Monday, June 6, 2011

Bullets Flying

In the first terrifying instant, Stevie thought a killer earthquake had finally hit Los Angeles. Or was it a random shooting? In either case, survival depended upon taking cover immediately without pausing to ask questions.

Stevie reacted instinctively. "Collin! Collin! Get down!" she screamed. As glass shards and splinters rained overhead, she dived to the floor and began crawling toward the bedroom. Slugs hitting the walls sounded like mighty hammer blows. Framed pictures and knickknacks dislodged by the concussion crashed against the furniture on their way to the floor. For six more seconds the deafening barrage continued across the front of the house, round after round piercing walls, spitting chunks of glass, drywall, and wood splinters.

By the time Stevie reached the darkened bedroom, it was over. The windows there had been hit too, and shards of glass littered the bed and carpet. Invading .45 slugs had silenced the TV and blown the bedside lamp to the floor. Through the open window Stevie heard a car speed away.

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