Jake checked the ammo in the Smith & Wesson before he slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants. He next opened a can of ammo, using his good hand, and returned to the larder with a Ziploc full of bullets. He formed a pile of ammunition, fifty rounds give or take, in the center of the room, which he soaked with gasoline from one of the many canisters stored down there. Working quickly, Jake made a trail of gas from the pile of bullets to the wall just to the right of the door, where he took up position. He checked that his Zippo lighter worked, which it did just fine.
Soon enough, he heard footsteps approaching. Fausto had followed the blood trail to the bug-out location. Cast-off light from a flashlight grew brighter. Jake had been wrong. Sometimes death did schedule an appointment.
A smile came to his bruised and battered face. For some reason, “The Star-Spangled Banner” had popped into his head, a song that he cherished for the many fond memories it evoked. It was game time-that was why it had come to him so suddenly, so out of the blue.
When the moment felt right, Jake lit the Zippo and let it fall from his grasp. Easiest pitch he’d ever thrown. Straight down. The flame caught the gas and, with a whoosh, a trail of fire lit up. It soon engulfed the pile of ammunition inside a contained ball of flame.
Jake knew what happened when ammo caught fire. Bullets didn’t go whizzing around like they’ve been discharged from a gun. Cartridge cases burst open, sure, and bits of brass might go flying about, but not with any velocity. Wouldn’t even puncture the skin if it struck. The bullets wouldn’t explode in one big simultaneous burst, either, but rather piece by piece.
A cartridge case confined to a chamber of a gun was a different matter. A gun caught in a fire would shoot a bullet at full velocity, and that risked injuring or killing Jake. But this was a show-The Show, as the big leagues were called-and Fausto was part of the game, though he didn’t know it just yet.
Soon the bullets had started popping, one by one. It sounded a hell of a lot like gunfire. Jake observed the position of the flashlight beam and knew right away that Fausto had taken cover against a tunnel wall. He inched closer toward the door until he could poke his pistol into the larder. Fausto proceeded to fire blindly into the room. It was a bit imprudent to shoot without a target, but there was some logic. He could shoot at the sound without exposing his body to return fire.
The bullets from Fausto’s weapon smacked against the walls of the larder, damaging only sacks of rice. The popping sounds continued, and so did Fausto’s dispensing of bullets. This time, he poked the barrel of an assault rifle into the room and let off fifteen rounds. He covered most of the room, except for the wall where Jake waited. Soon enough, though, Jake heard a click, followed by another. Fausto had shot all his ammo at nothing but a diversion.
In that next instant, Jake’s arm shot out. He snatched with his left hand, giving the barrel of Fausto’s rifle a hard yank. The gun came free of Fausto’s grasp, and Fausto came stumbling into the larder, off balance, with his long hair rising up behind him like a silky wave.
With a snap of his wrist, Jake pulled the pistol from the waistband of his pants and fired off a single shot, which hit Fausto’s arm, but missed the head. Damn left hand! The bullet’s impact sent Fausto to the ground, but he was quick with the leg and used it to sweep Jake off his feet.
Jake went down on his back, hard. Before he could react, he felt weight on top of him, and a hand clawing for the Smith & Wesson. Jake resisted as best he could, but soon enough Fausto pulled the weapon from his weakened grasp.
Panting, Fausto stood to take aim. His mistake. Jake sent his leg skyward, right into Fausto’s unguarded testicles.
Jake heard the air hiss out of Fausto’s lungs, along with an agonized cry. Fausto doubled over in pain and staggered backward into the adjacent storage room as Jake struggled to his feet. In a way, Fausto had stumbled into a more advantageous position. He had gained some distance, and still had Jake in his direct line of fire. But Fausto was in too much pain to aim his weapon, so the gun in his hand hung useless at his side.
Frozen where he stood, Jake briefly contemplated running. Maybe he could get out of the larder, maybe down another corridor, but he would not get very far. He would eventually be gunned down. Those deep-set eyes of Fausto shadowed a rage Jake could feel in his bones.
Jake’s opponent wasn’t moving very quickly. The pain in Fausto’s groin had turned his movements into molasses; but Jake, shot in both the leg and hand, wasn’t in much better condition. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. Fausto looked away as he got steady on his feet.
During this brief interlude, Jake reached behind with his left hand, his good hand. Without taking his eyes off Fausto, he grabbed a can of beans, which was stored on a low shelf within arm’s reach. Jake brought his arm to his side and held his hand in such a way as to hide the object he had taken.
Fausto’s pain finally settled, or so it seemed, since he managed a satisfied grin. For the first time, Jake got a good look at the horrific metal mouth, which contrasted sharply against his dirt-covered face. The pile of ammunition positioned between Jake and Fausto continued to burn, and produced tiny explosions of gunpowder, which sounded like a mash-up of firecrackers and popcorn popping.
“How many more are down here?” Fausto asked. His chest heaved from fatigue. He spoke with an accent, but Jake had no trouble understanding him.
“None,” Jake said.
“None?” Fausto could not contain his utter disbelief. “It’s just you?”
Jake smiled. “Yeah. Just me.”
“Well, then, váyase al diablo, pendejo,” Fausto said.
Jake stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, the left-handed grip on the can of beans mimicking a four-seam grip on a baseball-the best grip for accuracy. He took a small rocker step forward with his right leg, and pivoted his left foot at the same instant Fausto raised the gun to take aim. Fausto lifted the gun higher, but he didn’t have it targeted yet.
Jake’s right leg came forward as his left arm went back, producing enough separation to generate velocity. Jake was perfectly balanced, right in the middle of his feet, not too much over the front leg or back leg. His hands were equal and opposite. Jake’s trigger foot-his left, not the usual one-turned in, and that brought him to the release point. He drove his shoulder toward Fausto’s head, which he visualized as a catcher’s mitt, and brought his right arm into his side. His feet were perfectly aligned so that his hips could open up. He stayed up and over the front leg as he released the can of beans way out in front of his body.
For not being a southpaw, Jake generated tremendous thrust. The can shot forward at incredible velocity at the same instant Fausto’s gun went off. If Jake hadn’t been in his follow-through, the bullet would have hit him in the head. Instead, it struck Jake’s shoulder.
The impact knocked Jake off his feet and backward into the shelf with all those cans. The shelf shattered on impact and sent a hailstorm of tin raining down on Jake’s head.
The bullet and the can of beans passed each other, but never made contact. Instead, the can sailed right through the open door of the adjacent storage room and connected in the middle of Fausto’s head. Maybe it was going forty miles an hour, maybe faster. Either way, it was fast enough to put a dent in Fausto’s skull and knock him to the ground.