Page 161 of Shrapnel

He pushed himself up, a wordless scream forming on his lips when his muscles pulled and twisted. On his knees, he breathed through the pain.

Maybe he did deserve this. Maybe this is karma. That’s fine. Then karma can come look him in the fucking eye and take it all away from him. Because he was done playing by anyone else’s rules.

He wasn’t the boy spat from the flames—he was the flames. And he was ready to burn.

Swearing, he got to his feet, lumbering over to the window. Years of disuse made the window stick. Jamie pushed and pulled on it, his arms wobbling. Piercing pain exploded in his chest, and he had to stop and cough. Forehead resting on the single paned window, he focused on breathing until the black spots stopped flickering across his vision.

Fingers splayed on the glass, he worked the ill-fitting window back and forth until the bottom unstuck from the sill. Thousands of dead bugs had died between the wooden slats, creating an adhesive with their decomposing bodies.

Dry desert air caressed his face. Jamie inhaled like it was the first time. Clean air blew the dust from his mouth. The breeze was mild, winter in the desert wasn’t so much cold as it was tolerable. Holding the window up with one hand, he ducked through onto the sloping roof.

Years under direct desert sunlight had worn the shingles down. Their rough surface had smoothed and turned them slippery. Jamie’s toes gripped the loose shingles as he lowered himself onto his stomach. The roof was hot. It burned him through the thin t-shirt he was wearing.

Lowering the window so it didn’t smash down, he eased himself fully onto the roof. He was just above the expansive covered front porch of the saloon. Jamie had no idea where Dominic or Ian was, but in his current state, there was no way he could take either one. The drugs had coursed through his system, and while they took the edge off the pain, they also made him sluggish. On a good day, Ian could wipe the floor with him.

And this was not a good day for Jamie.

On his belly, he inched towards the side of the building. He hadn’t had much of a chance to scope the place out, but he knew there was a narrow alley between the saloon and what had been the general store.

Shingles rattled under him, slicing the tender skin of his belly. His vision swam in the bright afternoon light. Closing his eyes was better. Blowing out, he used his hands to find his way. Eventually they flopped into empty space and he knew he had hit the edge.

Cracking open a lid he peered down into the alley. The roof ended and he looked around for any options.

He had none.

Jamie didn’t give himself time to overthink. Tucking his head, he rolled over the edge. It wasn’t very far, but there was enough of a drop that his stomach twisted. He landed on his right leg, ankle giving way in the thick sand before he pitched sideways.

Pain kept him conscious. It crept up his right leg, throbbing with every beat of his heart. Jamie bit down on his forearm to keep from crying out. Breathing through his nose he tried to calm down. Jamie wanted to cry. Actually, he wanted to pass out. But neither option was viable at the moment.

Pressing into the loose sand he sat up. His right foot was still attached and facing in the correct direction. With more spots dancing in his vision, he pulled up his pant leg. Running his hand down the length of his calf he could feel the blood rushing under his skin. The swelling would begin soon.

Using the wall of the general store as a crutch, he hobbled down the alleyway. The toes of his right foot dragged through the coarse grains of sand. He stuck to the shadows.

Just outside the alley, a spigot was fastened to a wooden water trough. Jamie threw himself at it. The wood was rough and warm under his palms as he rested against it. Dirt and debris had collected in the trough. The metal handle of the spigot was rusted, and he had to yank it several times before it snapped open.

Nothing. Not even a laborious exhale of dust. He was so thirsty.

Up ahead was a large warehouse. Fashioned to look like a barn, he knew it was a storehouse for the theme park. Ian had parked their car inside. Limping, he made his way down the main street. He flailed and fell, using his right leg to catch himself before he forgot. Pain sparked across his body, and he felt like he might throw up. Or maybe he did, there was just nothing in his stomach to come up.

He managed to get to the barn, pulling the big door open a crack so he could slip inside the gloom. With a door closed behind him, he let himself collapse to the cement floor.

Jamie was dripping sweat. Dust and dirt clung to his skin and his shirt had ripped at some point. He checked his ankle again. There was a definite lump just above his foot. Wincing, he closed his palm around it. Pressing down he could feel, and hear, the bones grinding against each other. Gagging from pain, he released his leg and forced himself to take stock of the barn.

Light spilled in through the slots in the slats. The air smelled dusty and old. Ian’s stolen car was parked just inside the big double doors. Besides the car there was an old, rusted tractor and what looked like the skeletal remnants of an old carriage. Between the big vehicles crates, totes, and boxes of junk were stacked in every corner.

Using the car, he pulled himself to standing. There was a workbench littered with tools on the side wall. The car was useless. Ian or Dominic would hear the engine the moment he got it started.

A fine layer of dust coated everything. Jamie blew it off and started rifling through the tools. He needed a weapon. Or a phone. Hell, he would take a handful of Ibuprofen and a bottle of water.

He found none of those things.

Groaning in frustration, his hand knocked a set of pipes to the ground. They clanged against the cement before rolling to a stop. He stared at them.

Just before he shot his tutor's eyeglasses off, he spent some time discussing WWII. Jamie had mostly dozed through the class, but one lesson did stick. The Philippines were being invaded by the Japanese. Filipino Guerillas made their guns. They called them Slam Fire shotguns.

At the time Jamie wondered how the Filipinos walked around with balls that big.

Snagging the pipes, he tossed them onto the workbench before moving to the boxes. To make this work, he needed to get creative. Which would have been a lot easier if he wasn’t dry heaving from pain. He licked his chapped lips. Even his tongue felt dry.