the dog, Ash had a feeling he’d shoot him just to make a point. The thought stabbed a cold pain through his heart.
The porch boards creaked as the gunmen crowded in on either side of him, Lazaro with his shotgun and Salvador with his evil-looking assault weapon. Behind, Andres’s leather shoes stepped onto the wooden threshold. Then everything went quiet.
“So,” Andres said, his voice husky. “Show me.”
Ash’s mouth went dry.
This was it. No room left to stall. Now he had to improvise.
He tapped his heel on the hollow floorboard and looked down, drawing their attention to his feet. Then he tensed and launched himself at the corner of the porch. He hit the rotted corner post with his full weight.
The post broke against his shoulder, black decayed wood exploding from its center. Ash let his momentum carry him off the porch. The roof collapsed behind him, deafening.
Down into the knee-high mountain grass. Rough ground. He stumbled and fought for his balance. The driveway’s loose sand slipped beneath his smooth soles as he sprinted for the shed.
He risked a glance back over his shoulder. The porch roof was an avalanche of shingles and rotted wood. It folded in on itself, tearing off siding from the second story. A wall of dust rushed outward, blotting out the front of the house.
Ash pumped his arms as he ran, breath burning in his chest, and skidded into the shed. The sudden transition from sunlight to darkness left him blind for a moment. Moolah barked and plowed into him, happy paws and wet nose.
“Come on, buddy, let’s go.” He blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust, looking for a weapon to grab. Stripes of sunlight fell on the red Galaxie where the afternoon sun shone through the wall. Nearby, a cobwebbed pitchfork hung from rusted nails. He reached for it.
Bullets cracked through the walls of the shed, punching a line of holes through the wood. He ducked under a rain of splinters. Fingers of sunlight reached through the bullet holes.
He pulled the car keys out of his pocket. The first two didn’t fit in the door lock. The second one turned easily, despite his shaking hands.
He yanked the door open. Watery yellow lights woke up inside the car, mounted low on the doors and back pillars. Everything inside was black and chrome, frozen in time. “Moolah, get in!”
The dog shot past him in a blur of cinnamon-brown fur. Ash got behind the wheel and slammed the door, looking for a place to put the ignition key.
The dash had a speedometer a foot wide. Chrome knobs on an AM radio. Shiny switches everywhere. And there, in the middle of the dash, a slot for the key.
He jammed it in. Turned it. The motor cranked over, sluggish. Then silence.
He pumped the delicate-feeling gas pedal. The motor cranked again, even slower this time, then picked up little spurts of speed as he worked the pedal. He kept pumping, listening to the ancient starter whine.
Dust shot across the shed in thin streaks, carried by bullets. Bits of old bird nests rained down on the windshield. The rusted pitchfork, its tines streaming with cobwebs, clattered onto the wide hood. Fresh white splinters bristled from the bullet hole in its handle.
Moolah cowered on the floor in front of the bench seat.
“Come on, you beast,” Ash whispered, pumping the gas pedal.
The engine coughed, then coughed again and sputtered to life. A little blue square of light flickered to life below the speedometer, printed with the word COLD . He jammed the chrome shifter into gear and nailed the gas.
The whole car shook as the engine died.
Chapter Three
Ghost
Cursing, Ash worked the gas pedal as he turned the key again, coaxing the old car back to life. He kept his foot on the gas until trails of oily blue smoke curled in the fragments of the shed’s sunlight. Bullet trails streaked through the smoke.
He dropped the Galaxie into gear. The tires chirped on the concrete. The car lurched forward and hit the wooden doors, forcing them open.
The porch boards creaked as the gunmen crowded in on either side of him, Lazaro with his shotgun and Salvador with his evil-looking assault weapon. Behind, Andres’s leather shoes stepped onto the wooden threshold. Then everything went quiet.
“So,” Andres said, his voice husky. “Show me.”
Ash’s mouth went dry.
This was it. No room left to stall. Now he had to improvise.
He tapped his heel on the hollow floorboard and looked down, drawing their attention to his feet. Then he tensed and launched himself at the corner of the porch. He hit the rotted corner post with his full weight.
The post broke against his shoulder, black decayed wood exploding from its center. Ash let his momentum carry him off the porch. The roof collapsed behind him, deafening.
Down into the knee-high mountain grass. Rough ground. He stumbled and fought for his balance. The driveway’s loose sand slipped beneath his smooth soles as he sprinted for the shed.
He risked a glance back over his shoulder. The porch roof was an avalanche of shingles and rotted wood. It folded in on itself, tearing off siding from the second story. A wall of dust rushed outward, blotting out the front of the house.
Ash pumped his arms as he ran, breath burning in his chest, and skidded into the shed. The sudden transition from sunlight to darkness left him blind for a moment. Moolah barked and plowed into him, happy paws and wet nose.
“Come on, buddy, let’s go.” He blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust, looking for a weapon to grab. Stripes of sunlight fell on the red Galaxie where the afternoon sun shone through the wall. Nearby, a cobwebbed pitchfork hung from rusted nails. He reached for it.
Bullets cracked through the walls of the shed, punching a line of holes through the wood. He ducked under a rain of splinters. Fingers of sunlight reached through the bullet holes.
He pulled the car keys out of his pocket. The first two didn’t fit in the door lock. The second one turned easily, despite his shaking hands.
He yanked the door open. Watery yellow lights woke up inside the car, mounted low on the doors and back pillars. Everything inside was black and chrome, frozen in time. “Moolah, get in!”
The dog shot past him in a blur of cinnamon-brown fur. Ash got behind the wheel and slammed the door, looking for a place to put the ignition key.
The dash had a speedometer a foot wide. Chrome knobs on an AM radio. Shiny switches everywhere. And there, in the middle of the dash, a slot for the key.
He jammed it in. Turned it. The motor cranked over, sluggish. Then silence.
He pumped the delicate-feeling gas pedal. The motor cranked again, even slower this time, then picked up little spurts of speed as he worked the pedal. He kept pumping, listening to the ancient starter whine.
Dust shot across the shed in thin streaks, carried by bullets. Bits of old bird nests rained down on the windshield. The rusted pitchfork, its tines streaming with cobwebs, clattered onto the wide hood. Fresh white splinters bristled from the bullet hole in its handle.
Moolah cowered on the floor in front of the bench seat.
“Come on, you beast,” Ash whispered, pumping the gas pedal.
The engine coughed, then coughed again and sputtered to life. A little blue square of light flickered to life below the speedometer, printed with the word COLD . He jammed the chrome shifter into gear and nailed the gas.
The whole car shook as the engine died.
Chapter Three
Ghost
Cursing, Ash worked the gas pedal as he turned the key again, coaxing the old car back to life. He kept his foot on the gas until trails of oily blue smoke curled in the fragments of the shed’s sunlight. Bullet trails streaked through the smoke.
He dropped the Galaxie into gear. The tires chirped on the concrete. The car lurched forward and hit the wooden doors, forcing them open.
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