memory of the third man I’d heard in the hall. As I roll over to check the door, I find that he’s just entering the room. The sight of his two dead homeboys causes him to hesitate and gives me just enough time to roll to my right towards the living room.
He’s quick on the recovery and opens up fire. The bullets shred the floor behind me. I come out of the roll, clumsily, and stagger to my feet. I throw myself towards the couch, a messy and desperate dive for the only cover available. I go ass over tea kettle as I tumble over the back of the couch and land in a ball on the other side. He continues to fire. The bullets exit the back of the couch just above where I’m laying, dislodging the guts of the furniture, and bathing me in scorched pieces of peach-colored stuffing.
I’m done for. He’s got me pinned. He’s moving towards me, firing in small bursts. I try to poke my head around to get a better view and almost get it blown off. The coward left in me wants to scream for my wife’s help. I suppress the coward, hold him down, and cover his mouth. I’m not going to put Tasia in danger. The sacrifice is mine and mine alone. Paul should be about done with the floor; hopefully this will give her the time she needs to escape.
I love you Tasia.
I love you Alisa.
The gangster is standing by the arm of the couch, looking down at me, gloating, golden grill on full display. His finger is wrapped around the trigger, squeezing slowly, cherishing the moment.
I stare right back into his eyes. Chin up. I will die with my pride in hand.
“This is for Pook and Andre, mothafucka!” The entire right side of his head explodes, plastering the white ceiling with brain matter. He flops across the arm of the couch, dead, his mouth frozen open, golden grill on permanent display.
Tasia is standing just inside the hallway, the gun of the gangster I’d downed trembling in her hands, the barrel still smoking.
I grab the gun off the third gangster, dislodge my hatchet from the second one’s head, and run to Tasia’s side. “You okay?” I snap my fingers in front of her face and she jolts. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay.”
I holster the hatchet in the front chest pocket of my coveralls. “You did good baby, you did real good; saved my ass. You hold onto that.”
She looks at the machine gun like I’ve just handed her a glass of poison and told her to take a drink.
“Where we’re going, you’re gonna need it.” It occurs to me that we both have the same amount of experience with a machine gun; I’ve never shot one of these damn things, not until today, and neither has she; looks like we’re both naturals. I step back into the bedroom. Alisa is still in the corner. Paul is walking a slow circle around the middle of the room, the saw bouncing up and down in his hands, dust and carpet fibers flying into the air. “How much longer?” I yell.
He doesn’t seem to have heard me. He just keeps bouncing along, pausing every now and then to sneeze or blow the small fibers of carpet from the tip of this nose.
“Paul, how much longer?” I bend over, getting in his face.
He stops the saw, throws it to the ground, and stomps down hard.
At first, I think I’ve pissed him off and he’s getting aggressive with me. I jump back, not quite sure how to take it.
Paul stomps again. The floor quakes. Dust begins to rise. And then everything in front of us falls away, including the saw.
“Ah, well, shit. I wasn’t planning on using it again anyway,” Paul stands over the hole, admiring his handy work.
The three of us move in behind Paul and lean over our newly crafted escape hatch. As the dust clears an empty room—except for the pile of fresh debris—reveals itself below us. It looks familiar; pale carpeting and off-white walls.
I grip Paul by a shoulder and give him a little shake. “Nice work, my friend! Nice work!”
He turns and smiles at me. “You better get them out of here. I’m sure more will
He’s quick on the recovery and opens up fire. The bullets shred the floor behind me. I come out of the roll, clumsily, and stagger to my feet. I throw myself towards the couch, a messy and desperate dive for the only cover available. I go ass over tea kettle as I tumble over the back of the couch and land in a ball on the other side. He continues to fire. The bullets exit the back of the couch just above where I’m laying, dislodging the guts of the furniture, and bathing me in scorched pieces of peach-colored stuffing.
I’m done for. He’s got me pinned. He’s moving towards me, firing in small bursts. I try to poke my head around to get a better view and almost get it blown off. The coward left in me wants to scream for my wife’s help. I suppress the coward, hold him down, and cover his mouth. I’m not going to put Tasia in danger. The sacrifice is mine and mine alone. Paul should be about done with the floor; hopefully this will give her the time she needs to escape.
I love you Tasia.
I love you Alisa.
The gangster is standing by the arm of the couch, looking down at me, gloating, golden grill on full display. His finger is wrapped around the trigger, squeezing slowly, cherishing the moment.
I stare right back into his eyes. Chin up. I will die with my pride in hand.
“This is for Pook and Andre, mothafucka!” The entire right side of his head explodes, plastering the white ceiling with brain matter. He flops across the arm of the couch, dead, his mouth frozen open, golden grill on permanent display.
Tasia is standing just inside the hallway, the gun of the gangster I’d downed trembling in her hands, the barrel still smoking.
I grab the gun off the third gangster, dislodge my hatchet from the second one’s head, and run to Tasia’s side. “You okay?” I snap my fingers in front of her face and she jolts. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay.”
I holster the hatchet in the front chest pocket of my coveralls. “You did good baby, you did real good; saved my ass. You hold onto that.”
She looks at the machine gun like I’ve just handed her a glass of poison and told her to take a drink.
“Where we’re going, you’re gonna need it.” It occurs to me that we both have the same amount of experience with a machine gun; I’ve never shot one of these damn things, not until today, and neither has she; looks like we’re both naturals. I step back into the bedroom. Alisa is still in the corner. Paul is walking a slow circle around the middle of the room, the saw bouncing up and down in his hands, dust and carpet fibers flying into the air. “How much longer?” I yell.
He doesn’t seem to have heard me. He just keeps bouncing along, pausing every now and then to sneeze or blow the small fibers of carpet from the tip of this nose.
“Paul, how much longer?” I bend over, getting in his face.
He stops the saw, throws it to the ground, and stomps down hard.
At first, I think I’ve pissed him off and he’s getting aggressive with me. I jump back, not quite sure how to take it.
Paul stomps again. The floor quakes. Dust begins to rise. And then everything in front of us falls away, including the saw.
“Ah, well, shit. I wasn’t planning on using it again anyway,” Paul stands over the hole, admiring his handy work.
The three of us move in behind Paul and lean over our newly crafted escape hatch. As the dust clears an empty room—except for the pile of fresh debris—reveals itself below us. It looks familiar; pale carpeting and off-white walls.
I grip Paul by a shoulder and give him a little shake. “Nice work, my friend! Nice work!”
He turns and smiles at me. “You better get them out of here. I’m sure more will
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