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my right hand and tugged at the ripcord with my left. One buckle released
as planned. One didn’t.
    The weight of my shifting pack hanging over my right
shoulder caused me to overcompensate and fire the buckshot over their heads.
But it bought me enough time to drop to a knee, slap the buckle open, and pump
another shell into the chamber. As they fired wildly at me, my second blast
found its mark. So did the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth; it took me three
seconds to empty the shotgun.
    Three of them were down in front of me, screaming in agony
from the countless lead balls I drilled into their bodies. The two men behind
them carrying bats weren’t immobilized so they turned, stumbling for the safety
of the garage.
    Dropping the spent shotgun on the ground, I reached back and
drew the Glocks. Two of the three downed men were trying to crawl away on their
hands and knees. I walked up to the first and placed the barrel of my gun in
the small of his back. The large .40 caliber bullet severed his spine, dropping
him to the ground on his face. The second crawling man received the same gift.
    Turning my attention to the two men running up the ramp in
the parking deck, I holstered the smaller handgun, went down to a knee, and
raised the more accurate weapon. The adrenaline coursing through my veins
caused my hand to tremble. Once again, I closed my eyes and thought of Sam.
When I opened them I could feel her holding my arm steady.
    Gently squeezing the trigger, the bullet entered his back
between the shoulder blades. He fell without a sound. As the last man standing
approached the turn that would save his life, I squeezed again. A red cloud
formed in the air as the round entered his right ear.
    With all the targets down and disabled, I remained on one
knee with my aim still inside the garage. I was hoping more would come out of
the nest. When none did, one by one, I checked each of the men who had been looking
to take from me.
    Three were dead. Two were paralyzed but alive. One of the
two was begging me not to kill him. The other was too busy coughing up blood to
speak. I looked to my right and saw the gas can sitting on the ground.
    Why not ?
    I dragged the two men down the ramp by their ankles,
dropping them next to the others in the street. The man coughing up blood
finally found words. They were inadequate.
    “I bet you thought things were going to turn out a little
different, huh?” I said, kneeling beside him. “Being shot in the back, dragged
by your ankles, and coughing up blood probably wasn’t part of the plan.”
    “We were just messing with you, man. I swear to God we
weren’t gonna do nothin’ to you.”
    “Just like you weren’t going to do anything to them?” I
said, pointing at the burned bodies. “No worries, partner. This won’t hurt for
long.”
    “Please, God! Don’t do this, man! I got a baby!”
    “Tell Sam you’re sorry.”
    “What?”
    “Tell Sam that you’re a coward and that you’re sorry for
hurting her. Scream it at the top of your fucking lungs so she can hear you. If
she does, then I’ll stop killing you.”
    He did, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
    I emptied the gas can on them, lit one of their baseball
caps, and tossed it onto the pile of cowards.

Chapter 6
Whisper
     
     
    I don’t remember walking under the interstate that circles
Atlanta. That point on my map was ten miles away from my front door. All I do
remember is walking as fast as I could. I was trying to get away from the smell
of burning flesh.
    It was everywhere. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t
get it off of me. A friend who was a firefighter told me it sticks to you as
the burning fat and fluids produce a greasy smoke. He said you could feel it as
if somebody had sprayed you with a thin mist of rancid Crisco. I thought he may
have been embellishing.
    He wasn’t.
    When my mind started to break through the trauma of killing
– burning – five people, I became more aware of my surroundings.