United States Of Apocalypse by Mark Tufo, Armand Rosamilia Page B

climbed all the way out, and put his feet on the ground, right into a growing puddle of fuel.
    “This thing is going to go up like a Roman candle.” Mike moved away from the car, but a nagging urge tore through his chest, threatening to crush his heart under its weight. “Fuck you, Officer Tynes,” he said as he ran around the car to the nearly undamaged driver’s side. The door opened with a squeal as the front quarter panel rubbed against it. A loud pop signified when he’d cleared at least that one potential hurdle. The cop’s weight had pulled the seatbelt tight, and Mike had a hard time gaining enough slack to be able to press the release button. When he finally did, the clip shot past his face, rewarding him with a gash across his cheek.
    “No good deed goes unpunished,” he said as he wiped the blood on his sleeve. Mike gripped Tynes’ right arm and pulled, but the man barely budged. “What the hell, man. Do you eat bowling balls for breakfast? Fuck it. I tried.” He turned to leave just as a small fire broke out over the hood. “This shit funny to you, God?” Mike cried to the heavens. He turned back around and reached in, grabbing the officer’s duty belt with both hands. When that didn’t work, he placed his feet against the frame of the car and leaned back. At first nothing happened; it was as though Mike was trying to roll a boulder up a hill. Then Mike felt a slight release, and there was a second where he thought perhaps it was himself being stretched, like a prisoner on a medieval torture device, but it was Tynes shifting, finally.
    “Come on, you fat bastard!” he shouted as he savagely pulled backward, the blood in his hands cut off as the belt dug deeply into them. Adrenaline kicked in, and at a quarter inch to a tug, Mike figured he’d be done around the same time his body finished cooking. The flame had spread. Golden fingers licked up the face of the cracked windshield, desperately looking for a way in, and for the fuel needed to keep itself alive.
    Tynes finally showed some signs of life as he grumbled about the rough treatment he was receiving.
    “Yeah, so how’s it feel?” Mike asked through gritted teeth as he continued to yank the man free from the clutches of a car that desperately wanted the officer to go down with the ship.
    Tynes let out a hearty grunt as he thudded onto the ground. His eyes, which had been closed, began to flicker. Mike pulled him another twenty feet across the pavement, confident that he was now far enough away should the car become engulfed in flames. Mike thought about just taking off before he noticed a couple of guys about fifty feet away greedily eyeing the car. One was holding what appeared to be a large kitchen knife, the other a butcher blade. The crowd had rapidly dispersed with the onset of imminent trouble.
    Why? Why would they…that thing isn’t going anywhere. Then he realized it wasn’t the car they wanted. It was the shotgun that had broken loose from its locking device. “No way, assholes. That’s mine.” Mike sprinted for the car just as one of the men made a break for it. Unless he’s Jesse Owens, I’ve got this. Unless, of course, the stupid thing is stuck, then he’s going to stick me in the ribs with that knife.
    “One for the home team,” Mike said as he grabbed the barrel of the twelve-gauge shotgun and pulled it out of the car. He quickly ratcheted a round into the chamber and spun. The man coming at him with the knife quickly veered off.
    “Fuck you, honky. I’ll gut you,” the thug threatened.
    Mike’s heart was hammering in his chest. He’d been in a fight or two in his life, but it’d always involved fists and generally had regarded a woman. Mike had the distinct impression that, at this very moment, he was fighting for his life, and the shaking barrel only confirmed that for him.
    “Take the gun, Y-Dog; he ain’t gonna shoot you,” the man with the butcher blade said, wisely not coming any closer.
    “Yeah,