One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 7

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Bhanar Narak yanked at the gun-case zipper as the headlights sped closer. The zipper stuck for an instant and the young man gave up and pulled the rifle out through the small opening, making sure to keep it as low as possible, hoping that the gunman wouldn’t see him.

Lying on his stomach, puffing clouds of steam between the cardboard boxes, Bhanar searched for the ammunition. Where were the bullets?

Sweat dripped from his nose. The approaching auto’s engine whined like the demons of Pétíso coming to carry him away.

Bhanar hadn’t asked to be famous. This was all his dad’s fault. Why couldn’t these Zhéporé-spawns be shooting at his dad?

Where are those bullets?

Or if Bhanar was famous, why couldn’t it be for something Bhanar had done, not because of who his dad and ancestors were? How about his motorbike victories, not this Tarénara-fucking emperor shit?

“Plague of Rívorí! Where are those Ahísıhíta-damned bullets?”

Bhanar exhaled slowly. The side pocket of the gun case, of course. His fingers slipped on the little zipper, wasting valuable time. The auto engine’s roar filled the entire desert.

Gunshots shook Bhanar’s universe, three in rapid succession. Glass shattered. Metal rang.

The reports still reverberating in Bhanar’s ears, he ripped open the ammo pocket, not wanting to check if he’d been hit. Grab a bullet, lever back, bullet in, lever down, and he sat up quick and aimed at the retreating little auto, a couple hundred yards distant.

In Bhanar’s sights, the brakelights lit up, painting the desert road blood red.

Bhanar squeezed the trigger.

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