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cleaver. The guy was half buried under the linen tablecloth. A pile of linguini in red sauce was sliding slowly down his back. |
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Flame licked up from a corner of the tablecloth that had fallen into the shattered chimney of the table's candle. |
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Cassy, cleaver in hand, rushed over to John's side. |
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He ached to reload. The weight of the cartridges in his shirt pocket pressed against him like a cruel joke. The instant he broke open the cylinder . . . |
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He looked past Cassy at the fire. Half the tablecloth was blazing. The dead man's hair steamed. Flames leaped around his massive torso. His skin crackled and bubbled. |
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John stuffed his left hand into his pocket, clutched as many cartridges as he could, and threw them at the fire. They spread apart in the air. Some dropped into the flames, while others bounced off the body and rolled away on the hardwood floor. |
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'Dumb fuck!' shouted another. |
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Others looked surprised, others scared, some angry. A few whirled away and fled. |
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Cassy suddenly hurled her cleaver. It tumbled end over end, sliced off a man's ear and chopped into the chin of a woman behind him. |
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'Let's get 'em!' a man yelled. |
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Now she's done it, John thought. |
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Nobody charged, but the remaining ten or so crazies started moving in. |
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'Stop or I'll shoot!' John snapped. |
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