whoever comes, whoever it is: i'll kill them. i'll kill them all.
the smell of diesel pumps the air rotten, engine bellowing a kick and buck tantrum beneath them. their pick-up truck tires spew dust-clouds of beaten rock and chipped-up gravel as every dip in the road sends their stolen getaway ride undulating. jesse is jostled in its rear, elbows smacking into bedliner walls as they careen on an abrupt turn. He digs his fingers against the open rim of the truck bed, right hand fingers locking tight on gunmetal. his voice is near lost beneath the uproar, beaten hoarse by the strain.
"Ain't fixin'-" he stops, ducking, as a bullet screams past the hull. bite-sized death-dealers swallowed by blue-sky void and sand-blasted desert. jesse grunts, has to find his voice again as his lungs rattle, "Ain't fixin' t'kill nothin' if we're too busy fuckin' dead, Ashe."
