It would have saved us both some trouble. I did take the gun and exit the car, run around the house, trip over a plastic rain gutter and nearly slam face first into the grass before I emerged around the back. I heard him chasing them, shouting and firing his gun into the air (I hoped), and after another minute of running across the raw desert that lay just on the other side of all this false suburbia, I cramped up. The stitch lit up my side like a purple flame and I stopped, bent over and threw up into the rocky sand. I was dehydrated and lost and my head was throbbing like it had its own heart. I wiped my mouth and walked back to the car. I thought of stealing it, but only slipped the gun into my waistband and wandered off down the street. I didn’t want to know what Rick was up to. Chasing immigrants or squatters - the Crawlers, people like me the night before - was my guess, though why he cared I could not imagine. No one was paying him. It was probably simple blood sport to him, a hobby, a way to feel powerful and needed after being downsized from the prison.
What do You think about The Haunting Of James Hastings?
