EXCERPT FW TUNNELS

"Just as O’Toole lowered his shotgun to fire at the crates again, Joe popped up, fired two quick rounds and hit O’Toole in the shoulder knocking him back. The arm holding the shotgun flew back and up into the air.

Sheesh! What the . . .

O’Toole’s metal shotgun barrel connected with the overhead electrified rail sending the electricity streaking through O’Toole’s body. The intensity of the shock was lighting up the area with a blue-white light spitting sparks throughout the access tunnel. The uncontrollable shaking and tremors set O’Toole’s teeth to chattering, and his moans were staccato-like . . . “uh-uh-uh-uh.” The force of his jaws clenching was cracking his teeth.

Before O’Toole hit the ground, Joe had leaped from cover and run across the room to hit the elevator switch on the far wall. He scurried back to his previous position and dropped back down behind the boxes before Patrick had the chance to look up.

Patrick was still frozen in place staring at O’Toole. His eyes were locked onto the macabre sight of O’Toole twitching and jerking like some madman’s puppet. He was transfixed on the sight until the body dropped onto the floorboards of the truck collapsing into a heap. Burned flesh was still smoking and the awful smell wrinkled the noses of the living.

The sound of the elevator finally penetrated Patrick’s shocked brain. Certain Joe was trying to get away on the lift, Patrick charged forward and jumped up grabbing the edge as it ascended. Only getting one hand on the ledge his weight finally pulled him loose and he dropped the ten feet to the ground as the elevator continued its slow but steady rise to the top.

Pissed, Patrick aimed his gun at the retreating floor of the elevator and fired off a couple rounds in frustration, muttering, “You son‑of‑a‑bitch. You son‑of‑a‑bitch.” Patrick’s voice was cracking from the anger and he started screaming. “You ain’t gettin’ away with this.”

Patrick started to turn in a circle, swearing, screaming out in his frustration. Joe could feel the hate echoing off the walls. All of a sudden Patrick’s eyes spied the ladder, and he stopped cold. “Gotcha, you bastard. Gotcha.” Figuring he could scramble up the ladder faster than the elevator could get to the top, he planned on being up there waiting for Joe when he got off.

Joe smiled as he watched Patrick jam his gun in its holster, dash for the ladder, and scramble up the ladder.

Gotcha? Oh, yeah? Gotcha first.