldn't see much past the spreading red stain on my shirt. I tried to bend more, but the pain stopped me. "I need to see what's going on first," I said, grimacing as I tried to twist around for a better look.
Mr. Allen seemed to snap out of his daze at that. I could see the gears turning briefly, and he quickly pointed to the hallway. "The bathroom mirror," he suggested, his voice steadier now.
I nodded. "Good thinking. While I'm checking this out, find a roll of paper towels and whatever alcohol you have. We'll need to clean this up."
Without another word, he turned and sprinted away, leaving me to hobble towards the bathroom at my own pace. The pain was sharp with every step. I pinched the shirt and held it away from the wound. I had been through worse. I could handle this.
Once I reached the bathroom, I carefully shimmied out of my shirt, trying to avoid aggravating the wound. I turned towards the mirror, wincing as I twisted my torso to get a better look at the injury. The wound wasn't as bad as it could have been - the bullet had only grazed me. Thankfully, it did not hit any bone. But it was still bleeding, a steady stream of red trickling down my side.
Without warning, Mr. Allen skidded into the bathroom, his arms full of various bottles of booze. "I didn't know what you needed, so I grabbed a bit of everything," he explained, his voice shaky.
I stared at him momentarily, trying to decide whether he was naive or genuinely stupid. "I meant medical alcohol, or rubbing alcohol, or even hand sanitizer," I clarified, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "There's a bottle of hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet. And you forgot the paper towels."
Mr. Allen looked like he was about to sprint off again, but I stopped him. "Wait," I said, pointing at one of the bottles in his arms. "Give me the whiskey." I figured I could use a drink right about now.
I popped the bottle with a satisfying sound. After a deep sniff, I took a hearty swig of the whiskey, the liquid burning a trail down my throat. It was smooth far more expensive than anything I usually drank. The rich, smoky flavor filled my senses, providing a brief distraction from the pain in my side.
As I set the whiskey bottle down on the counter, Mr. Allen reappeared in the doorway. His arms were full with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a roll of paper towels. "Sorry about that," he mumbled, looking somewhat embarrassed.
I gave him a reassuring smile. "It's all good," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "Now, you're going to look at the wound and see if there's anything inside."
He paled at my words but nodded in understanding. I turned so that the light from the bathroom window illuminated my side, giving him a better view of the wound. He stepped closer, leaning in to examine the injury. "I'm not sure what I'm looking for," he admitted after a moment. "But it looks like a singed wound. Like something burnt you."
I nodded, relieved. "That's good," I said, bracing myself for the next step. "Now, wet a paper towel with the alcohol and disinfect the wound."
He did as I instructed, and I gripped the edge of the bathroom door, preparing myself for the sting of the alcohol. But I wasn't ready for the sudden, intense burning sensation that shot through my body as he pressed the alcohol-soaked paper towel against the wound. I couldn't help but gasp in pain, my hands tightening on the door until my knuckles turned white and the wood creaked.
The pain subsided as quickly as it had come, replaced by a cold, wet sensation, accompanied by the sound of the paper towel smacking the floor. I looked down to see the paper towel on the floor, soaked in alcohol and a bit of blood. "Sorry," Mr. Allen stammered, his voice shaking. "You scared me."
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. "It's fine," I assured him, though my voice was a bit strained. "Just... do it on a count next time."
Mr. Allen moved to pick up the discarded, bloody paper towel from the floor, but I quickly stopped him. "No, get a fresh one!" I instructed my voice sharper than I intended.
He nodded, looking flustered, and quickly tore off a few more paper towels from the roll. He doused them in alcohol, then turned back to me. "One... two... three," he counted out loud, then pressed the soaked paper towel against my wound.
The pain was immediate and intense, a searing, burning sensation that made me grit my teeth and clench my fists. After what felt like an eternity, the pain began to subside, replaced by a numbness that was almost as unsettling.
Once I could breathe again, I reached out and took the paper towel from Mr. Allen. "Now get some tape, please," I said, my voice hoarse.
He nodded and sprinted off again, leaving me alone in the bathroom. I took the opportunity to examine the wound in the mirror. The bleeding slowed to a slow ooze, and the wound looked clean.
When Mr. Allen returned, he held a wide, clear box tape roll. I sighed but nodded in approval. "Good enough," I said, reaching out to take the tape from him.