Out of the Black - Lee Doty [103]
Explosions erupted behind Ping, on the other side of the car. A long string of heavy-sounding gunshots followed by the tinkle of glass, but he was showered with no glass, punctured by no bullets. Still, he was sure this was the end.
Ping slid the sticky lock ring onto his right middle finger, still gritting his teeth, applying mental restraining pressure on his dinner. Hazy purple straw seemed to crinkle about his head, filling his ears and peripheral vision, scratching across his scalp. He reached out to retrieve the assault gun from the ground at his side, but had to stop with his bloody hand leaning on top of it as the straw washed over his face- going out!
No I'm not, he thought through the numbing straw's crinkling oblivion. He had to kill several more people, find Rae, and get her and Alex out of here before he could spare time for sleep or death.
Will power was exerted and his tingling hand dragged the gun back across the ground. After a moment of intense concentration the world stopped breaking against his head like monsoon waves, and the electric straw receded to a faint crackle in his ears. He put his hand around the assault gun's pistol grip. The lock-accept tone made him shudder.
At the edge of consciousness with his stolen weapon held in slippery hands, he wondered what life would have been like if he'd stayed in family counseling. Though there was humor in thinking of sitting in a circle of chairs with some dysfunctional family or other- expressing feelings, listening actively- he didn't find it funny. He'd killed more people as a cop, but not more good people. Now he tried to save people from killers, not try to save killers from losing their families.
He was about to die, behind him Alex would die, way behind him somewhere on the road, Rae either had or would die. At least now he was trying to save them, at least now he'd get to die with them.
Before him stood the familiar form of a seven-year-old girl, her hand raised as if holding an invisible mother's hand. The specter's black hair, once meticulously straightened, was in frizzy disarray. Her furtive smile had been lost long ago. The lack of light in her brown eyes was an accusation. Her clothes were twisted about her body as if frozen in sleep. Dirt covered her like a rumpled blanket, thrown off only partially upon waking. Her throat was cut from ear to ear.
He was going to die, and that was probably for the best- long overdue. Yet he will not fail and die. He could have done that long ago. Tonight, he will die trying to help. He struggled with his unresponsive right arm, and managed to get the assault gun up across his lap. He grabbed the forward grip in his left hand. The flames that erupted from the side of his battered head would ascend toward heaven, his muscles would rebel, his vision would cloud- yet his teeth will clench, his muscles will move. He's not done yet.
The car against his back shifted in tandem with the bang of leaping footfalls on the hood, then roof. He tried to jerk his newly unlocked gun up to cover this new threat coming from above and behind him, but couldn't pull off anything more than token resistance to gravity. His hands and the gun in them stayed on his lap.
A spinning blur above him made him reach for his holstered pistol with his left hand, but the draw and pass out neurons in his head had been cross connected. His left hand came to rest on his chest and the fog rolled in as booted feet landed in front of him.
A weapon was thrust toward him. He looked up at the cave-large muzzle directed at his face, mind divided between frustration and relief. He wondered if his mom was right about heaven and hell,