Fuzzy Navel

10:33 P.M.
HERB

THE KEY TO THE RUSE was night vision.

Herb knew that night-vision scopes produced an all-green image. That meant blood would be green too. Surviving depended on two things: the sniper missing, and Herb’s acting ability.

Since he had no place to run or hide, he simply got up and jogged toward the house, hoping when the shot came, it would miss. Then it was simply a question of falling over, breaking open the bag of chocolate high-fiber shake in his pocket, bugging out his eyes, and holding his breath until they left him alone.

And it works. It works perfectly.

Until the outside lights come on.

When that happens, Herb knows they’ll switch from night vision back to their regular scopes. They’ll be able to tell the difference between brown and red, and they’ll shoot him where he lies.

Herb doesn’t wait around for that to happen. He gets up on all fours and beelines for Jack’s car, hoping to get inside and use the radio to call for backup.

The doors are locked. Herb bends down, peers under the car. He could fit his head under there, but nothing else. That might work for an ostrich, but not for him. Herb needs a different hiding place.

He scans the house, eyeing the shrubs. Too small. There are a few trees on Jack’s lawn, but they’re too thin; it would be like an orange hiding behind a pencil.

A shot. Herb bunches up his shoulders, lowers his head, trying to make himself small. But they aren’t shooting at him. A light above the front porch blows out. Followed by another.

Good. If they shoot out all the lights, then they might not notice…

The third shot drills through the windshield of the Nova, missing Herb by less than a foot. Herb flinches, recovers, then rears back and smacks his palm into the window, trying to break it. The safety glass fractures into several thousand cracks, but it’s still held in place by its protective coating. Herb hits it again. And again. The sheet finally gives way with a loud pop, tiny squares of glass falling onto the driver’s seat.

Herb reaches a hand inside, fumbles for the lock.

Another shot punches through the back window, blowing apart Jack’s radio. Bits of plastic shrapnel embed themselves in Herb’s cheek. He ignores the pain, opening the door, reaching across the seats, tugging open the glove box, finding the remote control for the garage door.

Another shot. Latham’s car window shatters. The different angle means it’s a different sniper. He’s caught in another crossfire.

Herb raises the remote above dashboard level and presses the button.

Nothing happens.

He presses again.

Nothing.

Two shots in quick succession, taking out two more of the Nova’s windows. Herb is out of ideas. He puts his hands over his head and waits for the inevitable.