Jamal hustled to the truck. He glanced back, saw that the generator’s explosion had set fire to the roof of the orange RV across the circle. Luke Evers wasn’t moving. With a lump in his throat, Jamal realized that Kimbra had died for nothing.
When he reached Whiskey’s bloody truck he kept his eyes on the ground. He arrived at the tailgate, doubled back, held his breath. He reached a hand into the cab—brains on seats, shards of glass in open mouths—and pulled Whiskey’s keys from the ignition.
He tripped around a pair of gym bags in the truck bed, over some empty beer cans and found the rusted metal toolbox he’d seen earlier when he’d clambered into the cab at KT’s house.
He got it open with the third key on the key ring.
Jackpot: hammers, a long crowbar. He loaded his arms with as much as he could carry and started back.