Chapter 9 - The Final Stand
Lauren swung the heavy metal toolbox with every ounce of strength she possessed in her body.
The solid steel box collided violently with the back of the third intruder's skull.
He dropped his hunting knife instantly and collapsed onto the floor like a sack of dead weight.
Patricia scrambled away from the unconscious man, gasping for air and clutching her bruised throat.
The man with the crowbar turned around, completely enraged that his partner had just been knocked out by a housewife.
He abandoned me and charged directly toward my wife, raising the heavy steel weapon above his head.
Lauren, run, I screamed, desperately scrambling to my feet on the slippery, blood-soaked floor.
Before the man could bring the crowbar down on Lauren, a loud, thunderous crack echoed from the top of the staircase.
A massive blast of fire illuminated the dark hallway, followed by a deafening roar.
The man with the crowbar was violently thrown backward, his chest completely shredded by a high-powered rifle round.
He crashed onto the dining room table, splintering the heavy oak wood before sliding lifelessly onto the floor.
I looked up toward the top of the stairs, completely stunned by the sudden, brutal rescue.
Tyler, my eleven-year-old nephew, was standing at the top of the landing holding my father's antique hunting rifle.
The heavy weapon was practically as big as he was, and white smoke was still pouring from the long barrel.
Don't you ever touch my aunt, Tyler yelled, his small voice shaking with adrenaline and fear.
The first intruder, who had been shot in the shoulder earlier, was desperately trying to crawl back out the broken window.
I ran across the room, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and dragged him roughly back inside the house.
I pinned him to the floor, placing my knee heavily on his wounded shoulder until he cried out in agonizing pain.
It's over, I told the bleeding man, ensuring he was no longer a threat to my family.
Patricia was frantically crawling toward the shattered bay window, trying to escape into the dark front yard.
She didn't care that her son was bleeding to death on the floor, or that her grandson had just saved our lives.
She only cared about escaping the terrifying consequences of her own evil actions.
As my mother tried to climb over the ruined window frame, her foot caught hard on a jagged piece of broken glass.
She tripped forward, completely losing her balance in the dark.
Her head struck the heavy stone windowsill with a sickening, hollow crack.
Patricia went entirely limp, slumping over the edge of the window frame like a discarded ragdoll.
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The immediate threats in the house were completely neutralized.
In the distance, the loud, wailing sound of approaching police sirens finally pierced the cold Thanksgiving night air.
