been egging each other on, betting on just
which one of their worthy twosome was brave enough to purchase the jar, or at
least to take it down from the shelf, to open it and look inside.
Ten dollars for a whiff, perhaps? Twenty for a taste?
A little joking scuffle had broken out, and Sophie (she
remembered, guiltily, that she had edged her squeaky cart even closer to the
spectacle — not to admonish these overgrown boys who were almost soiling
themselves under muffled grunts and laughter, but simply to behold whatever
would happen next) had been nearby, with a brown paper bag of almonds held in
her latte-freed hand, when the tripe jar slid out from between twenty fumbling
boy-fingers and shattered, tumbling down in inexorable slow motion to its end,
where it exploded out in a wreath of fatty flesh, the glass shatter-void of the
jar designing a sudden, shrapnel-decorated gore-blot across the entire aisle
floor.
Clean up, aisle nine. Darcy, clean up …
* * * * *
Half a second, this girl’s horrific death, and this absurd resurgent
image from the time before flooded Sophie’s mind. She blinked, and large
pieces of the girl’s skull were still falling down through the greasy wind,
like pumpkin rind.
“Love of God, Sophie, get us out of here!”
It was Silas’ yelling that snapped her back to reality.
She exploded, her face, her entire skull above the teeth. Silas, her
head exploded …
“— Out of here!”
She could barely hear him. Hot and icy crimson washes of rage,
horror, disgust were still welling up inside her.
The H4 kept careening forward. With her left hand she was tilting
the steering wheel a little, it was slick with a film of sweat. The gun handle
was gripped in her right fist.
I’m going to throw up. Pass out. Can’t, can’t …
The girl’s almost-headless body actually took four more staggering
steps toward the Hummer before it collapsed, arms outspread, one leg up at the
knee and twitching wildly. Sophie never forgot that, it haunted her forever.
The other women had slowed, the men were still running toward
her. There were wails, shouts, even gales of brutish laughter as the headless
body fell. Skull splinters and bone matter had splashed up the H4’s driver
door, up through the open window. Hot blood and some kind of unseen fruit pulp
speckled Sophie’s cheek.
That’s when, turning left so that she could see both where she was
driving and the men charging toward her, Sophie managed to raise high the
submachine gun, cross her right arm over her chest and out the window, and pull
the trigger.
The other women had all fallen back, cowed, whipped, throttled and
guarded. Seven men were looming over them, many more were running nearer to
the Hummer as it wheeled around through the scrap-yard.
There were dozens of men then, all armed. Some were huge, others
frail, many limping. Most were bearded, scabbed, ashen. Hispanic, black,
white, bandaged beyond recognition. Some were little more than children
themselves.
And where was Zachary?
Shots were being fired. They had been, all along. Silas was
screaming.
One of the hulking men on the crest of the swarm had halted. He
was beaming, gloating over the girl’s mutilated body. Some other were pointing
at the guarded women or Sophie herself and hollering, their faces twisted in leers
of rage.
“She’s getting away!”
Sophie had never killed anything larger than a roach, a spider. Aiming
as best as she dared to in that second, she selected the gloating man as her
virgin kill.
She intended to spray bullets left to right, to sweep the swarm of
men, to avoid hitting any of the women, to kill as many of them as she could.
And why? For slaughtering the girl, for imprisoning the women, for shooting at
her, for terror and torture, for the dread of shame and fear, for Zachary’s
mellifluous spite, for despising Silas for nothing but the color of his skin.
For everything.
There was no justice, only
which one of their worthy twosome was brave enough to purchase the jar, or at
least to take it down from the shelf, to open it and look inside.
Ten dollars for a whiff, perhaps? Twenty for a taste?
A little joking scuffle had broken out, and Sophie (she
remembered, guiltily, that she had edged her squeaky cart even closer to the
spectacle — not to admonish these overgrown boys who were almost soiling
themselves under muffled grunts and laughter, but simply to behold whatever
would happen next) had been nearby, with a brown paper bag of almonds held in
her latte-freed hand, when the tripe jar slid out from between twenty fumbling
boy-fingers and shattered, tumbling down in inexorable slow motion to its end,
where it exploded out in a wreath of fatty flesh, the glass shatter-void of the
jar designing a sudden, shrapnel-decorated gore-blot across the entire aisle
floor.
Clean up, aisle nine. Darcy, clean up …
* * * * *
Half a second, this girl’s horrific death, and this absurd resurgent
image from the time before flooded Sophie’s mind. She blinked, and large
pieces of the girl’s skull were still falling down through the greasy wind,
like pumpkin rind.
“Love of God, Sophie, get us out of here!”
It was Silas’ yelling that snapped her back to reality.
She exploded, her face, her entire skull above the teeth. Silas, her
head exploded …
“— Out of here!”
She could barely hear him. Hot and icy crimson washes of rage,
horror, disgust were still welling up inside her.
The H4 kept careening forward. With her left hand she was tilting
the steering wheel a little, it was slick with a film of sweat. The gun handle
was gripped in her right fist.
I’m going to throw up. Pass out. Can’t, can’t …
The girl’s almost-headless body actually took four more staggering
steps toward the Hummer before it collapsed, arms outspread, one leg up at the
knee and twitching wildly. Sophie never forgot that, it haunted her forever.
The other women had slowed, the men were still running toward
her. There were wails, shouts, even gales of brutish laughter as the headless
body fell. Skull splinters and bone matter had splashed up the H4’s driver
door, up through the open window. Hot blood and some kind of unseen fruit pulp
speckled Sophie’s cheek.
That’s when, turning left so that she could see both where she was
driving and the men charging toward her, Sophie managed to raise high the
submachine gun, cross her right arm over her chest and out the window, and pull
the trigger.
The other women had all fallen back, cowed, whipped, throttled and
guarded. Seven men were looming over them, many more were running nearer to
the Hummer as it wheeled around through the scrap-yard.
There were dozens of men then, all armed. Some were huge, others
frail, many limping. Most were bearded, scabbed, ashen. Hispanic, black,
white, bandaged beyond recognition. Some were little more than children
themselves.
And where was Zachary?
Shots were being fired. They had been, all along. Silas was
screaming.
One of the hulking men on the crest of the swarm had halted. He
was beaming, gloating over the girl’s mutilated body. Some other were pointing
at the guarded women or Sophie herself and hollering, their faces twisted in leers
of rage.
“She’s getting away!”
Sophie had never killed anything larger than a roach, a spider. Aiming
as best as she dared to in that second, she selected the gloating man as her
virgin kill.
She intended to spray bullets left to right, to sweep the swarm of
men, to avoid hitting any of the women, to kill as many of them as she could.
And why? For slaughtering the girl, for imprisoning the women, for shooting at
her, for terror and torture, for the dread of shame and fear, for Zachary’s
mellifluous spite, for despising Silas for nothing but the color of his skin.
For everything.
There was no justice, only
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