Emmetsburg: Seventy-nine

Crimson. John’s truck roared around the bend, straight at the wall of townsfolk who were still unaware and fully focused on the soldiers and police ahead of them. The rain and rumbling thunder masked the rattle and bang of the old truck. It bore down seemingly intent, despite john’s better intentions, upon smashing directly through those unsuspecting souls.

The effort to move at all became a gargantuan task. His body was charging from life as much as his spirit fought desperately for every remaining moment-if only to see Anna once more or to prove some purpose for all this, and that there was still justice in the world instead of a blind lottery folks alternately succumb to or gorge upon.

Nothing was working for him. This damned body seemed all but out of his control any longer, as if some long denied separation between the body and will was now undeniable. His eyes were liquid, drifting, heavy and unfocused. He swung his head wildly and shook it again and again in a waning attempt to keep them open a little longer. John moaned in an attempt to rally body and spirit once more.

“Anna!” he cried, not knowing for sure if he’d actually spoken the word. But it allowed him the strength to jam his hand down upon the horn at the final instant. People dove from the truck as it cut a swath through the crowd. It was all the effort he had left. John’s head tipped back and his arms fell away limp.

The truck careened hard to one side. The group of soldiers about to fire on the crowd suddenly reeled back, fearing the truck might swing their way. Instead it cut hard across the road, fully separating Myron Himmel and Avery Lysander from the rest of the protesters. They were still struggling for the gun when the truck sped past and slammed into the embankment with a terrific bang, nearly flipping end over end. The sound startled Myron enough for Avery to wrest control of the gun, just as it went off.

It was the gunshot that riveted everyone’s attention, more that the crash, at least at first. The bullet had grazed Myron’s cheek, chopping away a bit of his ear. Blood poured in a torrent, making the wound appear for worse to the stunned onlookers than it actually was. He stood apart from Avery, now alone in the gap between the crowd and the government men, in his hand the smoking gun was now the final tombstone for his schemes and crimes.