Club None

XIII.

One of the security guards spotted the outlined figures, backlit by lightning, and the unrolled porch step and tarp-covered windows. A soggy pink flip-flop rested in the mud outside. He jabbed Chanden, the boy, in the ribs.

The two shoes matched.

Rain streamed into their eyes. Three against an unknown. Grey sky, wet guns, wet earth clinging to damp, cracked boots. Today was a day where dark and beautiful things wrestled against a shadowed world of thunder, ice, and baited breath.

Try as they might, fumbling to run, none of the three reached the door before the gunshot.