BooksBarbecue
Back Atlanta Burns
Chapters (50)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication Page
  4. CONTENTS
  5. PART ONE: SHOTGUN GRAVY
  6. Sometimes she wakes…
  7. CHAPTER ONE
  8. CHAPTER TWO
  9. CHAPTER THREE
  10. CHAPTER FOUR
  11. CHAPTER FIVE
  12. CHAPTER SIX
  13. CHAPTER SEVEN
  14. CHAPTER EIGHT
  15. CHAPTER NINE
  16. CHAPTER TEN
  17. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  18. PART TWO: BAIT DOG
  19. CHAPTER TWELVE
  20. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  21. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  23. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  25. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  26. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY
  28. PART THREE: THE FARM
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. PART FOUR: KISSING FIRE
  38. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  43. PART FIVE: BAIT GIRL
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  46. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  47. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  48. EPILOGUE: THE MESSAGE
  49. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  50. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

But her body goes the other way. Even as her mind is telling her the Winchester belongs here at the house, she’s walking downstairs with the shotgun resting on the soft of her forearm, her pocket stuffed full of green birdshot shells.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Music’s too dang loud,” Atlanta says, spinning the volume knob the other way. Guy shoots her a look as the Scion zips through the asphalt ribbons of nowhere road. Trees and cows and silos. The smell of chicken shit. Sunlight through pollen.

“You know not to mess with a dude’s stereo, right?”

“It’s making me queasy. I can feel the bass inside my belly. Like a . . . baby kicking or something.” It’s not the bass making her queasy, but it sure isn’t helping. Again the feeling of being strapped into a roller coaster hits her. Guy’s driving—fast, one-handed, taking curves wide with the tires scraping gravel.

A hand darts out from the cramped backseat. Shane holds out a bag of red licorice splayed out like octopus tentacles. “Twizzlers. Want any?”

Atlanta takes one, sucks air through it without chewing. She’s not sure if it’s helping or hurting her nausea.

“I can’t believe we had to bring him,” Guy says.

“I have a name,” Shane says from the backseat.

Guy inhales through his teeth. “And I’ve already forgotten it, little dude.”

“Shut up,” Atlanta barks.

“Yeah,” Shane says, waggling accusatory licorice. “Shut up.”

“I mean it for the both of you.” Her hands curl tighter around the stock and barrel of the squirrel gun. She’s got the barrel up by her ear. Atlanta leans her head against it. It feels cool.

Guy gives her a sideways look. “And I can’t believe you brought that. Keeping it up by your ear like that—girl, you gonna blow the roof of your head off.”

“It’s not loaded.” Yet.

“Still shouldn’t have brought it.”

“I need it.”

“It’s trouble.”

“You said all kinds of bad people are going to be there. I bet they’ll all be packing.”

“Some will,” he says, taking a few hairpin turns that bring them back down Grainger Hill on the other side. Through the trees she sees the tops of trailers laid out in a trailer park like white dominoes. “And that’s exactly why you don’t want to be carrying around a goddamn gun like you’re—who was the female cowboy?”

“I dunno. Calamity Jane? Annie Oakley?”

“Whatever. You ain’t them, ’Lanta. The way some of these guys treat the dogs, that should tell you just what they think about the sanctity of life and shit. My mamá always used to say, ‘Don’t throw rocks at the moon because one day you might knock it down.’”

“I’ll throw rocks at the moon if I wanna.” She pouts a little.