The White Road-CP-4 Read Online Free PDF

inevitable outcome of the events in the bar. Benson, unarmed and bleeding, had almost made it to the edge of the parking lot when the gunman caught up with him. His feet were swept from under him and he landed painfully in the dirt, blood flecking the ground before him. He began to crawl toward the long grass, as if by reaching its cover he might somehow be safe. A boot caught him under the chest, skewering him with white hot pain as he was forced onto his back, his eyes squeezing shut involuntarily. When they opened again, the man in the loud shirt was standing over him and his gun was pointed at Clyde Benson’s head.
    “Don’t do this,” said Benson. “Please.”
    The younger man’s face was impassive.
    “Please,” said Benson. He was sobbing. “I repented of my sins. I found Jesus.”
    The finger tightened on the trigger, and the man named Angel said:
    “Then you got nothing to worry about.”

    In the darkness of her pupils the burning man stands, the flames shooting from his head and arms, his eyes and mouth. There is no skin, no hair, no clothing. There is only fire shaped like man, and pain shaped like fire.
    “You poor boy,” whispers the woman. “You poor, poor boy.”
    The tears begin to well up in her eyes and fall softly onto her cheeks. The flames start to flicker and waver. The burning man’s mouth opens and the lipless gap forms words that only the woman can hear. The fire dies, fading from white to yellow until at last there is only the silhouette of him, black on black, and then there is nothing but the trees and the tears and the feel of the woman’s hand upon the boy’s own—“Come, Louis.”—as she guides him back to the house.
    The burning man is at peace.

    Little Tom rose up with the shotgun to find the room empty and a dead man on the floor. He swallowed once, then moved to his left, making for the end of the counter. He got three steps when the wood splintered at the level of his thigh and the bullets ripped through him, shattering his left femur and his right shin. He collapsed and screamed as his wounded legs impacted on the floor, but still managed to empty both barrels through the cheap wood of the bar. It exploded in a shower of shot and splinters and shattering glass. He could smell blood and powder and spilled whiskey. His ears rang as the noise faded, leaving only the sound of dripping liquid and falling timber.
    And footsteps.
    He looked to his left to see Louis standing above him. The barrel of the SIG was pointing at Little Tom’s chest. He found some spittle in his mouth and swallowed. Blood was fountaining from the ruptured artery in his thigh. He tried to stop it with his hand but it sprayed through his fingers.
    “Who are you?” asked Little Tom. From outside came the sound of two shots as Clyde Benson died in the dirt.
    “Last time: you recall a man named Errol Rich?”
    Little Tom shook his head. “Shit, I don’t know…”
    “You burned him. You ought to know.”
    Louis aimed the SIG at the bridge of the bartender’s nose. Little Tom raised his right arm and covered his face.
    “I remember! I remember! Jesus. Yes, I was there. I saw what they did.”
    “What you did.”
    Little Tom shook his head furiously.
    “No, you’re wrong. I was there, but I didn’t hurt him.”
    “You’re lying. Don’t lie to me, just tell me the truth. They say confession is good for the soul.”
    Louis lowered the gun and fired. The top of Little Tom’s right foot disappeared in a blur of leather and blood. He shrieked then as the gun moved toward his left foot, the words erupting from his gut like old bile.
    “Stop, please. Jesus, it hurts. You’re right, we did it. I’m sorry for what we did to him. We were younger then, we didn’t know no better. It was a terrible thing we did, I know it was.” His eyes pleaded with Louis. His whole face was bathed in sweat, like that of a man melting. “You think a day don’t go by when I don’t think about him, about what we