Chapter 67
“BILL!” I screamed in horror. “No!”
If Bill pulled the trigger on that flamethrower jammed against Smashface’s ribs, the dreg would burn. The backblast would cover the electric puttermobile, probably fill it. A confined, intense blaze would rupture the flamethrower’s fuel tank. Bill, the dregs around the car, the buildings along Main Street all would be splashed with high-pressure burning gel, and ignite a conflagration far beyond anything our two-man fire department and their single truck could handle.
Not that Alice and I would care. We’d die in the first blast. Not right away—but we’d get enough gel to burn us away.
Eventually.
I had to get Smashface away from that flamethrower before Bill squeezed the trigger, despite my broken ribs and the blood flowing freely from my
