Fuzzy Navel

11:46 P.M.
KORK

THE FRESH AIR FEELS GOOD. Liberating. The rhythmic slap of my feet hitting the ground, the stretch of my muscles, the wind on my cheeks. I bet I could run five miles without breaking a sweat.

Phin is behind me, but he gives up when he reaches the truck. Wimp. I should have beaten him to death while we were in the garage.

No biggie. There’s still time.

I’m running so fast I almost miss the rifle. It’s on a grassy hill, only a few yards off the road. I sprint to it, slide alongside like I’m stealing second base, and snatch it up in my hands.

It’s a beauty. Bolt action, suppressor, bipod, night-vision scope, cheek pad, palm support, padded butt plate. A better weapon than the M40A1 rifle I trained with in the corps. I get behind it, assume the position, load a round, and point it back at the Bronco. Phin is crouching next to the side door. An easy target. I consider putting a round through his leg, but notice he’s cradling his elbow, already hurt.

I’ll get to him in a minute.

I swing the barrel around, aiming at Jack’s house. I can see Harry through the front bay window, sitting on the floor and clutching his hose. Those two sniper idiots, standing there, pointing their guns. The trap must have tripped the circuit breaker. I figured it might do that. They should have held the breaker button in and kept it there; then the current would have kept flowing. But I saw no reason to share that little tip.

I nudge the rifle. There’s Jack. She actually has her hands up over her head. Like she’s surrendering.

As if that’s going to help her.

“You are dust,” I say, quoting Scripture. “And to dust you shall return.”

My Bible-thumping father would have been proud I remembered that. I grin, caress the trigger, and fire.