Picking up the pieces
The sound of the Weasel’s V8 engine had died away, carried off by the rustling of the trees. His foulness swallowed by night and forest, spitting out two bloodied bodies.
It took Jonas a while to find the gun, groping around blindly. His fingers were seared by the red-hot metal of the barrel, as the evil thing smouldered under the couch. He ejected the magazine and counted the spent rounds – three for Chloe, one for him; a miss.
He slipped the .45 into the back of his pants, ignoring the smell of heated underwear it brought.
Dawn would be arriving soon, and with it, trouble. Blinking away blood, coffee and what he guessed was a concussion, he carefully lifted Chloe. It was as if she were asleep, dreaming some pleasant fiction, far away from a bloodsoaked room and her own ruined body.
Outside he passed the car – tires slashed of course – and walked, like some solitary pall-bearer, toward the distant glow of town. The twin glows of dawn and the city lights competed on opposite horizons for the sky.