There’s no explosion.
No round discharged. No bullet entering Sam’s face and exiting out the back of The Skinner’s head. I pull back the slide and try to fire again, but there are no more cartridges in the magazine, and The Skinner knows it. Because not only is he . . . it . . . laughing, he never once attempted to move an inch as I prepared to blast his ugly brains out. He just stands there in complete control of the situation.
itMy shooting hand goes from trembling to outright seizure. The g*n suddenly weighs one hundred pounds, and I have no choice but to drop it to the dirt floor. My stomach is twisting into knots that tie and untie themselves at will. My face feels hot. Burning hot where the spider bit it.
The Skinner takes a step forward. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed, my fe
