Relentless

positioned himself at the foot of the bed, where his flashlight, when he switched it on, could cover both me and Penny.
    Now near the south wall, I hoped to circle to the west, where I most likely would be behind him when at last he revealed himself.
    Wondering at Waxx’s failure to take quick and deadly action after penetrating the house so effectively, I halted at the second armchair, suddenly fearful of proceeding. I began to suspect that I had missed something, that the implicit meaning of the moment was different from what I imagined it to be.
    This happens often when writing fiction. Outlines are a waste of time. If you give your characters free will, they will grow in ways you never anticipated, and they will take the story places you could not have predicted, raising themes you might or might not have intended to explore. Characters shape events; events illuminate the characters. The people in a story begin as seeds, become buds, and blossom in ways that surprise the author, precisely as real people frequently surprise him with their intentions and capacities.
    As I crouched by the second armchair, Shearman Waxx electrocuted me.

   Out of the darkness, something thrust against the nape of my neck—two metal pegs, positive and negative poles. Before I could flinch away, hot needles stitched the length of my spine and then sewed through every branch of my peripheral nervous system to toes, to fingertips, to scalp.
    My eyes rolled back in my skull, dazzled by an inner vision of gold and crimson fireworks, and I dropped out of my crouch. Facedown on the carpet, I twitched as a puppeteer jerked on the threads that the needles had sewn through me.
    The words that came from me were none that I intended, slurred and meaningless.
    Although coherent speech eluded me, I clearly heard Penny, who had been awakened by my cry.
    “Cubby?” The click-click of her lamp switch. “What’s happening?”
    I resisted the twitching, but spasmed all the more for my resistance.
    Yet I marshalled the clarity of mind and tongue to tell her what seemed most important: “He can see in the dark.”
    The bronze hardware on her nightstand rattled as Penny jerked open drawers in search of the flashlight that Waxx had confiscated.
    She let out a thin shriek, like the plaint a bird in flight might issue if pierced by an arrow. The hard knock of her fall suggested that she might have struck her head on furniture.
    The physical effects of the shock faded quickly. The twitching diminished to a nervous trembling, which was not a consequence of extreme voltage but an expression of my terror at Penny’s suffering.
    From full collapse, I rose onto all fours, then to my knees, my mind a jigsaw-puzzle box full of fragmented thoughts from which I could not fit together a defensive tactic.
    The word
Taser
sizzled into my mind. And Waxx Tasered me again.
    I fell from my knees onto my right side. My skull rapped the floor. I bit my tongue, tasted blood.
    For a moment, I thought Waxx was tearing at my pajama shirt, but the clawing hands were mine. I tried to close them into fists.
    Stuttering Penny’s name, infuriated by my inability to protect her, I tried to jackknife off my side, onto my knees. The post-shock spasms facilitated this change of position. Probing the darkness, I found an armchair, used it for support, got to my feet.
    I cursed myself that I was not prepared for this—not for Waxx in particular, but for someone lethal in the night. I knew well the capacity for cruelty in the human heart.
    A groan of convulsive misery came from Penny as she was Tasered a second time.
    A homicidal rage, of which I would never have imagined myself capable, focused me. Murderous
fury
more than terror cracked the dam of adrenaline, flooding me with sudden strength, animal determination.
    I moved unsteadily toward where I thought Penny might be.
    As invisible as the wind—and like the wind revealed only by his effects—Waxx came in from my left side, stinging me in the neck. The shocks were no longer hot but as cold as driven sleet.
    Although I struck him, it seemed to be a glancing blow. My legs buckled, and I knew I would not get another chance to hit him.
    As I struggled to stay on my hands and knees, he bent down and Tasered me a fourth time, again on the nape of the neck.
    I lay prone and shaking, a coiled snake of nausea flexing in my gut. My mouth flooded with saliva, and I thought I would vomit.
    He Tasered me again before the previous shock