Ninety-Three
I HEAR THE engine start up, see that the door is still open as the truck moves slowly in my direction, the big guy using the door for a shield as he keeps coming up and firing over it.
Like the truck is some kind of armored tank.
In the distance, very faintly, almost like the sound is coming from the next town, I hear a siren. But realize that even if it is the cavalry, it’s not going to get here soon enough to do me much good.
I run to my left now, firing away myself, nonstop, in the direction of the truck, seeing bullets hit off the door and off the windshield.
Not sure how many rounds I have.
Ten?
Fifteen?
Burt would know.
Post Malone is still firing away, but then I’m on the move again, back to my right.
Burt never got the chance to move before this guy put him down.
I can still move.
Get off.
Only now I’m a quarterback again, scrambling out of the pocket, zigzagging back toward the trees, shooting low instead and hearing the big man scream as one of the shots hits him in the lower leg before he falls to the side.
Away from the door and out into the open.
Even hit, he tries to move quickly behind the truck.
I’m quicker.
Always.
I step out into the open myself and put two hands on the gun, and the next shot catches him in the shoulder and spins him hard away from the truck.
He tries to get himself set one last time and fire back.
Too late.
My next shot catches him in the middle of the chest, and so does the one after that.
He falls into the road.
Whoever is behind the wheel puts the truck in reverse and starts to back up, ignoring Post Malone as if he’s the dog now.
I take a few steps to my right and then I’m aiming through the open door and hitting the driver once, and then again before he can turn with the gun in his hand, watching as he slumps over the wheel.
The horn begins to blare as the siren gets closer.
I keep the Glock in my hand as I carefully approach the truck, hearing a high, singing noise in my ears that isn’t either the horn or the siren.
I walk toward the tattooed man and want to put one more in him, keep firing until I’ve emptied my gun.
But I look down into dead eyes and realize there’s no point.
I feel the urge to tell him that the score is even now for what he did to my friend.
But I know it’s not.
And never could be.