The second round punched center-mass before I could even register the first. Ribs snapped—I heard them go, three sharp cracks like dry branches underfoot. My lung collapsed with a wet pop I felt more than heard, air escaping where it shouldn't, and I coughed blood across the Mercedes' hood in a fine red mist.
"GEEETTTT INNNN!"
The word came out wrong, thick and garbled with copper, but I rammed the door shut with my ruined shoulder and heard Margaret scream my name from inside.
Three more shots in rapid succession.
Side. Thigh. Arm.
Each one its own universe of pain. The side shot tunneled through my obliques and kissed something vital—intestines maybe, I couldn't tell, only knew it burned like acid.
The thigh round cracked my femur; I heard the bone break, felt the slug mushroom and turn muscle into pulp. The arm shot shattered my humerus mid-shaft, and suddenly my anatomy made no sense at all—two elbows where there should only be one.
But the cars roared to life.
