"What... what are you doing?!" Rodney Lynch’s voice cracked, a thin, reedy sound of pure terror. Beside him, Nelly Raleign gasped, her face draining of all color, turning a sickly, ashen white. Their bodies began to tremble uncontrollably, a visceral reaction to the threat now unfolding before them.
Their instincts, sharpened by years of hardship and the primal urge to protect, took over. The elderly couple instinctively tightened their embrace around Moira Lynch, the small child who was whimpering quietly, unaware of the full horror unfolding, but sensing the panic in her grandparents. Their eyes, wide with a fear that transcended even the grief of losing a son, darted from the gasoline-soaked floors to the men who wielded the cans, their gazes pleading for mercy, for understanding, for
