Page 177 of Not Quite Dead Yet

An eruption of sound, cracking the night into two. The before and the after.

Plaster rained down on Billy’s head, white dust on his jacket, a bullet hole in the ceiling.

Luke growled. He righted his arm, pointed the gun again, but Dad wasn’t there anymore.

He was running.

Past them.

Out the open front door into the night beyond.

Luke didn’t hesitate. He shoved Billy back and chased after him, gun at his side.

‘Luke, stop!’

Billy’s legs flew, and so did his heart, fight-or-flight or something in between.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Outside, Dad was past the fence, sprinting across the road, toward the Masons’ driveway.

Luke on his heels, bearing down on him.

Billy followed. No thoughts. Just Jet. What would Jet do?

Three suits, one gun, stained silver by the same moon.

Up the drive, a dozen cars parked in messy rows.

Dad wound between them, colliding with a blue Range Rover. The alarm went off, a mechanical scream, red lights flashing.

Luke followed him, past the Range Rover, catching up.

Billy chose a different path.

‘Luke, no! There’s a better way!’ he shouted.

Dad had reached the house now, pummeling his fists against the red-painted door.

‘Dianne!’ he screamed. ‘Help!’

Luke stopped behind Dad.

Billy behind him.

‘Dianne!’

Billy saw her, through the window into the living room. Red-raw face, black dress, peering into the darkness outside the glass, at the chirping car.

Luke raised the gun.

‘Luke, don’t!’

‘Dianne! Help!’

Dad pressed the doorbell instead, that up-and-down song. The camera didn’t blink, watching this all happen. Inevitable now.

Luke swung his left arm forward, held the gun with both hands.

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