Free Where Souls Spoil by JC Emery

assures me that Jim isn’t hurting her; he just has to make it look like he is.
    Jim walks with Gloria to the sidewalk near the van and the men—the ones who had been inside the house and the ones waiting outside, form two lines. One line faces the street and the other faces the house with their backs to one another. They draw their guns, and the men facing the house begin firing. They shoot out windows and fire at the wooden siding. I cry as I watch the only home I’ve ever known be turned into Swiss cheese. One by one, when the job is apparently done, men put their guns away and walk to their motorcycles. The van door opens, and in climb two more men. Both the front passenger and driver’s doors open, and a man climbs in each. The van starts up and we pull away, flanked by several men on bikes in front of us and more behind us.

Chapter 6
    Alex
     
    When we are no longer able to change a situation - we are challenged to change ourselves.
    Viktor E. Frankl
     
    I SIT IN the van, unable to move, unable to speak. We drive for what feels like hours before the images of my Aunt Gloria being hit and my home being shot up finally cease. The sun rises fully and brightens the world around the van. Inside, it still feels so dark. I let myself cry when I feel like it, which is most of the trip. I’m run down and unable to think about where we’re going or what will happen next. At one point, I catch a glimpse of the man who sits across from me. He has short blond hair and a baby face with nearly a week’s worth of stubble. He wears patches like the guy with the black hair, but on the right breast of his vest are the patches DEVIL OF DEATH and SECRETARY. What the distinction is between an ANGEL OF DEATH and a DEVIL OF DEATH in this community, I don’t want to know.
    When I eventually calm down and the scary guy across from me falls asleep, I take a good look around. Ruby sits beside me, poking through her phone. Outside of the van all I can see are stretches of road and, every few miles or so, a farmhouse far away from the highway. Eventually we pull off of the highway and onto a deserted stretch of road with absolutely nothing visible for miles, save for the small gas station we pull into. The van doors open and the “Angel of Death” smiles at me. Not so much in a welcome way, more mischievous if I had to guess. For a second, I allow myself to consider how attractive I think he is. He’s just a few years older than me, not enough for my attraction to him to be wrong or creepy, but enough that I notice he’s all man. There is not a trace of boy left in him-- not in his body, not in the way he carries his large frame, and definitely not in the way he speaks.
    “Anyone who has to piss, come with me,” he says and turns around. I fly out of the van and rush up to him. I haven’t thought of my bladder in hours, but once he mentions possible relief, the need is overwhelming. Ruby and the scary guy climb out of the van and walk behind us.
    “Hey, Trigger,” a rough, masculine voice calls from behind us. The dark-haired “Angel of Death” comes to a stop and turns around. I follow his lead and assume by his response that he is called Trigger. What a curious name.
    “Yeah?” he says.
    “Where are you going with the kid?” the man asks. He’s tall and lanky with shaggy light brown hair and a scar that runs from his left eyebrow down to the tip of his ear. His face is set in a hard line, and annoyance radiates off of him. It takes me a moment to realize when he says “the kid” he means me. He doesn’t look like he can be so much older than me. Jerk.
    “Around back,” Trigger smirks, but his buddy sees no humor in his comment. I flush in embarrassment. My father and his men made crude remarks often, but never in the presence of me or my aunt. I’ve haven’t been in a situation like this since high school, when the neighborhood boys had half a mind to hit on me.
    “You’re not funny,” the guy says. Ruby scoffs