Free Paranormals (Book 2): We Are Not Alone by Christopher Andrews Page B

and this kid’s along with it.
    Leaning back, he rolled his shield off the young man’s foot, much to Arturo’s relief. He drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and said, “Look, uh—”
    “Monica, get down!”
    Startled, Cooper spun around just in time to see death coming at him.
    Another, older punk had shown up — from inside the apartment? through the broken front door? Cooper had no idea — and this guy dressed the part, dressed as Cooper had expected to find Arturo, with wife-beater, low-riding pants and everything. Cooper had no idea who this new fellow was, but that didn’t really matter. What mattered was the double-barreled shotgun that looked about as big as a cruise missile and was aimed right at Cooper’s face.
    Arturo’s mother ducked, Arturo stayed down, and Cooper very nearly shit his pants.
    “Wait—!” was all Cooper managed to get out, his hands raised before him in futile defense, before the new punk fired the shotgun. Regardless of the muffling effect of his shield, the roar was deafening, the fire spit from the barrel was blinding, and Cooper flinched away, waiting for the pain to register, waiting to taste blood and other gore in his destroyed mouth, waiting for the darkness to reach out for him with cold arms and ... and ...
    Someone whispered, “ Dios mio ...”
    Cooper opened his eyes and lowered his hands. He had to blink a few times — pointed right at him, that shotgun blast had been bright as hell! — but even before he could see, he realized what had happened: His paranormal shield had withstood the shotgun blast without so much as a scratch.
    No one moved, all four of them too stunned to do anything yet. Cooper’d had no idea how strong his shield was. He knew it was tough enough to crack wood, to break porcelain, sure. But to withstand a shotgun blast fired from six feet away? He didn’t know he had that kind of power!
    Cooper’s hands stopped trembling. And he started grinning.
    That grin woke up the newest member of their party, and his would-be killer raised the shotgun again and fired the second barrel. Monica cried, covering her ears; Arturo swore, his eyes so wide they looked like they might roll right out of his head.
    The second blast didn’t seem nearly as loud or as blinding to Cooper. He flinched — that was just understandable, human instinct — but he did not cower this time. The buckshot struck his shield and cascaded around it, leaving no mark, not even so much as a powder smudge.
    As Cooper relaxed again, Monica was crying louder than ever, and Arturo wasn’t far from it. Cooper’s would-be killer broke open the shotgun, trying to remove the spent shells with trembling fingers as he muttered under this breath, “ Mierda , mierda , mierda ...”
    “Ain’t gonna happen, buddy,” Cooper spat, and he leaned forward, way forward. His shield rolled around him, bearing down on his target much faster than he had advanced on Arturo earlier.
    The punk realized he would never get the shotgun reloaded in time, and it would not do him any good if he did. He dropped the gun, spun on his heel, and ran for the door.
    Cooper caught up with him just as they reached the threshold. His shield slammed the guy in the back, but instead of knocking him down and rolling over him, it added to his own momentum and sent him flying across the hallway, right into the opposite apartment door. Cooper had already made room to Arturo’s cracked doorframe when he entered, so he lost only a little speed exiting as he scraped along one side. The punk, dazed, turned around just as he was caught between Cooper’s rolling shield and the neighbor’s door. His nose exploded and his lips flattened, the breath burst from his lungs, and unlike Arturo, he had nowhere to go.
    As Cooper was still leaning forward, the shield’s pressure did not let up, and although the door creaked, it did not give — it was the guy’s chest and skull that finally gave up the ghost with a sickening