Entering The Office
Ezekiel reached into his pocket. He felt the cold brass of the shells as he pulled out a handful. Fear made his heart wither within him, but he did not stop moving toward the door. And in some sort of defiance of that fear, he flipped the shotgun upside down and began to push the shells into the bottom. He looked at the door. One of the windowpanes was missing. Jagged little teeth lined the edges like the stalactites and stalagmites of some fantasy cavern’s mouth. “Bring guns,” he heard Daniel’s voice as his eyes moved from one of those little glass teeth to the next. “Bring guns,” and Ezekiel wondered who had broken the window. Was it a band of street thugs or were he and his brothers dealing with something more sinister? Ezekiel glanced back. Isaiah still sat in the car. He was hunched with his head on the dashboard. His mouth moved. Frustration painted his face. Ezekiel shook his head and looked back toward the offices that were now filling his vision. The dozens of zigzagging windows were dizzying. For a moment, a falling sensation washed through his body, and he had to return his eyes to the gaping dark of the door’s broken window to regain his balance.
Ezekiel peered at the gaping door. Shards of glass glittered on the hallway floor. He did not hear anything from inside, but he did not enter. No. Net yet. He knew he could not go alone, and Isaiah had not even gotten out of the vehicle. But he had another reason for his hesitation. Daniel had asked for guns, which meant that someone who was a threat to Daniel had a gun. At best, his older brother had found a place to hide. At worst, his brother had already been greeted by that threat. Ezekiel had not heard any gunfire himself, but enough time had passed to place his brother in the same situation as their father.
Ezekiel shuddered. Despite all his brother’s flaws, Daniel was blood. Their relationship was some sort of dried husk of a thing, but it was still alive. Even if it were not alive, Ezekiel knew he had a duty to his brothers, to any member of his family. When he had attacked the man in the store, Ezekiel had done it without thought. He wondered whether attacking that man was the right choice. Ezekiel was not certain. Though the end result of that choice was his father half-dead in a hospital, something in Ezekiel could not shake the feeling that what he had done was right. He had done it wrong. He had been incapable of doing what he intended, but if he had all the tools and knowledge available to do what he intended, the result would have made a world of difference. The error was not in the action itself. The error was in how that action was enacted. It had been rash. It had been thoughtless. And that rash, thoughtless action had begotten chaos. No. Ezekiel knew he could not rush in as he had in the store. He had to plan. He had to take his time. He needed to think about each and every contingency before he stepped through that door. How many gunmen were there? Was it only a single person? Was it two? Ten? Twenty?
“Ten men with guns,” Ezekiel swore at the thought. How could he and Isaiah be of any help against ten men.
“But you have to go in, don’t you?” his thought continued unbidden.
Ezekiel nodded. The choice to fight was not the wrong one. The way in which he had fought before was the error. No matter the number of men inside with guns, he had a duty to go in. Family was in that building, and family was in danger. And even if Isaiah would not get out of the car, Ezekiel knew he would go through that door alone.
“I just,” he muttered to himself and sighed. “I’ve got to make a plan,” he continued, and he stepped out to the side of the doorway to hide from any eyes inside the building.
Ezekiel reached down to the weapon. He let his finger slide over the trigger. He flipped the safety off. He looked down at his shoelaces. Each was tied tightly. He tightened his belt, rolled up his sleeves, and pushed his hair off his face. “Should I crawl in? Or go through a different door? Or a window?” He shook his head at the thought. “Stay low. Stay near the walls,” he told himself. “And then. . .” he sighed as his mind filled up with the static empty of a blank. “And then what?” he asked himself.
Ezekiel imagined himself braced against the wall. He imagined the darkness of the hallway. The painted names on the doors were blurs in his vision. The exit sign cast a muted red down the corridor. Though darkness was falling on the world outside as well, the magic of the vision allowed him to see into his car. Isaiah sat alone. He still spoke to himself. This time his face was turned toward the roof. Ezekiel thought he saw a shout, as if his brother was crying to heaven. In this soft daydream mindset, he heard a noise from up ahead. He thought whispered voices, but he was not sure. His weapon was still cold in his hands.
As he crept forward in this daydream thought, the voices grew louder. He leaned around a corner. The men wore suits. Each held a Tommy gun in his hands, but they had not seen him. “That’s all I need,” Ezekiel thought, and when he swung his weapon up, time slowed, his finger found the trigger, the shotgun jumped in his hands, and after five shots blasting through the hallway, Ezekiel heard a metallic click. The red cleared from his eyes, and before the blood of the men began to pool on the floor, Ezekiel’s hand was back to his pocket. His fingers curled around another few shells. Smooth motions flipped the weapon over and pushed the rounds into the bottom. As the third slipped in, a man jumped around the next corner. A ratatat filled Ezekiel’s ears. The quick, stuttering muzzle flash filled his eyes, and Ezekiel dove behind the corner as dust and shards of brick flew through the air. In a huddled mass, Ezekiel pulled the pump on the shotgun. A clack-clack chambered a round. He turned the weapon toward the corner, let out a sigh of relief, and he waited. If he was lucky, the man would not see him in the darkness of the hallway. “But what if I am unlucky?” Ezekiel thought.
Within that daydream, Ezekiel shook his head. He would not think about that now. If he got shot, he would get shot. Action was the most important thing. Act now. Act quickly. Do the unexpected.
When Ezekiel sprang from the darkness of that hallway with his shotgun blasting through his ears and jumping in his hands, he was startled out of his daydream by Isaiah muttering in his ear.
“Alright,” Isaiah said. “I’m ready. Got my shotgun ready and everything.” Isaiah held the weapon out to Ezekiel barrel-first.
“Don’t point that thing at me,” Ezekiel muttered back harshly and pushed the weapon out of his face, but he was not mad at his brother. He was angry at himself. He needed a plan, and Ezekiel knew his daydream was not a plan. He had been stalling.
“Isaiah,” Ezekiel whispered back. “Who knows how many there are in there. Could be two. Could be a dozen. So,” he pushed Isaiah’s gun barrel back to the floor as it began to rise again, “we’ve got to take it slow.”
Isaiah nodded. He glanced back at the car. As he did, his face contorted into a frown. He glanced back to Ezekiel and then from side to side. He nodded again. “So,” he opened his mouth to speak but his head jerked back to the car as if he were startled. Isaiah looked down at his weapon. Whirlpools of light twisted in his eyes.
“Isaiah,” Ezekiel hissed over to him, but Isaiah continued to stare blankly and did not respond.
“Damn trip,” Isaiah muttered. “What did that damn Nazi give me?” He shook his head like a dog. His eyes returned to the car.
“What does that mean?” Isaiah yelled over to the car before pausing as if to listen to an answer.
“You’re supposed to be gone,” Isaiah continued. “The car’s not on fire. The building isn’t eyes. No more wild, wild world.”
“Isaiah,” Ezekiel’s voice was harsh as he whispered back. He glanced at the doorway. He thought he saw the shadow of a man out of the corner of his eye. “Isaiah, shut up. You idiot. Shut up,” but Isaiah continued as if he had not heard Ezekiel at all.
“No. No. I know you’re not.” Isaiah continued. “This is just the end of it, the end of you.” Isaiah growled. He looked down at the weapon in his hands. He looked back up and held that weapon out toward the car “No more knots. No more twisting, liquid weapons.” Then he dropped the gun to his waist and disappointment filled his face.
Ezekiel glanced down the hallway again. The shadow he had seen out of the corner of his eye remained at the end of the hall. Was it a man? He was unsure. It had the vague shape of a man, but for all he knew it could have been a shadow cast by a passing car. Ezekiel returned his eyes back to the street. He saw no passing cars. Instead, he saw a look of satisfied anger fill Isaiah’s face. His brother cackled. A mutter left his mouth. Ezekiel watched as his brother’s finger found the trigger, and Ezekiel jumped as the blast of the gun scattered itself through the city. Ezekiel thought he heard Isaiah cackle again through his ringing ears, and he watched as Isaiah pulled that trigger again.
Ezekiel seethed as Isaiah lowered the shotgun. His brother’s mouth shut, his lower lip stuck out, and Ezekiel thought he saw a look of satisfaction of some sort on his brother’s face. Ezekiel took several steps toward his brother, the anger mounted within him, and he released a hand from his own weapon and launched a fist into Isaiah’s face. Isaiah staggered back and looked up at Ezekiel with confusion.
“How are you such an idiot?” Ezekiel shouted. The confusion remained on Isaiah’s face, and when Ezekiel glanced over at his car, he had to hold himself back from punching Isaiah again. The side windows of his car were shattered, and little holes peppered the side of the vehicle. Ezekiel wanted to do more than punch Isaiah in the face. He wanted to knock him over, kick him in the ribs, and then give him a final swift kick to the head.
But Ezekiel stopped himself. He shook his head. He knew he had to control himself. They did not have time. They had lost the one thing that would have made this raid on Daniel’s office quick and painless: surprise. Now, everyone within ten city blocks knew where they were there, and if they decided not to investigate the noise, they would have been bigger idiots than Isaiah. “If you can be a bigger idiot than Isaiah,” Ezekiel muttered to himself. He shook at his head. He swore at himself. “I don’t have to bring Isaiah,” he thought. “I could leave him, couldn’t I?”
Ezekiel breathed in a long sigh through his nose. He imagined entering the dark hallway. He heard skitters from behind him. He heard voices from up ahead. Fear was tight in his chest.
A movement out of the corner of Ezekiel’s eyes turned his attention from Isaiah to the dark doorway. It was the dark figure he had seen before. It was clearer this time. If it was not a man, he did not know what it could be. Ezekiel swore to himself as he watched that figure move down the hallway. Anger had clouded his judgement. As soon as Isaiah had fired the gun, Ezekiel knew he should have grabbed his brother and run. They should have already been more than a block away. He had wasted time on his anger, but he knew he could not waste any more time.
Ezekiel dropped his gun to his side. He leapt toward Isaiah. He grabbed his brother’s weapon and lowered his shoulder to push his brother out of the way. They needed to be clear of the door thirty seconds ago.
Isaiah tried to grab his gun from Ezekiel’s hand, but he let his brother push him away from the door. Ezekiel began to let out of a sigh of relief, but it was premature. A few more feet and they would have been hidden behind the corner of the building, but Ezekiel heard shouting. He heard the loud click of a door opening, and when he glanced back his eyes met the eyes of an angry looking man a few years older than himself.
Ezekiel swore.
Almost as if he were echoing Ezekiel’s own profanity, Isaiah swore at Ezekiel. He reached for the weapon again. “Gimme my gun back,” he yelled at Ezekiel. “I didn’t get him. I missed. Damnit. So, give me the gun back, so I can shoot him again.”
Even if the people coming out of the door had not spotted them before, they would have now because of the muttering coming from Isaiah. Isaiah was loud, and loud for nothing. “What the hell is going on?” Ezekiel thought. “What the hell is that idiot on?”
Ezekiel glanced back toward the door as he pushed Isaiah along. He saw the men. Two men. Only two men. That was good. But it was not all good. He and Ezekiel had brought shotguns. They were adequate weapons for most situations. At this distance, he would not be able to hit these men, but they would blow a hole the size of a baseball in a man’s torso without much issue. Both these men held machine guns. Each held a short-barreled gun with a large, round clip underneath it. Sure. Each of those rounds in that drum would punch a hole in a man, but a bullet the size of a pea was just about as effective at incapacitating a person as a tightly packed bloom from a shotgun. Dead was dead.
“Run, damnit. Run, Isaiah.” Ezekiel stormed forward. Isaiah started to protest again. He tried to grab his weapon from Ezekiel again, but another bark from Ezekiel sent him turning and running toward the corner of the building. Ezekiel heard the rattle of the machine gun. Bullets zoomed over their heads. Some clicked into the tin of the warehouse next to them. Some ricocheted off the brick of the building. Dust filled the air, and debris bit into Ezekiel’s bare skin. It was only by diving to the corner of the building that they were not hit. Ezekiel knew if they had to contend with those bullets even a moment longer, they would have been dead. Simple luck had allowed them to live.
Ezekiel tumbled forward onto his brother as he landed. Both guns flew from his hands and clattered on the ground ahead of them. Ezekiel grunted, sat up, and then moaned. He looked over at Isaiah who was just beginning to pull himself from the ground, and he swore, not at him, but in his direction.
“Up, up, up,” Ezekiel barked as he sprang to his feet, but Isaiah’s nose only wrinkled. As Ezekiel grabbed him and tried to pull him up to his feet, he only slumped to the ground.
“We need to get up,” Ezekiel yelled at him. “Get up, Iz. Get up.”
Even though Isaiah would not stand, Ezekiel pulled him across the pavement. As he neared the weapons, he let go of his brother with one hand and snatched one of them off the ground. He thought that if he took a moment to tuck this first one under his arm, he could grab another, but he knew time was precious. It was better to have one gun and be alive than have two and be dead.
Isaiah continued to slump toward the ground. He muttered to himself about having missed whatever he was shooting at. He tried to lurch back to grab his gun with a “Well, I need to grab my gun,” but after a quick whack from Ezekiel, he gave up and allowed himself to be pulled the whole width of the building around a second corner.
Ezekiel breathed a sigh of relief. For now, they were safe, but they could not stop. They could not stop, but they also could not go. If they ran from the building, they could hide, but they would be leaving Daniel to these men. If they continued with their mission, they would find themselves going around the whole building only to be confronted with the men again, and in a worse situation than before: where they had two guns before, they now only had one. Maybe if he had time to plan, he could come up with something that would give them the upper hand, but he knew that he had no time to plan. They had thirty seconds, less. Any moment, those men would come running around the corner of the building, and Ezekiel did not think their luck would save them a second time. As Ezekiel thought of the faces of those men appearing around the corner of the building, the image of the store invaded his mind. He knew he had to act, but any action he took would be pure reaction. But the last time he had acted without thought, he had gotten a man shot, and that man had been his father.
Ezekiel glanced forward. He glanced behind the office. Industrial buildings blocked his vision. He glanced toward the building. The office stretched above him with glittering windows. One of these windows was just over their heads.
Ezekiel reached a hand up. He gave the window a shove. Locked. He swore. Fear fluttered in his chest. Was this the best option? He had no idea. Ever since Isaiah had pointed his shotgun at Ezekiel’s car, all good options had been destroyed. As Ezekiel stared at the window, he had another sudden urge to punch Isaiah in the face, but he did not let the anger rise above a murmur. He pushed the anger down, and he nodded.
Maybe it was not the best option, but it was an option. It was an option that would get them closer to Daniel’s office.
Ezekiel nudged his brother. Isaiah still mumbled to himself, but he glanced over.
“Iz,” Ezekiel said. “See the window.” He pointed to the side of the window. Isaiah’s eyes followed. “I’m going to hoist you up and you’re going to break that window and climb through.”
Isaiah looked at him. Though he had a blank stare on his face, he nodded. A sour look spread across his features, but he still took a step toward that wall. “Iya, okay. I’m ready,” he glanced back toward the corner of the building. His eyes darted back and forth as if he were looking for something. After a moment of doing this, he looked back to Ezekiel and nodded his head slowly, almost as if he were drunk.
Ezekiel put out a cupped hand. Isaiah stepped in it. Ezekiel pulled up with his arms, and Isaiah rose. “Shoot the window,” Ezekiel brought the weapon up with his other hand. Isaiah snatched the gun and began to mutter to himself again. Another flutter of worry filled his chest as he wondered whether giving Isaiah the gun was the right choice, but now it was too late. The gun boomed. The window shattered. Ezekiel glanced up. He saw Isaiah. He saw the window only half broken, and he saw as Isaiah took the weapon like a baseball bat and swung it at the remaining debris. When the debris had been cleared, Isaiah nodded to himself, and launched himself into the room. Ezekiel heard the clatter of the weapon on a wooden floor. He heard the yell of men. Isaiah’s hand reached down, Ezekiel clasped it, and he felt himself rising through the air. Though it seemed to have taken more than a minute, Ezekiel knew from the time they had stopped at that window to the time Isaiah pulled him up was no more than twenty seconds.
As Ezekiel tumbled forward onto the window shards covering the floor, he heard another yell. It was a curse from one of the men. This curse was followed by the puttering of machine gun fire. Ezekiel stared across the room. His brother faced away from him. He seemed to study the rest of the room. The shotgun was on the floor in the midst of broken glass. More stuttering machine gun fire came from outside the window. Bullets bit into the ceiling. Plaster dust floated down, and as Ezekiel scooted himself across the room, he snatched the shotgun from the floor. A moment later and he was on his feet, pushing his brother away from the window with one shoulder, pumping the shotgun, and preparing to fire.
“Away from the window,” he hissed to Isaiah, and he thanked God when Isaiah did not move. “We need a surprise,” he continued. “A way to catch them off guard.”
Ezekiel returned his attention to the window. He took a step away from his brother. He brought the shotgun up to his shoulder, and Ezekiel watched the corner until a shadowy figure appeared. After the shadowy figure came into full view, Ezekiel aimed at the torso of the figure and pulled the trigger. He did not even feel the recoil before he pumped the shotgun again and prepared another round. His finger pulled the trigger a second time, and within another second, he was able to fire a third at that shadowy figure. He would have fired a fourth, but instead of a boom from the weapon, he was greeted by a click. When he lowered his weapon and looked at where he had shot, he saw a huddled shape. Had he shot the man? He was not sure. He hoped. Hell, he hoped. The dark lump remained unmoving on the ground, but Ezekiel was greeted by another rattle of machine gun fire.
“Down, down,” Ezekiel pulled Isaiah down as he dropped to one knee. Another rattle of gunfire zoomed through the room. As he glanced out the window, he saw no other shape of a man. He saw only muzzle fire. The second man had been smarter than the last. He kept himself close to the corner. He kept himself just out of reach of Ezekiel’s gunfire “Hide. Hide, Isaiah. We need to hide,” he muttered, and he began to push Isaiah away from the window again.
Isaiah swayed as he continued forward. He began to fall forward, and Ezekiel had to use all his strength to keep his brother upright. Still trying to keep his brother on his feet, he looked around the room. One corner of the room had a desk. A bookcase was on another wall. A minibar slouched next to it. It had been a nice office before its window had been destroyed and bullets decorated the ceiling.
Ezekiel wondered how much time he had. Ezekiel had only seen two men, but he knew that there could be more men, maybe three, maybe five, maybe ten. Heaven forbid ten. Only one man would be coming through the window, but a whole host might be coming through the door.
The best hiding Ezekiel could find was a couch. He pushed Isaiah forward. He pulled Isaiah behind one of them. Ezekiel’s hand went to his coat pocket. At first he felt nothing and his heart dropped. When he felt that single lump in his pocket, he did not feel much better. He had a single shotgun shell left. That was it. That was all. One single shell. One chance. One opportunity. “Okay,” Ezekiel thought. “I’ve got one, clear asset. If I aim well and wait for the last moment then. . .” Ezekiel sighed. He glanced at Isaiah. His brother was staying put (Thank God), but his eyes looked just as distant as when Ezekiel had picked him up. “One, clear asset,” Ezekiel restarted the thought. He knew that asset was not Isaiah. If anything, Isaiah was a liability. He had already cost them the element of surprise, and Ezekiel wondered what other idiot thing he would do.
“But you couldn’t have predicted that, could you?” Ezekiel thought. “Not from Isaiah. Of any person, not from Isaiah.” Ezekiel shook his head. He turned his gun over and pushed his final shell into the bottom of the weapon. As he turned the gun upright, he glanced at the window and then the door. He wondered where danger would come from first. Or would it come from all sides at once? “What if it is ten men?” he thought. His face twisted as if he had just tasted something sour. Heaven forbid ten men would come through that door. How would he even begin to fight if that happened? Maybe he could shoot one, but could he do much more?
“You would do what you could do,” he thought, but he did not believe his words. He was afraid, and he was angry. That anger was a simmer in his chest. He did not deserve to be here. He did not deserve these past two weeks. One damnable domino fell into another until he was crouching behind the flimsy fabric of a couch and waiting for men with machine-guns to blast him into the afterlife.
“Zekiel,” Isaiah’s words slurred as he spoke the name. “Heyuzekiel.” Ezekiel felt a weak arm on his shoulder and turned to his brother. The distance in his eyes had grown sharp. Perhaps he was coming up from his drug trip. Ezekiel hoped, though only a little.
“I don’t know where my gun went,” Isaiah continued.
Ezekiel sighed at his brother and shook his head. “It is outside,” he thrust his head toward the window. “You dropped it.”
Isaiah nodded. “So that’s the only thing we’ve got?” Isaiah’s words continued to slur as he spoke and gestured toward the shotgun in Ezekiel’s hands.
Ezekiel nodded. He wanted to give his brother a quick jab to the nose, but he knew it would only inflame the situation further. It would not help relieve any of the exasperation or worry filling him.
“Damn,” Isaiah answered. His eyes drifted toward the window. A light from somewhere illuminated part of the alley, but most of the space was black with the night. Ezekiel followed his brother’s eyes, and he thanked God for the darkness. Maybe he could not see the enemy, but neither could the enemy see him. Maybe he had more assets than he thought. Maybe they could build some solid strategy from the bits and pieces they found lying around.
Ezekiel’s eyes returned to his brother. Isaiah’s head nodded. His eyes continued to stare out that gaping window intently. His face contorted with quick nausea, but he did not move as if to vomit. He only continued to nod. His mouth opened. He muttered to himself. Ezekiel heard something about demons, a fight, a weapon, a war, bits and pieces, not much more. After a minute of muttering, Isaiah jumped to his feet with a loud grunt. He jerked to a stop as his face filled with a wash of nausea. He closed his eyes, braced himself against a chair, and let out a long sigh. The nausea left his face bit by bit, and when it had all gone, he let go of the couch and walked across the room in long strides.
“Isaiah,” Ezekiel spoke into the darkness of the room.
Isaiah did not answer. The air was filled with scuffling.
Ezekiel looked down at his weapon, and Isaiah continued to clatter and scuffle in the rest of the room. Ezekiel wished he were somewhere else. Could God somehow twist the world like a warm piece of toffee, and take that world he was living in, that ugly world of pain, and stretch it into something peaceful and clean. If he remembered that old ugly world, so be it, but better he forget everything. It mattered little to him if only everything changed.
Ezekiel brought his gun up and pointed it toward the window. He wanted to ask Isaiah what he was doing, but he did not. He wanted to tell Isaiah to get behind the couch, but he was tired. It had been a long day. It had been a long two weeks. He would let Isaiah do what he was doing, and he would live with the results. It could not result in much worse than the bad already done.
Ezekiel was startled as Isaiah thumped down next to him. He glanced over, and Isaiah glanced back. As their eyes met, his younger brother swung something large between them.
“What is that?” Ezekiel asked.
“It was a chair leg, and now it is a club,” Isaiah answered.
Ezekiel felt his eyebrows raise.
Isaiah shrugged. “Better than nothing.”
Ezekiel nodded back, but he did not answer. He had heard something. It was not the sound of a weapon. It was slow, rhythmic thudding, the sound of footsteps. “Do you hear that?” His voice was a whisper as he spoke to his brother. When Isaiah did not respond, Ezekiel felt that same hesitating fear return to his chest. He wanted to be the hero. He wanted to attack whether or not those men had superior firepower, but his legs had suddenly become rigid. His arms were cold, flash frozen in place. The thudding was growing louder. Soon, the door would creak open, and if luck did not hold, the best he could hope for would be him at the mercy of a thug. That meant pain. The worst he could hope for? He did not want to think of that, but his mind forced an image of his limp body lying in a pool of blood on the floor.
The door handle rattled without the door opening. The rattling stopped. Ezekiel sighed in relief, but that relief sweeping through his body was premature. Deafening gunfire filled his ears. Dust filled the room. He did not hear the door swing open over the ringing in his ears.
“Isaiah, I think it is best if we—” as he spoke, he turned to his brother, but Isaiah was gone.
“Idiot,” he thought, and fear pulled his body to the floor. “He is going to get himself killed,” he thought, and he tried to make himself shrink into the fabric of that couch. Ezekiel tried to force the wall of fear from his mind. He knew he could not stay still. He knew he needed to do one thing, anything that would help himself and Isaiah survive.
When the door flung open, Ezekiel did not move. He remained stuck to the couch as still as the shed skin of a grasshopper. He heard the slow thud of shoes across the floor. He heard a grunt. A short cry was followed by a soft crack. This crack was followed by a loud thud. Ezekiel inched his way to the edge of the couch, peered in the direction where the noise had come from, and he saw Isaiah standing above a crumpled figure on the ground.
“A gun, a gun,” Isaiah muttered. “By the window. It flew from his hands,” Isaiah gestured wildly toward the window with one hand.
Isaiah continued to speak, but his voice was too quiet and Ezekiel did not understand what he said. Ezekiel was busy scrambling out into the room tripping and falling. After getting back up to his feet a third time, he slowed himself enough to remain on his feet and was able to make his way over to the weapon on the floor. Before he reached the dark shape of the weapon the floor, he saw the man beneath Isaiah try to jump up, and he saw that makeshift club in his brother’s hands come crashing down on what appeared to be his head. The man who had started to lift himself from the ground did not cry out this time. All the tension went out of the man’s body, and he flopped onto the floor. Ezekiel looked down at him. A large, red welt was on his forehead. His eyes were closed. At first Ezekiel thought he was dead, but when he looked, Ezekiel saw his chest heaving up and down just slightly. He was still alive, and Ezekiel wondered whether he liked that or not.
Isaiah glanced over to him. “I’ll get the gun,” Isaiah said. The chair leg clattered onto the floor, and Isaiah started to move toward the weapon the on ground.
“No, no,” a deep voice came from the doorway. “I don’t think so.”
Ezekiel turned to the doorway. And he sighed. They had taken out two men, but the inevitable had happened. The man swept the machine gun he held across the room. “Drop your gun,” he nodded toward Ezekiel.
Ezekiel groaned.
“The gun,” the man said again.
And Ezekiel dropped the gun.