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

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Chapter 7: Powers of Good



Zhíno Zhudıro hurried through the darkness toward a dim light in a small window. Less than a meter to the right of it, the shadowy forms of a screen door and tiny porch presented themselves. The light in the window wasn’t bright enough to be from that room, which meant probably nobody was near the door.

Zhíno smirked. Fírí must have gone somewhere else in the house, probably cowering in a closet.

He slowly opened the screen door. It squeaked quietly, but he doubted anyone heard it. He pressed his ear to the wood door and listened.

Several deep thuds, like someone stomping across the floor. A distant rumble of a man’s voice. Perhaps it was that same fat Zhéporé-spawn who’d shot his wrist. The Koro-brained hicks who lived here must’ve let him inside.

Zhíno’s wrist started throbbing in sharp bursts of pain. He did his best to ignore it. He had to concentrate on getting those automobile keys from Fírí. It was too late to change his plan, too late to load the boxes to the stolen Enforcer cruiser. The weapons sat in the Sonla’s trunk, so he had to get the keys to the Sonla.

The old fat man’s talking and stomping disappeared, to be replaced by nothing.

What if that Zhéporé-spawn actually lived in this house, and wasn’t from the truck? It was a possibility, but it didn’t change things much.

Zhíno turned the doorknob. Locked. Finally, someone in this town knew how to lock a door!

A grimace of ironic pleasure on his face, Zhíno stepped back, closing the screen door slowly. He eyed the window. If he could open it, it would be large enough for him to squeeze through.

With his uninjured right hand, Zhíno pushed upward on the lower pane of glass. It slid partway up, then jammed. He grabbed the bottom edge and jiggled it loose, then shoved it upward.

A few seconds later, Zhíno had his nose down in a bleach-cleaned kitchen sink, his legs still kicking outside, his broken left wrist radiating pain, and his right shoulder throbbing in an attempt to keep up with his other gunshot wound.

He pulled himself sideways with his right arm, wriggling his waist and legs through the window and onto the counter. He promptly fell onto the floor.

Lying in agony on the cool linoleum, Zhíno gritted his teeth and turned his head to look toward the light in the next room. Between table and chair legs and through an open doorway, he saw a blank television, a couch, and a couple chairs. And a window directly across, which meant it was the front of the house. If anyone had been in that room, they’d surely have come running when Zhíno fell off the counter. Therefore the fat bastard and Fírí must be somewhere else in the house.

He felt his pocket for his handgun. It was almost time to use it again.

As Zhíno started to sit up, someone pounded repeatedly on the house’s front door and yelled, “Open up! This is the Colonial Enforcers!”

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