Chapter 56
56 Pissed Off Widow doesn’t have a measly handgun, either. The edge of my flashlight’s illumination brushes the boxy shape of a machine pistol in her hand. That thing can blast more rounds in a second than my .38 can hold. It looks like her finger’s outside the trigger guard, not on the trigger, and she’s pointing it at the hospital’s concrete floor, so that’s something. But in the hospital’s freakishly citrus-scented cold darkness, with the wheezing and trembling victims of Noah’s experimentation surrounding her, I can’t be sure of killing her before she fountains death. And if she recognizes me behind this flashlight, she’ll accept death if it means killing me. I try to make my voice lower pitched and slower than usual. “Drop the gun.” Pissed Off Widow stares unblinking at my light.
- Writer
