Idiosyncrasy: Broken Shades

"F. F. Fuel. Fuel tank. Fuel valve. Why are they out of order?! And why is an exhaust manifold over here?!" America hissed to himself as he continued down the wall of parts. He shivered as he turn the corner to the next wall, he felt as if someone was watching him. He glanced around as he walked, looking for any signs of a Bellvu. He tighten his grip on Ruger as he stopped at a box with the letters F and I printed on the label on the highest shelf.

America held his breath as he pulled the box of the shelf, using a rusted stool, with his Ruger still in his right hand. He slowly lowered the box to his chest and opened it.

It had, not one, not two, not four, but five fuel injectors. All matching with the jeeps model and laid in the box in almost brand new condition, even after 19 years of sitting in a box. America pumped his fist up in the air in a silent cheer.

The stool creeped under America's movement. It was never build to last. So when America cheered, one of the four legs buckled, shifting America's line of balance causing him to tip dangerously. America's eyes widen as he shot his dominant hand to the shelf, grading on to it for support. But in the process of grasping on to the shelf, the Ruger fell.

When the gun hit the floor, it sounded like a grenade going off in an empty auditorium, even though not one round left the chamber. The metal gun clattering against the floor was deafening against silence that filled the store before.

America looked down at the gun, almost feeling as if it betrayed him and summoned death. The terror that filled his body heightened his sense. He felt the adrenaline pumping through him as he heard a screech tear through the air, sounding too close for comfort.
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This book will have blood, gore, and biblical references and bible verses. If you don't like the biblical references, I'm sorry. I'm not forcing anything, because I'm not christen. I just live in a christen household.