Del scooted over by his big brother and wasn’t ashamed to scrunch up against him. Bart put an arm about his shoulders. “Cold?”

“Scared.”

“Join the club.”

The younger boy searched his drugstore sack for a moment, came up with a Mounds bar. He handed a piece to Bart. “What if, you know?”

“What if what?”

“What if they get in here? Could we hold them off?”

Bart jerked a thumb toward the shotgun propped beside him, then motioned to the one Ted held and their mom’s as well. “We can take ’em. Don’t worry about it, Cap.”

“But I am worried. What if there’s too many of them or something like that? What if we can’t win?”

“And what if the Ruskies attack before morning? Then nothing’ll matter anyway, will it? C’mon, Cap. Stop borrowing trouble.”

The boy sniffed. “I just don’t want to die. Not like that.”

Bart squeezed his shoulders. “Don’t worry. If it comes down to it, none of us’ll go out that way.” He lifted his backpack gently onto his lap, carefully so nothing clattered, and opened it. Inside were six or seven Little Kings bottles, corked, the stoppers threaded with a length of rag. The stench of gasoline was heavy in the pack.

Del sat back against the wall. It hadn’t made him feel any better. He wagered that roasting would hurt just about as bad.

19

Chapter Nineteen

Charlie tried to argue but the pain kept getting in the way. He was still on the couch, his neck still stinging, his arm splinted with a broken broomstick and heavy strips of gauze. He fidgeted not only from discomfort, but from disgust—he wanted to go with Stiles, and not being able to rankled him. “Well, at least take one of the guns,” he said. “You can’t go out unarmed. That’d be suicide.”

Stiles folded his overcoat and placed it atop the console tele­vision next to his shoulder rig and twin Smith & Wesson semi-autos. His shotgun was there as well. Between it and the Mossberg that Jessie nestled in the crook of her arm, there were exactly three silver shells left. “Let’s be logical, Charlie. If I get caught out there, whatever guns I’m carrying will be useless to you people. Keep them in here, where they’ll do the most good. Besides,” he pulled his black knit cap down around his ears, “my other shotgun’s in the van. If I can get to it.”

“That’s a big if,” Bean grumbled.