I lowered my sights to Maldano, who tried to kickstart the bike and failed, then raised to try again.
It would have to be fresh. It would have to be alive.
And then I fired—once, twice. A third time. Knowing the battery was directly beneath the seat. Knowing it was shielded only by a thin layer of plastic.
Knowing it had exploded only when the cover blew off and white smoke started to billow—after which, shaken and confused, Maldano turned to look at me—pitifully, mournfully; resigned—and the animal pounced, pinning him to the pavement like a moth on cork, clamping its jaws about his head and chest, pulling him asunder as though he were full of blood red centipedes.
––––––––
I am running, running along the back of the strip mall, gripping the medicine bag in one hand and the Model 60
