Page 141 of Shrapnel

“Kid!” Jackson pulled his machete, tossing it to Noah who caught it by the handle. As Mateo reached for the gun Noah brought the machete down, the hefty blade cleanly severing Mateo’s good hand from his wrist.

Blood spurted along the walls, pooling out while Mateo stared in horror at the stump of his arm. White bone flashed against the crimson.

Noah pointed the blood-splattered blade at Mateo. “There. I fixed it. You’re welcome.”

Mateo was transfixed, his eyes wide as blood dripped down his face. Noah grimaced, laying one hand on the prep table for balance. The caltrop was still stuck in his foot, poking out the bottom of his boot like some kind of lethal cleat.

Owen burst out of the van, sprinting the two blocks faster than he ever had in his life. Which wasn’t very fast. He wrenched open the front door, skidding to a halt once he got into the gore covered kitchen.

Noah was staring at the pair of handcuffs they’d brought. “How do we cuff a guy with no hands?”

Jackson grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. “I can think of a few ways.”

His voice was even scratchier than usual, rough and hoarse. His left eye was closed, eyelashes clumped with blood, and something jelly-like. He strode forward and pulled Mateo up by his shirt, slamming his fist into his face twice before dropping his unconscious body.

Noah limped towards Jackson, batting away his hands as he tried to examine his eye. Owen looked around the kitchen.

“Where’s Jamie?”

The metal fire escape rattled under his feet. Each ponderous step felt heavier than the last. The corrugated stairs felt sharp under his boots. Rust rained down where the railings were screwed into the building, the fasteners working themselves loose over time. The whole thing screeched and groaned when the wind picked up, whistling through the unevenly spaced railings and whipping the hair from his face. It was cold. A promise for a winter that would never really come this far south.

Jamie paused at the second-story landing. He could turn around. Clatter back down the stairs and jump back to the dumpster he used to get up to the ladder. Race around the corner, draw his gun and secure the back door of Paul’s Pizza Emporium.

He could. But he wouldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to. There was nothing Jamie wanted more. Maybe if he hadn’t spent the last few weeks knocking down his walls, he could. Hide behind them and feel nothing. But even as he considered that he knew it was a lie. Did he truly never feel anything? Or did he just dilute them all? Let in all the bad but never the good. Perhaps his walls were just an illusion. A placebo that made him think his nothingness was the absence of everything, rather than just the absence of happiness.

So no, Jamie would always have climbed this fire escape. Maybe that was destiny. He had never given that much thought. But perhaps from the moment he was born, Jamie was supposed to be standing here, swaying in the wind with his eyes closed because he didn’t want to see what was up ahead.

Everything felt so real. People always complained about never knowing they were in pivotal moments in their life until later, but Jamie didn’t have that luxury. He knew. He knew the decisions he made led him here, and that the next step would be the biggest decision he would ever make.

His feet were planted, gravity pulling him with ever-increasing force. It felt conspiratorial—his clothes, his gun, even his hair felt as if they were dragging him down. The urge to look over his shoulder was strong. Just once more. Like an addict claiming it was just one more drink. The last one.

Jamie opened his eyes and stared down at the grating beneath his feet. Garbage bags were stacked beside an overflowing dumpster, all framed by his dirty boots. How fitting. Lifting his head he studied the next set of stairs. They would be easier.

The weight of his gun was obnoxious. His hands drifted toward it, fingertips caressing the grip. So familiar. How many times had he used it? Aimed and fired without a second thought? And now he couldn’t. Now, of all times, was the time he stopped and considered the ramifications. What would happen if he just let the gun do the talking for him? Answered with violence.

He pulled it from the holster. Without looking at it, he let it drop. The sound of metal striking metal was too loud. It echoed around the empty streets. Eyes up, he stepped over the gun and continued up the fire escape.

It was easier once he made a decision.

Dominic was sitting on the third-story steps, leaning back on his elbows with his face upturned. The breeze caught the loose hairs around his face, fanning them out behind him. He didn’t move when Jamie approached, just smiled.

Ian was leaning over the railing, an M24 pointed toward Paul’s Pizza Emporium. He glanced at Jamie when he ascended the final stair, face glacial. Jamie didn’t need to look to know where he was aiming.

He had seen it the second he turned back to look at Owen in the van. And he knew. He knew what he had to do.

“You’re early,” Dominic said amiably, turning his head to face Jamie.

Ian might have the weapon, but Jamie knew who he feared more.

“Am I?” he asked, voice rough.

“I thought you would play a little longer.”

Jamie swallowed past the emotions clogging his throat.Play.Is that what he was doing? And here he thought he was busy living his life, putting Dominic and his past behind him.

He didn’t know what to say, so he took in the rifle in Ian’s hand. A classic. The M24 SWS was a staple of the military. He ran through the specs, trying to ground himself.