Александр Александрович Чечитов
The Texas Spider
– Hey, dog shit, – a distant exclamation was heard on the street, – what are you up to?!
The taut, ringing strings inside Whitney's heart have become much weaker. She exhaled contentedly when she saw the reflection of a lantern in the window, and heard the voice of Larry Queens, a neighbor across the house.
"One captain, two captains," the unknown man grunted and wandered away to the light.
The minutes dragged by as Whitney waited. Not a single sound, the street was silent. With small steps, squeezing a mug with a skull pattern in her hand, the girl went to the kitchen. The edge of the beam from the flashlight lying on the ground barely made its way into the dark room of the kitchen, but this was enough to see the consequences of an unexpected visit. Here and there were dark gray traces of mud from boots, mixed with wet sand. A thick smell of sweet – salty burning, mixed with notes of mustiness, hit the nose.
Recovering a little, Whitney ran to the closet, slipping on the spread of oil from a broken glass bottle on the way. She didn't know how much time she had spent on the damp floor, and she wasn't sure she hadn't fainted at all. Opening her eyes, Whitney almost groped her way to the weapon. The gun was in, place, and Whitney with a habitual movement, she brought the trigger into the firing position.
– Larry, are, you here, old man? Whitney asked, stretching out her hands with the gun in the direction of the broken window.
One of the cups clattered behind him. Choking on the damp, evening air, Whitney turned around and fired several times in that direction. Now it seemed like the best idea to get out of the house. Looking around in jerks, Whitney reached a large, bare tree, covering twenty-four feet in a few seconds. Her lungs were whistling, and her heart was staggering with every beat.
– The neighbors probably already managed to call the cops, – she thought hopefully, looking towards the windows devoid of light.
