Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Haven’t we all been there at one time or another?
What I really love are gardeners. And the one who lived in this house had a thing for big old terra-cotta pots full of flowers. Unfortunately, the plants have died in this case. But no problem. The combined weight of the pot and soil should do the job just fine.
What I need is to be quick and quiet. Two things no one has ever accused me of being. However, no one threatened my family before. And the sound of gunfire can still be heard coming from various parts of town.
Meanwhile, this dick is still busy bitching. He doesn’t even notice me creeping up on him with the big-ass pot. I bring the thing down on his skull with all of the wrath I have in me. And believe me, it is quite a lot.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t breathe.
I only slightly cut my hand with the knife he carries on his belt. But to get the zip-ties off is worth it. I tie my hair back in a knot to get it out of the way. The dead guy had two pistols. No idea what they are or how many bullets are in the magazines. I need to do what I can to help. Now.
The fastest way is to cut through a couple of backyards. Some of the people in Wolf Creek were low-key on fences, and I, for one, really appreciate it. I know in stories they always say it’s cowardly and wrong to shoot people in the back. But I’ve done it once before and only just attacked someone with a pot from behind. When you think about it, it’s almost become my signature style.
No idea if it’s adrenaline or getting punched in the face making my brain throb and my blood hammer behind my ears. My vision wavers, and no. Shit. I don’t have time for this. Just because I almost also got shot in the head the other day. Human bodies are so faulty and frail. Honestly.
One group of the assholes have surrounded the bed-and-breakfast. Most of them are taking cover behind the vehicles we loaded up with fuel and weapons and stores and parked at regular spaces along the street. Our get-out-of-Dodge emergency vehicles. They’re not using the weapons inside the vehicles, though, because they don’t know they’re there. We didn’t just leave guns and ammunition in view.
Some of them are taking cover behind neighboring houses. The poor beautiful old bed-and-breakfast has been shot to shit. Glass windows shattered, and the house is being shredded. People had already started gathering there for dinner. Dean, Trisha, Leon, George, and Avan are returning fire. It must be just Jack and Wyatt holding off the assholes at the other end of town. There’s a decent stock of pistols and rifles inside the house. But without help coming, they can’t hold out forever. And I am one woman with limited training when it comes to this stuff.
Wait a minute… The assholes are hiding behind cars with full fuel tanks.
I remember the time on the highway when the dude in the speeding sports car hit the power pole and went up with a bang. Blowing things up seems an extreme reaction, but this is an extreme situation.
With my head low, I backtrack to the neighboring house. The one with the hot tub, funnily enough. My bare feet hurt for some reason, but I don’t have time to sort out shoes. The twins went out yesterday with their grandfather to collect military equipment. And if anyone is going to hold on to something they shouldn’t, it’s going to be the twins. Bless those boys.
It doesn’t even take me long to find the grenades. Because of course they’re going to leave grenades in a fruit basket on the kitchen counter. Someone really needs to have a talk to Jack and Wyatt about safe storage of munitions. My hands are shaking so bad. There’s every chance this is an awful idea. But it’s also just about my only idea. Should we both survive this, Dean is going to lose his shit. Completely. Like it will be a miracle if I get to pee in peace for the rest of my life.
I grab the denim jacket off the back of a kitchen chair and do up the buttons. Grenades handily fit in each of the two front pockets. Then back out onto the street I go, trying to stay calm.
The shooting doesn’t stop. Someone cackles like a mad thing. There comes a pained hollering from inside, and Trisha shouts, “George!”
No more delaying. There’s no time like the present. Time for an agitator, and that would be me. Though maybe it should be disruptor. I don’t know.
Three of Porter’s men are behind the nearest vehicle. And they’re not paying any attention to their six. Not looking my way or expecting any trouble. Nope. Which is how I’m able to pull the pin and roll the grenade underneath the car. My father would be so proud knowing the nights we went bowling when I was a child have finally come in handy.