Story code: ST-000529
Part 1: Blood on the Pavers
Mateo’s fingernails scraped against the scorching, sun-baked surface of the paver driveway as he hauled his body forward another six inches. His right leg trailed behind him, a useless, heavy anchor of dead weight that caught on the perfectly aligned seams of the pristine stone. A fresh wave of blinding agony radiated from his hip down to his knee, threatening to plunge him into unconsciousness, but he forced his eyes open and locked onto the massive oak front door at the top of the incline.
He gritted his teeth and dug his elbows into the heated surface. The friction tore at his forearms, shredding his sleeves and scraping his skin raw, but he pulled again. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that sounded too loud in the dead quiet of the suburban afternoon. A thick, dark smear of crimson painted a jagged line behind him, staining the immaculate gray pavers. Every time his pulse throbbed, a fresh wave of wet warmth soaked through his shredded jeans.
He had to make it to that door. That single thought eclipsed the blinding sunlight and the searing pain. He planted his left boot against the stone, pushing off with the only good muscle he had left, and slid another foot forward.
The driveway felt like an endless expanse. On either side, manicured grass bordered the stone, impossibly green and perfectly edged. A sprinkler head clicked softly in the distance, sending a rhythmic spray of water over a bed of vibrant hydrangeas. The mundane perfection of the yard stood in stark defiance to the ruined, bleeding mess of a man dragging himself across it.
Mateo paused, letting his forehead rest against the hot stone. His vision narrowed to a tight, fuzzy tunnel. The metallic taste of copper flooded his mouth, settling heavy on his tongue. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the pavers and forced his head back up. The oak door remained shut, solid and unyielding at the top of a short flight of brick stairs.
He dragged himself another few feet, reaching the base of the stairs. The first brick riser was only a few inches high, but it looked like a mountain. Mateo reached out with a trembling, blood-slicked hand and gripped the edge of the bottom step. He hauled his upper body up, groaning through clenched teeth as the dead weight of his right leg caught on the lip of the driveway.
The pain flared, brilliant and white-hot, snapping his head back. He squeezed his eyes shut, riding out the shockwave, waiting for the nausea to pass. His entire body trembled, slick with cold sweat despite the oppressive heat radiating from the pavement. When he opened his eyes again, the heavy iron handle of the oak door loomed just ten feet away.
He dragged his left knee onto the first step, then his right hip, hauling the useless limb up behind him. He rolled onto his side, breathing hard, staring up at the vaulted porch ceiling. A decorative wrought-iron light fixture hung overhead, casting a short, sharp shadow in the midday sun. The silence of the neighborhood pressed down on him, broken only by the harsh rasp of his own breathing and the distant hum of an air conditioning unit.
He needed to get upright. He could not face the door lying on his back.
Mateo grabbed the thick white pillar framing the entryway. His muscles shook as he pulled, sliding his back up the smooth wood. His wounded leg hung uselessly, the toe of his boot scraping against the brick porch. He leaned all his weight against the pillar, leaving a wide smear of red on the pristine white paint. Every shallow breath he took sent a sharp ache through his ribs, but he forced himself to stand as tall as his broken body would allow.
The massive oak door was right in front of him now. Intricate carvings decorated the thick panels, framing a heavy iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Mateo lifted his hand, his fingers slick and trembling, reaching for the heavy metal ring. He needed to strike it loud enough to break the quiet.
Before his knuckles could graze the iron, the internal deadbolt clacked with a heavy, metallic thud.
Mateo froze, his hand suspended in midair. The heavy oak door swung inward, gliding silently on its hinges to reveal the dim, air-conditioned interior of the house.
A man stepped out of the shadows, planting his boots squarely on the threshold. He wore a crisp button-down shirt, completely out of place against the grim reality bleeding onto his porch. Before Mateo could process the man’s expression, the homeowner leveled a pump-action shotgun directly at Mateo’s chest.
The man racked the slide. The brutal, mechanical sound echoed across the quiet neighborhood, shattering the suburban stillness.
Mateo stared down the dark, hollow bore of the twelve-gauge barrel. The homeowner pressed the stock of the weapon firmly into his shoulder, his finger sliding inside the trigger guard.
Mateo’s fingernails scraped against the scorching, sun-baked surface of the paver driveway as he hauled his body forward another six inches. His right leg trailed behind him, a useless, heavy anchor of dead weight that caught on the perfectly aligned seams of the pristine stone. A fresh wave of blinding agony radiated from his hip down to his knee, threatening to plunge him into unconsciousness, but he forced his eyes open and locked onto the massive oak front door at the top of the incline.
He gritted his teeth and dug his elbows into the heated surface. The friction tore at his forearms, shredding his sleeves and scraping his skin raw, but he pulled again. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that sounded too loud in the dead quiet of the suburban afternoon. A thick, dark smear of crimson painted a jagged line behind him, staining the immaculate gray pavers. Every time his pulse throbbed, a fresh wave of wet warmth soaked through his shredded jeans.
He had to make it to that door. That single thought eclipsed the blinding sunlight and the searing pain. He planted his left boot against the stone, pushing off with the only good muscle he had left, and slid another foot forward.
The driveway felt like an endless expanse. On either side, manicured grass bordered the stone, impossibly green and perfectly edged. A sprinkler head clicked softly in the distance, sending a rhythmic spray of water over a bed of vibrant hydrangeas. The mundane perfection of the yard stood in stark defiance to the ruined, bleeding mess of a man dragging himself across it.
Mateo paused, letting his forehead rest against the hot stone. His vision narrowed to a tight, fuzzy tunnel. The metallic taste of copper flooded his mouth, settling heavy on his tongue. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the pavers and forced his head back up. The oak door remained shut, solid and unyielding at the top of a short flight of brick stairs.
He dragged himself another few feet, reaching the base of the stairs. The first brick riser was only a few inches high, but it looked like a mountain. Mateo reached out with a trembling, blood-slicked hand and gripped the edge of the bottom step. He hauled his upper body up, groaning through clenched teeth as the dead weight of his right leg caught on the lip of the driveway.
The pain flared, brilliant and white-hot, snapping his head back. He squeezed his eyes shut, riding out the shockwave, waiting for the nausea to pass. His entire body trembled, slick with cold sweat despite the oppressive heat radiating from the pavement. When he opened his eyes again, the heavy iron handle of the oak door loomed just ten feet away.
He dragged his left knee onto the first step, then his right hip, hauling the useless limb up behind him. He rolled onto his side, breathing hard, staring up at the vaulted porch ceiling. A decorative wrought-iron light fixture hung overhead, casting a short, sharp shadow in the midday sun. The silence of the neighborhood pressed down on him, broken only by the harsh rasp of his own breathing and the distant hum of an air conditioning unit.
He needed to get upright. He could not face the door lying on his back.
Mateo grabbed the thick white pillar framing the entryway. His muscles shook as he pulled, sliding his back up the smooth wood. His wounded leg hung uselessly, the toe of his boot scraping against the brick porch. He leaned all his weight against the pillar, leaving a wide smear of red on the pristine white paint. Every shallow breath he took sent a sharp ache through his ribs, but he forced himself to stand as tall as his broken body would allow.
The massive oak door was right in front of him now. Intricate carvings decorated the thick panels, framing a heavy iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. Mateo lifted his hand, his fingers slick and trembling, reaching for the heavy metal ring. He needed to strike it loud enough to break the quiet.
Before his knuckles could graze the iron, the internal deadbolt clacked with a heavy, metallic thud.
Mateo froze, his hand suspended in midair. The heavy oak door swung inward, gliding silently on its hinges to reveal the dim, air-conditioned interior of the house.
A man stepped out of the shadows, planting his boots squarely on the threshold. He wore a crisp button-down shirt, completely out of place against the grim reality bleeding onto his porch. Before Mateo could process the man’s expression, the homeowner leveled a pump-action shotgun directly at Mateo’s chest.
The man racked the slide. The brutal, mechanical sound echoed across the quiet neighborhood, shattering the suburban stillness.
Mateo stared down the dark, hollow bore of the twelve-gauge barrel. The homeowner pressed the stock of the weapon firmly into his shoulder, his finger sliding inside the trigger guard.