Bad Radio by Michael Langlois Page A

something from the house and the yard now, but a second ago, it was only from the house.”
    “Bags don’t just appear out of nowhere.”
    “You’re the goddamn expert, you tell me.”
    Henry said, “Looks like they can hide themselves somehow.”
    I grimaced. There’s no such thing as a good surprise in a fight. “That’s new.”
    “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t recall us ever coming across one trying to sneak around.”
    “Shit.”
    “Hey Abe,” said Anne, “they’re both outside now, moving around.” The sound of a trunk slamming made everyone look at the door. Ten long seconds passed. “Guys? Is it just my nose, or can everyone else smell gas?”
    That’s the great thing about life, it’s never so bad that it can’t get worse.
    Leon sniffed the air. “They can’t burn us out. This building is made of sheet metal. It won’t burn.”
    The door crashed open, propelled by the foot of the massive bag that killed Carlos. Instead of a shotgun, his hands now held a red plastic milk crate full of clear glass bottles. The bottles were full of a pale pink liquid. Gasoline.
    He heaved the crate, but held onto it, launching the bottles through the door. They shattered on the concrete floor, spraying everything between us and the door with fuel and shards of glass.
    A split second after launching the crate, he moved to the side to allow the man behind him to step up holding a single bottle in his hand. The bottle had a burning rag stuffed in the top, the flames barely visible in the strong sunlight. The larger man was already picking up a second crate.
    Leon saved us. His hand snapped up, and he fired twice. The bottle exploded in the man’s hand, engulfing him in a halo of flame.
    Leon, Henry, and Anne all started shooting. The bag that was on fire was screaming and frantically flailing at himself to put out the flames.
    His skin and shirt began writhing and twitching. The worms were feeling the heat as well. He dropped to the ground and started rolling, and I lost sight of him as he moved out of the doorframe to the right.
    The larger one dodged nimbly off to the other side, also out of sight. Leon put two more rounds through the sheet metal to the left, hoping to get lucky. Everyone stopped shooting.
    “We have to move. They can throw some fire in here any second, or more likely, the fumes will get thick enough that we’ll light them off ourselves with the guns. I’ll go out first and draw their attention, you guys count to three and follow. Run for a car. Anyone have their keys?”
    “Mine are in the house, in my purse.”
    “I’ve got mine,” said Leon. “But when I get to the car, I’m going for the trunk, not the driver’s seat.”
    “Don’t argue with me, get in the car and drive away. They won’t follow you, I have the piece.” Leon started to say something, but there wasn’t time to listen. He was going to do what he was going to do, and I wasn’t going to change his mind.
    I ran for the door and leaped out into the sunlight as I crossed the threshold. A shotgun bellowed but missed me. I hit the ground next to Carlos. The next blast wouldn’t miss.
    I dropped my baton and grabbed Carlos’s body by the collar of his shirt, which was sticky and wet, and his belt, and surged to my feet. The man with the shotgun was standing next to the corner of the building, maybe twenty feet away.
    Leon was coming out of the doorway. I apologized to Carlos and hurled the body across the intervening space. The shotgun went off again, and then there was a meaty thud as the two-hundred-pound corpse slammed into the baitbag, knocking him to the ground.
    Leon immediately changed course and ran for the downed bag, or more accurately, the shotgun now lying on the ground a few feet away from it. The bag surged to his feet, effortlessly throwing Carlos’s body to the side, but it was too late. Leon already had the shotgun.
    He fired at point-blank range, catching the bag in the side and tearing open a gaping