Darkness on a Pale Blue Stone by D. T. Peterson Page B

run your mouth," Damien said. He picked the young man up and placed a pistol against his temple. "I think it's about time I put one in your skull, Jake."
    As Damien said this, Gresson slowly folded down his collar and cracked his neck. He calmly said, "I think you should let him go and move along. It's in your best interest." His hand reached inside his coat and gripped his gun.
    "And who are you to tell me what's in my best..." Damien said as he stepped toward Gresson, dropping his victim. He stopped once he recognized him. "What the hell?" he questioned softly.
    "Damien, what's up?" one of his companions asked.
    After a moment of stunned silence, Damien laughed. "This guy looks just like that president who got shot. Goddamn creepy, man."
    "Who?" another thug asked.
    "President..." Damien started.
    "...Gresson," Alice, Michael, and Sean finished in unison.
    "Yeah, and he's dead." Damien said, unsure.
    "Not quite," Gresson replied.
    Damien blinked his eyes in bewilderment. He raised his gun without confidence and said, "Well... well if you try to tell me what to do, I'll... I'll make sure you die this time."
    "Put the gun down, Damien," Gresson said. He had now raised his gun as well. As if on cue, the other rifle-armed men behind Damien began to raise their weapons. One of them over-zealously pulled the trigger.
    Within seconds, the firefight was over. It was unclear who was alive and who was dead, but everyone was on the ground, either from being shot or attempting to avoid it.
    Gresson caught his breath, realizing he had been shot twice in the left arm. His gun was still raised by his right hand as he saw that all but one of his targets were dead. Across from Gresson was Damien, with holes in his chest but still enough life in him to stay sitting up. The only other person next to him left alive was Jake, covering his head and unscathed except for his previous chest wound.
    Gresson aimed at Damien and pulled the trigger, but his gun was out of ammo. The faint click of the empty gun wasn't heard by Damien over the rain, but it was obvious to him that Gresson could no longer shoot. Damien smiled. He reached for his nearby pistol. Gresson struggled to stand up, planning to make a desperate lunge. Damien picked up the gun, aimed it at Gresson's head, and opened his mouth to say something clever.
    Before he could, his head exploded into a gory mess. Chunks of brain and skull bone scattered across the asphalt. Gresson stumbled from shock as Damien's lifeless body slumped to the wet ground making a small splash. He turned and saw the women with the red face tattoo standing nearby with her shotgun. She pumped it, as if to punctuate her kill. After a few seconds of regaining composure, Gresson nodded at her in thanks.
    Gresson jumped up and looked over at the others in his group. No injuries were apparent, except for Marie who was holding the right side of her neck, which was covered in blood.
    "Marie!" Adam shouted, noticing his sister's wound. He raced to her side, quickly followed by his parents. Sean went to join them, but Gresson held him back.
    "I'll help her. Go see what you can do for him," Gresson said as he pointed toward Jake, who was holding his bloody chest. Sean nodded and rushed to Jake's side. Nearby, the woman with the shotgun was checking the thugs for any survivors, though her still readied shotgun gave away that she had little intention of aiding them if any remained alive.
    Gresson pushed Michael to the side and kneeled over Marie. Slowly, he moved her hand away from her neck. It was bleeding, but the fact that she was still breathing gave Gresson some comfort.
    "I need a cloth or something," Gresson said. Adam immediately tore off his shirt from under his jacket and handed it over. Gresson used it to wipe away some of the blood. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the wound was superficial. Her vital arteries were safe.
    "Can you talk, Marie?" Gresson asked.
    "Yeah," she said softly. "It burns pretty