31.
The pickup’s thick off-road wheels
spit up sand, until the four-by-four catches hold of firm earth. We buck
forward heading in the direction of the pass just as the first shots whistle
past my head.
Spinning the 30 cal. around on its
tripod, I plant a bead on three bearded and robed bandits coming at me on
horseback. The pale riders of my personal apocalypse. I thumb the trigger and
spray them with multiple rounds. The first man’s head explodes like a melon
while the two behind him are split in half at the chest. The frightened horses
stop, rear, turn and sprint off in the opposite direction of the gunfire. I
don’t expect them to stop running for hours.
For the moment, there are no more
bandits to be seen. But I know that more will be coming. In the meantime I take
a quic
