intimidate Shoeshine. He raised the barrel of his rifle.
“Drop it!” Shoeshine shouted.
Shy gripped the knife and the duffel bag, scared out of his mind. He knew he should be doing something more, but he felt paralyzed.
When the guy on the bike inched closer, Shoeshine ripped off his hostage’s mask and tweaked the man’s head so that his veiny brown neck was fully exposed. He pressed the gun against the man’s temple, and the man gave a deep, guttural growl.
Marcus and Carmen stood in front of Shy, staring. Their mouths hanging open, chests heaving.
Shy spied the man near the motor home inching toward the gun on the ground.
“You were warned about moving zones!” the motorcycle guy shouted through his mask.
“Everyone was!” the man with the blowtorch added.
“Drop it!” Shoeshine warned. “Or your friend dies!”
“He’s
already
dead!” the rifleman answered.
Shy watched in horror as the guy cocked his rifle and shot his own man right in the chest. Blood sprayed Shoeshine’s clothes and face as he ducked behind the limp body to avoid a second shot.
Carmen screamed.
Shy grabbed her and they crouched in the doorway, next to Marcus, hardly breathing.
Shoeshine raised his gun above the body in his arms and fired a shot of his own, at the man on the motorcycle. His lone remaining bullet. It burrowed into the rifleman’s gas mask, painting it bright red. The weapon fell from the man’s hands, and he toppled over the back of his bike, onto the grass.
Shoeshine turned his gun on the two men by the motor home, ordering them not to move.
Shy stood up.
Flames were now leaping off the far side of the motor home. The dead man’s motorcycle was still running, though it lay useless on the ground. Shy, Carmen and Marcus cleared out of the hot doorframe, onto the grass, looking at one another in silence. Shoeshine kept his gun aimed at the two remaining men while he slid out from under the body he’d been using as cover.
When Shy saw one of the men make a move for the gun on the grass, he flipped open his knife and charged without thinking. Swiped at the man’s arm just as he lunged for the weapon. The knife gashed the man’s leather jacket at the forearm, and Shy felt the blade sink into flesh.
The man quickly pulled back, holding his arm and cursing Shy.
“He said don’t move!” Shy shouted, kicking the gun away. He reached down to pick it up and tossed it to Shoeshine, shocked by his own actions but pretending confidence, his breaths going in and out and in and out.
Shoeshine held both guns now, though one was out of bullets. He glanced at Shy again, then at the duffel in Shy’s hand.
Shy hurried back to Carmen and Marcus and stood there nervously, looking all around. At the flames climbing the side of the motor home, and the dead bodies in the grass, and the blood splattered across Shoeshine’s face. The man he’d just gouged who was holding his arm. Shy clutched the duffel. It was up to him to get the vaccine out safely.
“We’re here to protect you,” one of the men mumbled through his mask. “Can’t you
understand
that?”
“Not everyone wants your kind of protection,” Shoeshine answered.
The other man lifted his mask and cried, “Look at Jenkins, man! He shot Jenkins in the face!”
“We’re not even sick!” Marcus shouted again.
“You don’t know that,” the first man answered. “It’s everywhere now. Our only hope is if everyone remains in their zones.”
Shoeshine turned to Shy, Carmen and Marcus and said: “Go now. Stay together.”
“What about you?” Carmen said.
“I’ll catch up.”
“Why can’t you just come with us?” Marcus wanted to know.
“I said go!” Shoeshine shouted.
Shy slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and the three of them hurried away from the motor home.
Before they rounded the half-collapsed DMV building, Shy turned to get one last look at the surreal scene. Two bodies on the ground, dead. The motor home in flames.
“Drop it!” Shoeshine shouted.
Shy gripped the knife and the duffel bag, scared out of his mind. He knew he should be doing something more, but he felt paralyzed.
When the guy on the bike inched closer, Shoeshine ripped off his hostage’s mask and tweaked the man’s head so that his veiny brown neck was fully exposed. He pressed the gun against the man’s temple, and the man gave a deep, guttural growl.
Marcus and Carmen stood in front of Shy, staring. Their mouths hanging open, chests heaving.
Shy spied the man near the motor home inching toward the gun on the ground.
“You were warned about moving zones!” the motorcycle guy shouted through his mask.
“Everyone was!” the man with the blowtorch added.
“Drop it!” Shoeshine warned. “Or your friend dies!”
“He’s
already
dead!” the rifleman answered.
Shy watched in horror as the guy cocked his rifle and shot his own man right in the chest. Blood sprayed Shoeshine’s clothes and face as he ducked behind the limp body to avoid a second shot.
Carmen screamed.
Shy grabbed her and they crouched in the doorway, next to Marcus, hardly breathing.
Shoeshine raised his gun above the body in his arms and fired a shot of his own, at the man on the motorcycle. His lone remaining bullet. It burrowed into the rifleman’s gas mask, painting it bright red. The weapon fell from the man’s hands, and he toppled over the back of his bike, onto the grass.
Shoeshine turned his gun on the two men by the motor home, ordering them not to move.
Shy stood up.
Flames were now leaping off the far side of the motor home. The dead man’s motorcycle was still running, though it lay useless on the ground. Shy, Carmen and Marcus cleared out of the hot doorframe, onto the grass, looking at one another in silence. Shoeshine kept his gun aimed at the two remaining men while he slid out from under the body he’d been using as cover.
When Shy saw one of the men make a move for the gun on the grass, he flipped open his knife and charged without thinking. Swiped at the man’s arm just as he lunged for the weapon. The knife gashed the man’s leather jacket at the forearm, and Shy felt the blade sink into flesh.
The man quickly pulled back, holding his arm and cursing Shy.
“He said don’t move!” Shy shouted, kicking the gun away. He reached down to pick it up and tossed it to Shoeshine, shocked by his own actions but pretending confidence, his breaths going in and out and in and out.
Shoeshine held both guns now, though one was out of bullets. He glanced at Shy again, then at the duffel in Shy’s hand.
Shy hurried back to Carmen and Marcus and stood there nervously, looking all around. At the flames climbing the side of the motor home, and the dead bodies in the grass, and the blood splattered across Shoeshine’s face. The man he’d just gouged who was holding his arm. Shy clutched the duffel. It was up to him to get the vaccine out safely.
“We’re here to protect you,” one of the men mumbled through his mask. “Can’t you
understand
that?”
“Not everyone wants your kind of protection,” Shoeshine answered.
The other man lifted his mask and cried, “Look at Jenkins, man! He shot Jenkins in the face!”
“We’re not even sick!” Marcus shouted again.
“You don’t know that,” the first man answered. “It’s everywhere now. Our only hope is if everyone remains in their zones.”
Shoeshine turned to Shy, Carmen and Marcus and said: “Go now. Stay together.”
“What about you?” Carmen said.
“I’ll catch up.”
“Why can’t you just come with us?” Marcus wanted to know.
“I said go!” Shoeshine shouted.
Shy slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and the three of them hurried away from the motor home.
Before they rounded the half-collapsed DMV building, Shy turned to get one last look at the surreal scene. Two bodies on the ground, dead. The motor home in flames.
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