The muzzle flash was blinding, the sound earsplitting. Joe screamed. On the opposite wall over Nate’s shoulder, there was a shattering of brick and mortar. The man yelled as he began to trip, the sound barely audible over the ringing in Joe’s ears. He was careening forward and off balance, headed for the ground and trying to break his fall. The flashlight went spinning and clattered on the ground. The shotgun did too, smacking the cracked concrete and pinwheeling toward where Joe was cowered.
In his peripheral vision, Joe could see Nate scrambling backward, trying to stand. The man let out a slew of curses and grunted as he tried to make it back to his feet. The flashlight was still lit, sending a broadening pipe of milky light through smoke and dust. The door stood ajar, with cinder blocks and pieces scattered about, like a hole had been blown in the building. In the air was a sharp metallic smell. Joe looked down.
The shotgun had stopped right in front of him.
The man was working his way to his knees, his eyes on the gun. Joe saw this and reached for it. Nate cried out something, but Joe couldn’t understand it. Joe stood up with the shotgun and felt for the trigger. It felt like warm lead in his hands. The man was soaked in sweat, one side of his shirt collar flipped up and stuck to his cheek. His eyes were positively mad.
“Leave us alone,” Joe said. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere other than his body. The man wiped the collar away from his face and grunted. He was not tall but sturdily built and had hair like a clown: two dark patches above his ears and not much on top. His mouth was open, and a fat pink tongue swept around his lips. He spit blood to the side.
“Gimme that.”
“No. Let us go. I needed shorts, that’s all. We have money.”
“Gimme it, you little fuckin’—” He took a step forward. Joe grabbed the lower part of the gun and squeezed backward. The stock moved more easily than he expected. Clack-clack. The man stopped.
“You don’t even know how to fire that, you little shit.”
“I just saw you do it twice.” Joe could feel his heart thudding like a bass drum. The man fished more blood out of his mouth with the slimy, restless tongue and spat. Then there were noises from inside the store—a muffled crash and a tinkling of glass. The man gave Joe one more baleful look, then screamed something unintelligible and stomped back through the open door into the darkness. His voice echoed back and forth between the courtyard and the storeroom.
“Joe, let me have it,” Nate said softly. Joe hadn’t noticed that Nate had moved over to him. He hadn’t noticed anything, really. All he could see was the man’s face—the wild eyes, the lolling tongue. “Joe?” Joe let Nate take the gun. There was hot silence for a moment, the air still angry with the shotgun blast, the strange tunnel of light still emanating at ground level from the flashlight.
Then there was a scream from down the staircase, where Robbie had gone.
“Robbie!” Nate yelled, still holding the gun and darting that way. “Robbie!” He turned to Joe. “Grab the flashlight!” Joe’s heart was thudding again; it was a wonder that it didn’t just slam out of his chest. The scream came up again, and Joe’s blood curdled with it. It was Robbie, but it almost sounded like a girl’s scream.
Without words, Joe and Nate worked in concert, Joe knowing that he needed to hold the flashlight and shine it down the stairs while Nate went down. Nate bounded down holding the shotgun, but with the butt forward instead of the barrel. Between Nate’s body and the shadow it cast, Joe couldn’t see much. There were people down there, though, arms and legs shuffling and skittering on a hard surface. A face turned directly toward the light, and Joe almost dropped the flashlight. The lips were peeled back, exposing dark teeth. The face was covered in facial hair or dirt or both. The eyes were squinted shut. It turned, and the mouth opened.
“Fuck! Go!”
Joe heard a door swing and hit a wall. More skittering, shoes scraping on gravel. Nate had reached the bottom of the stairs. Joe tried moving the flashlight around, but Nate’s body and shadows were obscuring everything.
“Robbie!” Nate yelled. “Oh God, Robbie, are you—”
Another scream came up, echoing into the dank stairwell. Joe took a few steps down. Nate set the shotgun aside and knelt down. Now the flashlight found Robbie. He was on his side, curled up and covering his head with one hand. His clothes were on, but he was clutching his shorts with the other hand, like someone was trying to pull them down. Joe almost clicked the light off. He moved it over to a corner so as not to shine it right on Robbie.