Page 119 of Walking Wounded

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Luke startles awake. He registers the now-familiar darkness of their room, Hal’s warmth beside him, the sighing of autumn wind in the eaves. And shouting. Alarmed male shouting, outside somewhere.

He jerks upright, throws off the covers. “Hal?!”

Hal is already sliding out of bed, hand slipping under his pillow and coming out holding the dark matte shadow of a gun. He is a contradiction: vulnerable in his thin t-shirt and bare feet; and strong in his posture, eyes glinting through the dark. “Stay here.”

“Like fuck.” Luke flops out of bed gracelessly and staggers to the window. The floorboards are cold, biting at his feet. He sees the bright orange lick of flames and presses his hands to the window panes, stares through the fogged glass in horror.

There’s a car on fire by the carriage house. Thewhoompof combustion must be what woke them.

“Shit,” Luke says. “Shit, shit, shit. Hal–”

Hal’s chest presses into his back as he looks out the window over his shoulder. “Oh, fuck. Stay here.”

“But–”

“Stay here! Luke.” Eyes wild in the gloom, nostrils flared. “Luke,stay here, please.” And then Hal’s gone, leaping out the door.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. Luke cups his hand over his mouth and fights hyperventilation. His lungs ache, but they feel better. His sinuses are healing. His heart thunders a fierce tattoo against his bruised ribs.

This is it, he thinks. This is the bomber coming to finish the job. Like hell is he letting the love of his damn life run at that alone.

He steps into his Nikes where they sit at the edge of the bed and slips out the door.

The hallway is dark, but he hears the murmur and rustle of voices. He glimpses Tara and Maddie peeking from their room and waves for them to go back. Matt slides out of the master and whispers, “What’s going on?”

“Car on fire,” Luke whispers back. “Hal…” He points toward the top of the stairs.

Matt follows him, but Luke is ready to push the senator back if he tries to overtake him. If one loser writer gets shot to death, so be it, but he’s starting to think this country really needs this hated damn senator.

The burglar alarm goes off, an awful shriek.

When he hits the bottom of the stairs, he sees Hal, a sinister silhouette in the threshold of the kitchen, gun raised. And then he sees the flicker of movement in the shadows of the entrance hall.

“Hal!” he shouts.

A gun goes off, a sharp crack, deafening in the confines of the house.

Hal whirls, and the shadow hits him, takes him to the ground.

Luke has never believed in the notion of one’s life flashing before their eyes. He doesn’t believe in it now. But in that fraction of a second, in the dark first floor of the colonial farmhouse, he sees his future.

A townhouse with a wreath on the door. Hal standing at the stove, his back warm and strong when Luke presses his face into it. Tears, and laughs, and long sugar-sweet nights. He sees gold bands on fingers, anniversary beach trips. Flecks of silver in Hal’s hair, lines around his eyes. A lifetime. Birthdays, Christmases, ups and downs – Luke sees all of it. And he wants it so bad he aches; he tastes it on the back of his tongue, like ecstasy.

It’s that vision – hisfuture– that propels him forward.

The two bodies roll on the floor, flash of Hal’s white shirt, contrasting shadow of the intruder’s dark gear.

Luke aims, rears back, and kicks Hal’s assailant in the head. Or the place where he guesses his head is.

He hears a grunt, a thump, a curse.

Someone fists the back of his shirt and drags him backward: Matt.

Someone cracks someone else across the head with a blunt object, the juicy sound echoing off the walls: Hal. He stands, white shirt glowing in the dimness, and Luke’s knees almost give out.

The lights come on, a sharpclickand a flood of sun flare.

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