Winter Moon. By: Dean R. Koontz

abrasive smoke had rubbed from him, and he blinked frantically until

his sight cleared somewhat. Because of blood loss or shock, he was

reduced to tunnel vision. It was like looking at the world through

twin gun barrels, because the surrounding darkness was as smooth as the

curve of a steel bore.

To his left, everything was enveloped in flames. The Lexus.

Portico.

Service station. Arkadian’s body was on fire. Luther’s was not afire

yet, but hot embers were falling on it, flaming bits of shingles and

wood, and at any moment his uniform would ignite. Burning gasoline

still arced from the riddled pumps and streamed toward the street. The

blacktop along the perimeter of the blaze was melting, boiling.

Churning masses of thick black smoke rose high above the city, blending

into the pendulous black and gray storm clouds.

Someone cursed.

Jack jerked his head to the right, away from the terrible but

hypnotically fascinating inferno, and focused his narrowed field of

vision on the soft-drink machines at the corner of the station. The

killer was standing there, as if oblivious of the destruction he had

wrought, feeding coins into the first of the two vending machines.

Two more discarded cans of Pepsi lay on the asphalt behind him. The

Micro Uzi was in his left hand, at his side, muzzle pointing at the

pavement. He slammed the flat of his fist against one of the buttons

on the selection board.

Feebly shoving the woman away, Jack whispered, “Get down!”

He turned clumsily toward the killer, swaying, barely able to remain on

his feet.

The can of soda clattered into the delivery tray. The gunman leaned

forward, squinting, then cursed again.

Shuddering violently, Jack struggled to raise his revolver. It seemed

to be shackled to the ground on a short length of chain, requiring him

to lift the entire world in order to bring the weapon high enough to

aim.

Aware of him, responding with an arrogant leisureliness, the psychopath

in the expensive suit turned and advanced a couple of steps, bringing

up his own weapon.

Jack squeezed off a shot. He was so weak, the recoil knocked him

backward and off his feet.

The killer loosed a burst of six or eight rounds.

Jack was already falling out of the line of fire. As bullets cut the

air over his head, he fired another shot, and then a third as he

crumpled onto the blacktop.

Incredibly, the third round slammed the killer in the chest and pitched

him backward into the vending machine. He bounced off the machine and

dropped onto his knees. He was badly hurt, perhaps mortally wounded,

his white silk shirt turning red as swiftly as a trick scarf

transformed by a magician’s deft hands, but he wasn’t dead yet, and he

still had the Micro Uzi.

The sirens were extremely loud. Help was nearly at hand, but it was

probably going to come too late.

A blast of thunder breached a dam in the sky, and torrents of icy rain

suddenly fell by the megaton.

With an effort that nearly caused him to black out, Jack sat up and

clasped his revolver in both hands. He squeezed off a shot that was

wide of the mark.

The recoil induced a muscle spasm in his arms. All the strength went

out of his hands, and he lost his grip on the revolver, which clattered

onto the blacktop between his spread legs.

The killer loosed two-three-four shots, and Jack took two hits in the

chest.

He was knocked flat. The back of his skull bounced painfully off the

pavement.

He tried to sit up again. He could only raise his head, and not far,

just far enough to see that the killer had gone down after squeezing

off that last barrage, facedown on the blacktop. The round in the

chest had taken him out, though not fast enough.

Jack’s head lolled to his left. Even as his tunnel vision constricted

further, he saw a black-and-white swing off the street, into the

station at high speed, fishtailing to a stop as the driver stood on the

brakes.

Jack’s vision closed down altogether. He was totally blind.

He felt as helpless as a baby, and he began to cry.

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