Omaha

The floors have collapsed into the cellar. Burned furniture, the stove, the refrigerator, and other debris are scattered across the basement. Around the yard, in the driveway, the bushes, everywhere, he sees his papers and files blowing about. He realizes that the place was ransacked first, then torched.

In frustration, but with a note of despair, he says, “Shit,” and kicks a small rock. It sails upwards, then arcs downward into the cellar, landing with a metallic thud on the old stove below.

Returning to the car, he leans against its warm hood and surveys the remains. Pulling off one of his gloves, he reaches through his coat into a pocket and extracts a cigarette. Feeling through his pants for his lighter, he slides it out, hunches over, back to the wind, and lights the cigarette. He takes a deep drag and then flicks the tiny ash to the wind.

But out of the corner of his eye, something moves. He turns quickly. In the distance to the west, far down the road, a rising, spiralling plume of dust is moving his way.

Ambush! They were at the west end of the road. They saw my trail of dust. They were waiting behind the trees, out of sight of any farms, the way I usually come home!

Mike tosses the cigarette, jumps in the car, shoves the transmission forward, and floors the gas pedal. The rear tyres spin on the loose stone, and the car fishtails into a quick 180-degree about-face. It lurches back down the driveway. Swerving onto the county road, he races to escape.

Picking up speed, he kicks up his dust cloud. He wants to get to the blacktop a few miles east and the safety of the small farm town beyond. The crows screech and scatter skyward from the fields as his car clatters by.

A bullet pings his bumper, then several more. Some hit the trunk. He ducks when the rear window bursts into a tremendous starry pattern of cracked glass. They’re gaining.