uncommitted. They watched as Pandora bent the teenager over -- facing the floor, his backside pressed against her groin -- before sending him into them like a human battering ram. He toppled, skidded to his knees before the bartender, who stumbled over him as he tried to give chase.
Pandora turned and ran, straight out into the car park, straight for the car.
Dexter continued to hold the door open as he listened to Pandora rattling the keys behind him. The mob was rushing behind the toppled bartender, initially unsure how to react, then dead-set on giving chase. They clambered over the beaten teenager, over the messy floor, towards the door.
Pandora struggled with the keys, struggled to find the right one to fit it in the lock. She flashed a worried glance towards the door; saw the mass of movement shifting towards her partner, felt her heart growing agitated in her chest.
Dexter waited until the first man, the man in the Stetson, rushed for the threshold, then he slammed the door shut with all his might. The glass panel that covered the upper-half of the door swung towards Stetson. The door met with the brim of his hat, flattening it against his face, before the glass cracked against his forehead and shattered against his nose. A hail of shards exploded over his face, raining shrapnel down on him.
He screamed, wailed and threw himself backwards, into the advancing army. He tripped a couple of them up, sent one of them sprawling into the bottom of the door just as another slice of glass dislodged itself, fell and stuck between his shoulder blades with jarring precision.
They toppled over each other in an assortment of screams and curses. The bartender, who had, thanks to the tumbling teen, been the last in the advance, watched them trip and fall. He rose and clambered over them, kicking and climbing over the bodies -- watching in disgust as Stetson wandered away, his hand covering his bleeding face.
He made it to the door, yanked it open and prepared to shout at the escaping convicts. What he saw silenced him immediately.
Pandora had found the right key, managed to unlock the car. She had clambered into the passenger seat just as Dexter appeared from the driver’s seat, having ducked in to retrieve a handgun from the glove box.
He pointed the weapon at the bartender, a gleam in his eye as he stared down the sights.
The bartender felt a wad of dry phlegm force its way down his throat. “Please,” he said softly. “Don’t kill me.”
Dexter laughed, gave a gentle shake of his head. “Go back inside,” he warned. “To the toilets. All of you !” he waved the gun, gesturing to the men on the floor who were surfacing to the sight of the weapon. “Wait in there until we’re gone. No one follows us; no one tries to be a fucking hero. You can call the police if you like, I don’t care, but if any of you tries to follow us…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to finish, the gun did that for him.
The bartender backed up into the bar with the troop of stumbling wounded behind him. Dexter waited by the driver’s seat, waited until all of them -- including the blood-drenched Stetson, who was practically shoved into the toilets by the others -- were safely tucked away in the back room before slipping behind the wheel.
2
The rain - splattered afternoon was turning grey. It was summer, the sun was still out, yet the world was thick with misery and an early night seemed to be descending.
Max Cawley sneered at the bleak horizon. The thick build-up of cloud was so dense, it looked like the town had been wrapped in an opaque bubble. A few hours ago, when he surfaced from his sofa -- where he’d slept face-down, drooling onto the cushions -- the skies were lit with the promise of sunshine, an orange flare that threatened to break through the misery. After an hour that flare extinguished, the sun gave up.
He coughed into his hand, felt a wad of
Pandora turned and ran, straight out into the car park, straight for the car.
Dexter continued to hold the door open as he listened to Pandora rattling the keys behind him. The mob was rushing behind the toppled bartender, initially unsure how to react, then dead-set on giving chase. They clambered over the beaten teenager, over the messy floor, towards the door.
Pandora struggled with the keys, struggled to find the right one to fit it in the lock. She flashed a worried glance towards the door; saw the mass of movement shifting towards her partner, felt her heart growing agitated in her chest.
Dexter waited until the first man, the man in the Stetson, rushed for the threshold, then he slammed the door shut with all his might. The glass panel that covered the upper-half of the door swung towards Stetson. The door met with the brim of his hat, flattening it against his face, before the glass cracked against his forehead and shattered against his nose. A hail of shards exploded over his face, raining shrapnel down on him.
He screamed, wailed and threw himself backwards, into the advancing army. He tripped a couple of them up, sent one of them sprawling into the bottom of the door just as another slice of glass dislodged itself, fell and stuck between his shoulder blades with jarring precision.
They toppled over each other in an assortment of screams and curses. The bartender, who had, thanks to the tumbling teen, been the last in the advance, watched them trip and fall. He rose and clambered over them, kicking and climbing over the bodies -- watching in disgust as Stetson wandered away, his hand covering his bleeding face.
He made it to the door, yanked it open and prepared to shout at the escaping convicts. What he saw silenced him immediately.
Pandora had found the right key, managed to unlock the car. She had clambered into the passenger seat just as Dexter appeared from the driver’s seat, having ducked in to retrieve a handgun from the glove box.
He pointed the weapon at the bartender, a gleam in his eye as he stared down the sights.
The bartender felt a wad of dry phlegm force its way down his throat. “Please,” he said softly. “Don’t kill me.”
Dexter laughed, gave a gentle shake of his head. “Go back inside,” he warned. “To the toilets. All of you !” he waved the gun, gesturing to the men on the floor who were surfacing to the sight of the weapon. “Wait in there until we’re gone. No one follows us; no one tries to be a fucking hero. You can call the police if you like, I don’t care, but if any of you tries to follow us…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to finish, the gun did that for him.
The bartender backed up into the bar with the troop of stumbling wounded behind him. Dexter waited by the driver’s seat, waited until all of them -- including the blood-drenched Stetson, who was practically shoved into the toilets by the others -- were safely tucked away in the back room before slipping behind the wheel.
2
The rain - splattered afternoon was turning grey. It was summer, the sun was still out, yet the world was thick with misery and an early night seemed to be descending.
Max Cawley sneered at the bleak horizon. The thick build-up of cloud was so dense, it looked like the town had been wrapped in an opaque bubble. A few hours ago, when he surfaced from his sofa -- where he’d slept face-down, drooling onto the cushions -- the skies were lit with the promise of sunshine, an orange flare that threatened to break through the misery. After an hour that flare extinguished, the sun gave up.
He coughed into his hand, felt a wad of
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