Page 129 of Chaos

I suck in air through my t-shirt, hot and sweaty, try to steady my nerves.

I won’t miss.

I’ll shoot Duane, and in the next move, shoot Ben.

“Please,” Ephie says, so softly it barely carries to my ears, nearly lost in the increasing roar of the fire somewhere behind us in the building.

But then when he doesn’t answer, she shifts and I see she’s picked up a gardening trowel, holding it down in one hand, at a slight angle.

She walks closer to him, keeping the trowel out of sight, revealing Ben to my aim.

He’s bent over the table, a pen in his hand.

She picks it up, moving fast, without warning, swinging it in an arc just like he swung the hammer that day in the sunshine.

Duane shouts.

Ben lifts his arms to block the trowel. It falls slightly short of a full blow to the head, raking one side of his face from brow to chin.

I aim at the center of Duane’s chest.

He squeezes his trigger before I do, and his shot misses, blasting behind me toward the smoke-filled lobby.

I squeeze my trigger.

It’s a perfect shot, just one second too late.

He’s already lunging for Ephie, that massive ax in his hand, and it smashes into her arm on the blunt side, a bludgeon rather than a hack.

My second bullet fires off behind him, shattering glass, and a rush of icy air blasts inward like someone opening a window while speeding down a highway, loud and blowing back my hair, sucking away smoke.

Broken glass flies across the room.

I throw up my arm to block my eyes, try to regain my aim, and find Duane holding Ephie in front of him, the handle ofthe ax pressed flat against her throat, hard enough against her windpipe she’s struggling to breathe.

Ben’s struggling to stand, gray-faced and sweaty, with red welts on his skin.

Shane races into the room.

I duck behind a table.

The air keeps blasting in, ice cold, and at first, I think it’s good, fresh air feels like glory in my lungs, but it’s only going to fuel the fire and draw it closer.

“Show yourself, Frankie,” Duane calls out.

I peek through a gap in the tables, through fluffy green sprouts and veils of smoke, trying to get an angle I trust, but he’s holding Ephie squarely in front of him.

She gropes out with a hand and snags one of my avocado trees, grabs it by its fragile half-inch trunk, the ceramic pot coming with it.

She smashes it blindly back at Duane.

He dodges it with a curse, the ax handle across her throat loosening enough for her to suck in air as he grabs hold of her, his fist in her hair, hauling her around like she’s a ragdoll and smashes her face down onto one of the heavy, scarred wood tables we use as work tops.

Shane shouts.

My stomach lurches as she falls to the floor, her eyes closing, blood dripping from a clear wound across her forehead.

Potted plants and trays of seedlings go flying everywhere.

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