Kimberly was panting, panicking, trying to manage the fake gun and the door handle (and thank fuck it was one of those handles where you pushed down to open the door. A knob would've killed her) with just her good hand. Ivan was coming. He was behind her, closing in for the kill, and she was trapped, forced to hope the door was unlocked if she wanted even a chance. How had her life spiraled so far out of hand? What had gone wrong?
Those questions could wait. Luck was with her. She got her grip right and shoved, stumbling inside and immediately ducking to the right. She swung the door back, thinking to close it and put some space between herself and Ivan, but a spray of shot tore through it, sending splinters of wood in all directions. Kimberly shrieked and hated herself for it. She shouldn't be scared, shouldn't be reduced to this. She was no victim, no defenseless invalid. She was here by her own choice, and she would fucking deal with the consequences of her actions. She had not yet run into trouble she couldn't work her way out of. She just needed a little more space and time.
She kept moving. The foyer branched left and right. She'd gone right at the start, and changing directions now would mean crossing in front of the open door again, giving Ivan a clear shot at her. No. No way. Fuck Ivan. If he wanted to make trouble for her, if he wanted so badly to kill her, that was his problem. Her concern was making it as hard for him as possible. That was something she could still do, even as she tried to get a start on the longer-term goal of staying alive. Kimberly didn't want to kill the boy who was chasing her, but that did not mean she wasn't prepared to do all she could to make his life hellish in retaliation for his acts. He was making her mad again. She didn't really blame him for his actions, but this whole thing was pissing her off again. Some of the fire that had lurked around the concept of Kris was being rekindled and repurposed.
There were a few little problems, though. The direction she'd taken led into a hallway. It was fairly straight, with doors on the left and right, all closed, maybe leading to rooms. Any of those rooms could be a dead end. The house was fairly spacious, wood-paneled and carpeted and nice. It cold have been homey at some point. Now, Kimberly wondered if she had backed herself into a trap. At the end of the hallway was the foot of a staircase, leading up to the second floor. It, too, most likely led to a dead end, but at least it was one a few dozen feet beyond those promised by the doors. At this point, even extra seconds of life were worth fighting for.
She ran. Ivan was still following, she was sure, but she reached the staircase quickly and it ran perpendicular to the hall, so a wall shielded her from further gunfire. That would last seconds. The staircase did not swerve again. It was a straight shot to the second level. If she didn't hurry, she'd be pinned in, unable to maneuver at all. That meant death. Even with all the concerns on her mind, Kimberly dimly noticed that the staircase was very narrow, probably poorly designed and unsafe even in better times. She didn't slow down. Better to die after tripping than to die due to being too cautious.
It was when she was halfway up the stairs that Kimberly realized Ivan would be forced to follow the same path in pursuing her. He'd be stuck, too. She didn't have a gun. She didn't need one. Never had yet, probably never would. The fake fell from her hand as she reached into her too-small hip pocket, searching for the little plastic lighter from the first aid kit. She found it, pulled it free three steps from the top. Kimberly had never liked lighters. No fucking class. Now, she'd take what she could. It had been a stupid choice to throw her matches away, but she could cope.
The Molotov cocktail was still there, still nestled in her sweater's handwarmer. It had maybe leaked a little bit, had maybe been jolted and jostled quite a lot during the game, but she was pretty sure it'd still burn nicely enough. Having only one hand made setting things up a real bitch, especially with a boy with a shotgun behind her. It was gonna be close. She hoped she wouldn't have to set herself on fire to get it done, but, hey, sometimes sacrifices had to be made. She had a way to back Ivan off. That was enough for her in the moment.
One flick of the lighter's wheel: nothing.
A second flick: sparks, a flame. She was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. It was darker in here, much darker without the stars, except that now there was a flame in her hand. Was that the barrel of Ivan's gun she saw at the corner at the foot of the stairs? Was that his hand? She touched the lighter's flame to the fuse of the Molotov, then dropped the lighter and clawed the incendiary free. The rag in the top was burning really fucking fast. No time to play around. No time to decide. Ivan was rounding the corner. She didn't want to kill him. She wanted him to leave her the fuck alone. She wanted him to back off. He hadn't been too reckless so far, hadn't been abnormally ferocious. She was willing to bet he wasn't all crazy.
Certainly, she doubted he was crazy enough to run through a fire just to get another chance at killing her. She doubted he was crazy enough to gamble that he could outpace a bomb.
Kimberly dropped the Molotov, gave it a little kick to get it rolling, watched it bounce down the steps, spilling gasoline which ignited instantly, tracing a line of flame along the carpet which was now catching too. She ducked back, around yet another corner, not waiting to see the further results of her actions. At this point, she just didn't care.