Page 192 of The End of the World As We Know It

Brightfeather grunted, like he didn’t want to hear any of this. A man who preferred to be in silence, Leaf figured. A little like his father. Few words spoken.

On the last day, the skies cleared, which May lamented a little—said it would’ve been nice to get into Telluride under the cover of bad weather. But it was what it was, and soon it was night. The moon big,pregnant with light. And there, in that light, they looked down from the ridge to see the town of Telluride.

This is it, Leaf knew.Shit.

It was morning now, the sun spearing through a break in the clouds from the east—those spears of light pinning the target, the Hotel Telluride. Fixing it like a pig to the ground.

Leaf: now alone. The others had gone on, down into town under the cover of early-morning darkness. “Before they wake,” May said. “And before the next shift of guards comes in. The ones who are there will be tired. They won’t expect us.” When she told Leaf his part of the plan, he quaked like the clusters of aspens all around them. He tried to keep still, tried to put some steel in his spine, but he couldn’t keep the fear from crawling all over him. Brightfeather questioned his courage, called him a pussy, but May shushed the man. Told Brightfeather, “Leaf is the one for this job. He’ll do it, and he’ll do it well.”

“Look at him shake. He’s scared shitless,” Brightfeather said.

“We all should be. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s doing something necessaryin spite of it.” This last part she said almost angrily. Like Brightfeather should’ve known better. Chastened, the man let it drop, and she gave a short nod to Leaf, who returned it.

Presently, he was on his belly, lying amid the leafless bones of underbrush, the barrel of the Winchester pointed toward the hotel. A box of ammo—ammo his father had loaded, most likely—sat next to him. His job per Mother May I was simple in execution:In there, that’s where John Low is. He sleeps on the top floor of that hotel, and we are going to go in there and we are going to kill him. Once that starts, there will be people coming out of the hotel, and others running toward it. Shoot them all, Leaf. Same way you took down that elk: a whistling locomotive of lead punching through the soft hills of their lungs.Then she gently tapped the scope atop the rifle.The circle and the cross, she said, and winked.

He waited.

The line of the sun crept forward, like an advancing army.

Behind him, the trail they used to get here was trickling with snowmelt. Made him have to take a piss, that sound, but he held it. He had to hold it. For as long as he could. For as long as was needed. Still, his bladder burned with urgency.

He scanned the windows of the hotel, looking for movement. The hotel was old-timey, from an era whose name he didn’t know. No movement in the windows. He scoped the streets, too, looking for something, anything. The streets were full of trash. Heaps of it, careless and unclean. A wind juggled a wisp of black plastic garbage bag across the road. A rat chased after it, like it was a game, then was gone. And then—

A gunshot. Muffled, somewhat. From inside the hotel.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

His heart kicked up like a spooked rabbit, rushing through the brush of him. He tried to steady his breathing, and got his eye hovering over the scope.

Another shot.Bang.

His hands shook. His teeth rattled.

At the bottom floor of the hotel, the main door blasted open and two men came bolting out, running for a tall pole across the street, a pole with a brass bell nesting upon it—a long chain dangling.

An alarm.Leaf whined in the back of his throat as he put the crosshairs on the chest of the first man and—

He jerked the trigger too hard. The shot went in front, kicking up dust from a pile of trash. The two men flinched; they knew now they were being shot at, but they wouldn’t have factored where, not yet—

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—

Hand on the bolt, ratcheting it back, another round in the chamber—

Clackity-clack—

Another shot. This time—

A red flower bloomed in the side of the man. Kicked the wind out of him like a horse and his right leg folded under him like a house of cards. Down he went. The second one joined him a moment later, with the third shot.

They didn’t ring that bell.

But it wouldn’t matter, because the shooting had started.

It took minutes, at most, but to Leaf, it seemed to take hours. Everything was fast, but slow, too, like time didn’t mean shit anymore. It all ran together like paint; it formed no image, only chaos. Men running toward the hotel. The bolt, back, up, forward.Bang. Blood on the pavement, blood in the trash. His shoulder, numb now from the times the butt of the gun punched him there. The air smelled eggy and raw. His ears rang not like that bell but like a howling gale. Reloading, firing, never missing once, not after that first shot, no sir, no ma’am, and Leaf thought and kept on thinking,I hope they’re proud of me, hope Pop is proud, hope Mother May I is proud, we’re the angels here, and we are meeting the devils and sending them back to hell, I hope they’re proud of me—

And then, fast as it started, it was over.

Nine dead men on the street.