Steve

“They’re killing me!” Those three words exploded through the phone like a gunshot in my chest. I had barely said “Hello” when my wife’s voice, raw, ragged, terrified, ripped the world in half. In the background I heard pure chaos: men shouting, dogs snarling , stuff crashing, and then a sickening thud as the phone was ripped from her hand and the line went dead. My mind blanked. I don’t remember starting the car. I only remember the engine screaming as I tore out of the parking lot, fifteen kilometres of tarmac between me and the only thing that mattered. Nine-and-a-half miles. It felt like nine-and-a-half lifetimes. The road blurred into streaks of colour and light. I have no idea how I didn’t kill myself or anyone else. All I knew was that my wife was at our house with monsters, and every second I was late was another second they could finish what they’d started. While I drove like a man possessed, I abused the speed-dial of my phone. Yes, I broke the law by using a cellphone while driving like a madman. I was doing fleet management for half a dozen private security companies at the time. I screamed at every CEO I had on my contact list, how they even understood the banshee wail coming out of my mouth, I’ll never know. But they did. Within minutes the cavalry was rolling. I skidded into our street and slammed on the brakes. It looked like a war zone lit up for Christmas. Thirty vehicles crammed the road, armoured response cars, ambulances, private security SUVs, police vans, their blue and red lights pulsating across the walls of every house. Massive security dogs strained on leashes. Men in full battle-rattle all over, watching, waiting. Dunno where and how I parked. I just ran. My feet pounded down the driveway and the horror hit me in layers: brass bullet casings glittering on the concrete like deadly confetti… dark splashes of blood still wet on the paving… the metallic smell hanging thick in the air. Armoured operators with automatic rifles swept every corner, voices clipped and professional. I slid through the front door and there she was. My wife, my beautiful, unbreakable wife, was slumped in a dining-room chair like a broken doll. Her clothes hung in torn ribbons. Blanket over her shoulders. Deep scratches raked her arms and neck. Her hair was a wild tangle. She was sobbing so hard her whole body shook. Police officers knelt beside her, gentle but insistent, trying to pull the story out of her shock. The moment she saw me, the world stopped. We crashed into each other’s arms so hard it hurt. I held her like the earth might rip her away again if I loosened my grip even a millimetre. She buried her face in my chest and we just clung, two survivors in the eye of the storm, while the house buzzed with armed men and flashing lights. Only later, when the shaking finally eased, did we learn the full story. Five savages had ambushed her the second her car rolled into the driveway. They ripped at her clothes, trying to drag her inside. But our Dobermans, our silent, black shadows, had other plans. The dogs hit them like missiles. The attackers panicked and opened fire at point-blank range, straight at my wife. Not a single bullet left the barrels. Later we collected the spent rounds ourselves. Every single casing had a perfect firing-pin strike… but every primer was dead. Misfire after misfire after misfire. God was in control that day. He had been in control the whole time. And in the middle of the blood and the brass and the sirens, the only thing that still made sense was the woman in my arms, alive, breathing, mine. We were never the same again. But we were still together. And that, more than anything, was the miracle. The blood belonged to the attackers, thanks to our beloved Dobies.