“Cool off, shells! Just trying to show you that our pistols hold sleepers
and
killers. The guns have a switch. Blue for sleep, red for kill. Question is, which way do you want us to flick the switch?”
“Can’t imagine the dead would make good members for your commune, Safe Lander,” Father said. “We only shoot one way in Glenrock, and it ain’t for sleeping.”
“And you refuse to come take a look at our fine city?” Otley asked.
“That’s right,” Father said.
Otley sighed. “Remember what I said, men.” He turned in a circle, pointing and panning his finger over the enforcers. “One kill each. Sleep the rest of the village.”
Otley spun and fired twice. The discharge was like the pop of an electric nail gun. Father crumpled. As did Uncle Colton.
Mason screamed and raised his rifle, but gunfire rained over the enforcers from above. Jordan and Harvey! Mason hit the ground and crawled under the stage, dragging his rifle into darkness. Sharp rocks stabbed his knee caps and palms. Gunfire spat into the dirt behind him, and he crawled faster. All around him men were crying out. Glenrock rifle fire exploded against the airy pops of Safe Lands handguns.
Mason stopped once he reached the middle of the stage. His arms were shaking badly, but he pushed to a kneeling position and looked back. Sunlight lit the edge of the stage. He could see the toe of his father’s boot and the top of Uncle Colton’s head as both lay on the ground. He threw up without realizing it was coming. The first of it landed in his lap. He leaned over and heaved and heaved, his mind a blur of questions.
One kill each
, Otley had said. How had he drawn so quickly? Had he fired sleepers or killers? What did a sleeper do? Should Mason go back? Try to help? He didn’t see any movement from his father or uncle, but he had to know. He crept toward them, got close enough to look …
A girl’s scream pulled him out of his daze. He forced himself to look away from his father. Suddenly, he was crawling to the back of the stage. He had to help her. Needed to.
“Get away from me!” the girl screamed.
Mason peeked out from under the stairs. Shaylinn, running from an enforcer toward the tree line. The enforcer shot his gun. Shaylinn fell. The enforcer continued toward her. She pushed up to her hands and knees. Fell. Writhed and tried again to rise. Screamed for help.
Mason could only stare from his safe haven. Accusations assaulted his mind in time with the gunfire.
Coward. Sissy. Gutless. Weakling.
The crack of a gun brought the enforcer to his knees, then to his face, prostrate in the grass a few yards from Shaylinn. Jordan. But Mason could still help.
He pushed out from under the stage and sprinted toward her, his muscles tense, knowing he could be shot at any moment.
“Shaylinn.” He knelt beside her. “Can you move?”
She panted in a few long breaths. “I think … so.” She got to her feet.
Mason pulled her arm around his shoulders and helped her stand. “Behind the sick house,” he said.
They started for it, but after a few steps, Shaylinn sagged against him. Mason held her up and dragged her along.
“My legs won’t work,” she said. “I can’t make them move.”
Mason squatted and lifted her the way men did in Old movies. A groan escaped him at how heavy she was. He sucked in a deep breath and staggered to the sick house, certain he’d drop her, but somehow he managed to reach the far side of the structure before collapsing.
“Shaylinn? Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”
Her eyes were glassy, liquid with unshed tears. “My back.”
Mason knelt beside her and rolled her body against his knees. He patted her back to look for a wound and found a small hole in the back of her dress, just to the right of her spine. “There’s no blood.” A sleeper?
“What’s that mean, no blood?” Shaylinn asked, her voice slow.
Best guess? “I assume it means you’re going to go to sleep.”
“What if I don’t
and
killers. The guns have a switch. Blue for sleep, red for kill. Question is, which way do you want us to flick the switch?”
“Can’t imagine the dead would make good members for your commune, Safe Lander,” Father said. “We only shoot one way in Glenrock, and it ain’t for sleeping.”
“And you refuse to come take a look at our fine city?” Otley asked.
“That’s right,” Father said.
Otley sighed. “Remember what I said, men.” He turned in a circle, pointing and panning his finger over the enforcers. “One kill each. Sleep the rest of the village.”
Otley spun and fired twice. The discharge was like the pop of an electric nail gun. Father crumpled. As did Uncle Colton.
Mason screamed and raised his rifle, but gunfire rained over the enforcers from above. Jordan and Harvey! Mason hit the ground and crawled under the stage, dragging his rifle into darkness. Sharp rocks stabbed his knee caps and palms. Gunfire spat into the dirt behind him, and he crawled faster. All around him men were crying out. Glenrock rifle fire exploded against the airy pops of Safe Lands handguns.
Mason stopped once he reached the middle of the stage. His arms were shaking badly, but he pushed to a kneeling position and looked back. Sunlight lit the edge of the stage. He could see the toe of his father’s boot and the top of Uncle Colton’s head as both lay on the ground. He threw up without realizing it was coming. The first of it landed in his lap. He leaned over and heaved and heaved, his mind a blur of questions.
One kill each
, Otley had said. How had he drawn so quickly? Had he fired sleepers or killers? What did a sleeper do? Should Mason go back? Try to help? He didn’t see any movement from his father or uncle, but he had to know. He crept toward them, got close enough to look …
A girl’s scream pulled him out of his daze. He forced himself to look away from his father. Suddenly, he was crawling to the back of the stage. He had to help her. Needed to.
“Get away from me!” the girl screamed.
Mason peeked out from under the stairs. Shaylinn, running from an enforcer toward the tree line. The enforcer shot his gun. Shaylinn fell. The enforcer continued toward her. She pushed up to her hands and knees. Fell. Writhed and tried again to rise. Screamed for help.
Mason could only stare from his safe haven. Accusations assaulted his mind in time with the gunfire.
Coward. Sissy. Gutless. Weakling.
The crack of a gun brought the enforcer to his knees, then to his face, prostrate in the grass a few yards from Shaylinn. Jordan. But Mason could still help.
He pushed out from under the stage and sprinted toward her, his muscles tense, knowing he could be shot at any moment.
“Shaylinn.” He knelt beside her. “Can you move?”
She panted in a few long breaths. “I think … so.” She got to her feet.
Mason pulled her arm around his shoulders and helped her stand. “Behind the sick house,” he said.
They started for it, but after a few steps, Shaylinn sagged against him. Mason held her up and dragged her along.
“My legs won’t work,” she said. “I can’t make them move.”
Mason squatted and lifted her the way men did in Old movies. A groan escaped him at how heavy she was. He sucked in a deep breath and staggered to the sick house, certain he’d drop her, but somehow he managed to reach the far side of the structure before collapsing.
“Shaylinn? Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”
Her eyes were glassy, liquid with unshed tears. “My back.”
Mason knelt beside her and rolled her body against his knees. He patted her back to look for a wound and found a small hole in the back of her dress, just to the right of her spine. “There’s no blood.” A sleeper?
“What’s that mean, no blood?” Shaylinn asked, her voice slow.
Best guess? “I assume it means you’re going to go to sleep.”
“What if I don’t
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