raised by wolves

I grab the woman by the arm when she doesn’t get to her feet quick enough. I put the gun back in my waistband. I’ll need to be quiet here. I could punch a hole clean through this woman at this range. This woman, I think. Who might be my mother.

Could I do it?

I can’t do this right now.

My head needs to be clear.

I take a deep breath.

We creep into the cave-like darkness of the back hallway. I look for something heavy. Something nasty. I remember there was a work crew here some weeks back, tearing up the concrete floor with pickaxes to get at the plumbing. It would be too good to find a pickaxe right now.

I hear the groaning of the smashed back door. They’re inside. As many as ten of them, assuming there aren’t more cars on the way. Could’ve waited. Got carried away.

My foot bumps something that sounds like metal on the concrete and tile. I grope for it and find a wooden shaft, about waist-high. I pick it up and tentatively touch the end of it. A shovel. But it will do just fine.

Around the corner that leads to the kitchen in the back of the restaurant, I press the woman against the wall. Barely audible, I tell her if she moves from this spot before I tell her to, she will die. She doesn’t have time to think about it before I’m gone. This will be easy.

Framed in dim silhouette, I see four figures, four distinct shapes moving, darkness on darkness. More outside. I can do this.

“Frankie, I can’t see a god damn thing,” says one of the shapes.

“Shut up,” says a second shape.

“Someone hit the lights, would ya?” says the first voice again, a nasal bleating. “I can’t see a god damn thing.”

“Shut up, Teddy,” says the second voice. “Or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?”

None of them noticed the muffled sound of wood on Frankie’s spine.

“Come on, tough guy,” the shape called Teddy says. “You wanna square up with me in a dark hallway and me carrying a machine gun, be my friggin’ guest.”

“Would you both shut up?” demanded a third voice. “I’m trying to find the god damn light switch, alright?”

The light switch is right in front of me.

There’s that familiar click and suddenly, the lights are all on. Three of them still standing. Frankie, presumably dead on the floor.

Before any of them can register what’s happening, I’m swinging the business end of the shovel like I’m getting paid for it. One, two, three squashed-melon heads later, and the only sound any of them make is the thud of a cadaver hitting the floor.

I turn the lights off.

I wonder who has this much firepower to waste on something like this. Two of the four had machine pistols. The other two had AK’s. I thought I spotted a grenade before the light went off, clipped to one of their belts.

I creep back to the spot where I left the woman, but she isn’t there.

I punch the wall where she was standing. I could do it.

Even if she’s telling the truth?

I could do it.

I pluck the grenade off of the third man’s belt. It’s the kind that detonates on impact. The fun kind.

“Lou, Frankie,” says the fourth voice of the fifth man. “What the hell are you morons doing in there? Turn the lights on!”

I pick this fifth man up by the head and toss him back the way he came, right through the door. He lands between the two cars. I toss the grenade after him, a nice underhand throw with a little hang time on it. The grenade lands gently in his lap. It still blows up, taking the man, his crotch and both cars with it into the great cindery beyond.

There’s even a lovely secondary explosion when the cars gas tanks ignite.

The last one left, a charred barbeque-smelling husk, is too deep in shock to answer any questions I might have and so I put my boot through his still-smoldering face. I didn’t have any questions anyway. You don’t need to know why someone is trying to kill you. You just have to know how to kill them first.