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He saw the flash before he heard the pop. The percussive ppffft that almost drowned out the moan. The head snapped back, lolling from side to side, then finally found a resting place slumped over the right shoulder. As blood dripped from between the eyes, he wondered if the bastard had ever felt a thing, he’d been so dead drunk.
The thought didn’t quell the shakes, his hands clay cold and stiff. For a while he heard nothing. Then he became aware of his own breathing. He crept out from his shelter and swallowed dryly. Tried to walk, but his knees buckled.
He melted to the floor.
Stayed that way for a long time. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Time was a black hole, a stupor of sleep and restlessness. Everything was shadowed and fuzzy.
Slowly, things came back into focus. The room, the floor, the bound body, the hole between the eyes. Blood had seeped onto the carpet, pooled around his shoes.
He stared, hoping tears would come. But they didn’t. They never did.
With great effort, he hoisted his gawky frame upward, nearly tripping over spindly legs. The curse of being tall at such a young age: He was all height, no muscle. Light-headed, sick from the smell of gunpowder, he let go with a dry heave.
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