No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

plunger. It clicked, like a gun’s chamber closing, and inside it,
the toaster’s heating coils warmed.
Jay watched. “What’re you doing?”
She knew she had ten, maybe twenty seconds, until the
coils turned red-hot.
We are the motherfucking rescue.
She grabbed a half-drunk cup of black cowboy coffee —
Ed’s, maybe, long cold — and chugged it on the run,
squeezing Jay’s fingers and racing for the restroom. Hand in
hand. Running for that tiny window.
“Don’t stop, Jay. Don’t stop—”
“You’re sure fingers grow back?”
“Yep.”
* * *
Ashley bashed his way inside. He vaulted the window on
his unhurt hand, careful not to slash his palm on the jagged
glass, and coughed on a pungent odor. Boy-howdy, it was
potent. The fuel can must’ve spilled, and mixed with the
bleach and Sandi’s pepper spray vapor to create a truly
noxious atmosphere.
He rubbed his stinging eyes as he clambered in, aiming
the nailer, sweeping left to right. First he saw the crumpled
bodies of Ed and Sandi near the Colorado map. Legs sprawled
open in the immodesty of death. Blood mixing with the gas on
the floor, swirling vivid ribbons.
Beside them, baby brother Lars.
Oh, Lars.
On his belly. His head twisted sideways in an ocean of
red, his hair mussed, his eyes still drowsily half-open. His
throat a meaty slash. His jugular cut to the bone; a human Pez
dispenser.