One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 9

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Bhanar Narak rolled onto his back, careful not to disturb his legs, and opened his eyes. Where was his rifle? He needed to start shooting people. He turned his head this way and that, finally spotting the gun a few feet from the gravel, at the base of a two-foot-tall scraggly bush.

The siren had stopped, but he was sure he could still hear it, faintly. Just ringing in his ears.

“Pí‘oro!” he called. “My gun! Bullets!”

The old man towered over Bhanar, rifle clutched in his beefy hand. He glanced down at Bhanar and growled, “Calm down, son,” then stared toward the road.

Bhanar craned his neck to see that direction. Gravel poked into his scalp, not even coming close to masking the bolts of pain from his legs.

Way back at the highway, Zhíno ran towards them, coming to finish off Bhanar face-to-face.

“My gun!” Bhanar screamed.

The useless old Sorosotuzho wasn’t going to get it for him. Bhanar had to do it himself. Ignoring the excruciating agony in his legs, Bhanar pulled himself across the ground toward his rifle.

“Stop,” commanded Pí‘oro. “You don’t need that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Bhanar stretched out the last few inches and grabbed the barrel of his rifle, yanking it to him. He spared a glance down the driveway, only to find it empty. Just gravel and desert brush flashing red and green. Zhíno had disappeared, probably hiding in the bushes, sneaking up for a surprise attack.

“Pí‘oro, I want bullets!”

“I will help you,” snapped the old man. “Just be quiet and stop moving.”

Was the old man actually going to shoot Zhíno? Or was he just lying to Bhanar to keep him pacified? If Pí‘oro didn’t kill that Zhéporé-spawn, Bhanar would kill them both.

“Dead,” he hissed. “Make him dead.” Or you’ll be dead, too.

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