A guard bursts through the door. He looks around and then he rushes off.
My heart nearly tumbles to the floor. The door. It’s wide freaking open.
A shadow passes beyond the yawning open and then Razor steps through.
“If you’re gonna do anything, Professor, now’s the time.”
I do not have to be told twice.
A surge of courage that feels as wild and reckless as it does electric takes hold of me. I snatch Razor’s gun when he holds it out to me. My sweaty palm slips on the grip. The metal is cold, impossibly heavy. I’ve never held a weapon in my life that can end another person’s life.
“What the heck do I do with this?” I wave it in the air causing Razor to dodge the dangerous end.
“Not shoot me, for starters. Damn woman.” He grabs the gun and checks something on the side. “I’m gonna give this back to you only if you promise to run as far and fast as you can in the opposite direction as me.”
I nod profusely and scootch my glasses back into place. “Deal.”
He mumbles something under his breath that sounds like I’m a walking hazard to humans.
My forehead creases at his remark, but I don’t say anything because frankly he’s right.
“The safety is off. Keep the nose down and your finger off the trigger unless you wanna actually use it. And don’t shoot your foot.”
He presses the gun back into my hand. “Try to survive.”
And with that he heads out.
I send up a silent prayer that we both survive the day.
I go to run out the door behind him, but draw up short.
I turn back to my cooking table. There are three open flames and at least five pounds of flammable materials on the table. All it would take is one kick and boom…
“You better run while you can,” I warn the cowering women who haven’t found it in them to take off yet. “Now!” I scream and most of them dash for the door.
I crank up the gas to the flame and watch the blue-orange flame flicker with as much anger as I feel burning a hole in my insides.
I raise a bare foot and kick the nearest pot. Liquid sloshes out to pool over the surface of the table and then spills to the hardwood. I grab for a stack of papers and wad them up, in one hand while I kick the table again.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happens. Then fire spreads over the surface of the spilled liquid and then leaps up the surrounding walls in a roar. Every flame is orange, hot and beautiful.
Cash, chemicals and pink pill baggies erupt into the air like confetti.
The blast hits me, knocks me sideways, heat licking at my arms, my hair, the tips of my ears.
The world turns into a storm of smoke. Women scream, men shout, someone fires a gun close enough that my ears ring. The acrid burn of fire mixes with the raw, metallic taste of terror on my tongue. I bust out the door of my prison and run. I do hardcore knees to chest and pump my legs until every muscle in my body screams. And even then I don’t stop.
I dash through one archway and then another. Vultures are all around me. Lucky for me no one is watching the nearly naked lady running for the nearest door.
My skin prickles and my heart does a quick dance of excitement when I reach the front door.
Holy hell, I didn't think I would get this far. I know it’s stupid to stop, but there’s a heavy haze of smoke that wraps around me and blocks my view.
Humid air clings to my skin. Sun-kissed spring air drifts through the carved lattice nailed to the side of the porch, clearing the smoke enough for me to see my way off the porch. To my left and right, Vultures go hand to hand with men who look an awful lot like them. They have cuts on and look as mean as any Vulture I’ve seen.
Which means I definitely need to go in the opposite direction.
I know what Razor said, but I move my finger over the trigger of my gun and take the steps off the porch two at a time. Screw being safe. As far as I am concerned, anyone who dares put a hand on me deserves a bullet.
