Earthblood

Steve had been quick enough to throw himself backward, so that the starring burst of lead exploded over him.

Kyle realized that the noise had come from one of the twin barrels. He was torn between the desire to run away and the awareness that the man could now only kill one of them. And it was probably going to be the trapped Steve Romero.

Frantically he looked around. There were stones at his feet, mostly tiny pebbles, with the occasional fist-sized quartz-lined rock.

Kyle snatched one up and heaved it at the murderous stranger with a clumsy, round-arm throw, aiming at the man’s head and missing him by at least six feet. The missile bounced off one of the front tires and landed in the dirt just in front of his feet.

“What the fuck?” He glanced around at Kyle, his lips peeled back off the rotten teeth in a wolfish snarl of hatred.

Steve sighted between his own feet and fired the automatic three more times, the gun bucking in his right hand.

One bullet missed Kyle by less than a yard. A second round plucked at the plastic raincoat, while the third bullet hit the little man in the face, close to his nose.

It knocked him sideways, the shotgun falling in the dirt, the impact firing the second barrel. He tottered a few stumbling steps, away from the truck, both hands pressed to his face. Bright scarlet blood was pouring between his fingers, patterning the dust around him.

Finally he sat down with a thump, moaning and cursing, ignoring the rifle still slung across his shoulders.

Kyle started toward him, then stopped, rocking on the balls of his feet, paralyzed by fear and indecision.

Steve crawled out of the cab and stood by the open door, the gun pointing at the dirt. His face was pale with shock.

“What shall we do?” he asked.

“Kill him,” replied Kyle, “before he tries to take us out.”

“Shoot him again?”

“Sure. For Christ’s sake, Steve. He would have killed us.”

“Oh, my sweet Lord, I’m done for, boys. I’m done for.”

Blood was dappling the transparent coat, pooling over the spread thighs.

“Shoot him, Steve.”

“I don’t think… You do it, Kyle. I’ve done my bit. I shot him once. Now you shoot him and we’re equal.”

“This isn’t some kind of school-yard game, Steve. He was going to send us both off to buy the farm.”

Steve shook his head and lobbed the gun across. Kyle fumbled and nearly dropped it.

Now the little man on the ground was moving, struggling to disentangle the rifle from his shoulder.

With the hands busy and away from the face, Kyle could see the damage wrought by the bullet. It had gone in through the left cheek, directly behind the nose, and exited the other side, clawing out a chunk of flesh and bone, removing part of the upper jaw.

It was a ghastly wound, but Kyle could see that it wasn’t likely to prove immediately fatal.

Gripping the gun so hard he wondered if he might be leaving finger marks impressed in the butt, Kyle stepped behind the seated man.

He stopped what he was doing and stared up. “Prefer it if your friend did it, nigger.” The words were distorted by the bubbling crimson froth that tumbled over his neck and chest.

“Fuck you,” said Kyle.

He leveled the gun at the nape of the man’s neck and squeezed the trigger. It kicked so much that he nearly missed, even at the range of under four feet, the bullet barely clipping the side of the skull. But it was still enough to knock him over in the dirt, unconscious.

Kyle bent and kept firing the gun until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. The stranger’s head was pulped.

“Satisfied, Steve?” shouted Kyle. “Does that make us equal, friend?”

But that violent act, born of fear and disgust, had left the gun an empty threat.

Though they strip-searched the cab, there was no more ammunition for the empty automatic. Nothing of any use.

“It says on the side it’s made by Mondadori in Italy and it fires .32-caliber bullets,” said Steve. “Might as well take it with us. Least there’s probably a chance of finding some ammo.”

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