Luke saw KT’s hand go up, saw the other boys in Whiskey’s truck all struggling with their seat belts, saw Garrett’s shoulder buck ever so slightly as the AR-15 fired.
The truck’s windshield puckered. KT’s head snapped back like a doll’s. His eyes bulged. A piece of his forehead disappeared. His open mouth was empty one second. The next it was full of blood.
Boys started screaming, sprinting for cover, the doors of trailers, anywhere they could hide. Luke watched as Bethany sprang to her feet and bolted toward the Water House. Coach Parter raised his shotgun. Mitchell Malacek, his eyes glassy with meth and adrenaline, turned toward Luke with a raised Glock—
A memory chimed in Luke’s mind. He remembered the sight of kerosene cans in Dylan’s truck the morning after the church burned down, remembered the way Dylan had laughed when Luke had confronted him about it. Luke finally realized something: these boys hadn’t brought him here to be their friend.
Luke turned back toward shelter.
The door to the orange RV was closed. Luke slammed against it in surprise, his head striking the frame. The door budged but held firm. Bryan the Stallion was inside, pressed against the door to keep it closed, and Luke was trapped out here on the porch.
“Bryan!” Luke shouted. “Bryan, open the—”
Thump-thump. Two rounds passed over Luke’s shoulder and pierced the door of HOME ON THE RANGE. A shotgun boomed. A windshield shattered.
Thump-thump.
Luke tried to slam his shoulder against the door but he felt a cool pain in his side, felt his knees folding under him. Felt the cold porch strike his cheek.