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backpack with our food. I raised my shaking arm and stared at him trying to prepare a blow that would split his camouflaged hat in two.
        Suddenly the truck bellowed a deep horn blast and the light flashed. Harvey was a couple steps past our broken door and froze in an almost cartoonish tip-toe stance. He had a dumbfounded look as he was highlighted in the dark room. The man in our cabinet turned away from the food, grabbed his weapon and started to bring it to his shoulder. Harvey suddenly hurled himself to the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid being shot.
        The man still hadn’t noticed me steps away from him. Even though I was shaking, I barred my teeth and summoned all my courage to bring the unstained blade down as hard as I could. I struck him from the side. It sunk cleanly into his left shoulder. The strike caused him to fire a shot before dropping his gun clacking to the floor. He let out a furious howl that sent a chill down my spine. A sound that told me, you are killing a person. His legs collapsed from under him and he fell with his back slumped against the cupboard. Even in the darkness I could make out those eyes; they called out to me in pain. My hand was still clasped around the machete, shaking more than ever.
        Quickly the look in his eyes transformed from a plea to a threat. He reached for his gun, which now lit the wall behind me. My emotions were running rampant, taking me from anger to pity. As he reached for the weapon, everything became clear. I was going to live tonight, and he was going to die. My mouth curled into a snarl and I felt something new. I felt powerful, something I had rarely felt, except in my video games or fantasies.
        I ratcheted the machete sideways with both hands and rotated the blade deeper into his wound. He shook from the pain and uttered some high pitched whimpers. His fingers extended and then he balled a fist, shaking uncontrollably from the pain. I yanked the blade out of his shoulder and raised it over my head. I brought it down, attempting to put it through his head. At the last second he defensively raised his arm and I ended up sinking the metal into his wrist. There was a loud snapping sound that promised me he wouldn’t be signing his name ever again.
        Harvey crawled around the counter and saw what was going on; he ran in and scooped up the gun. He pointed it at the man and hesitated. This villain was in bad shape.
        “You are so dead,” the man muttered.
        “Let’s see how much you mean to them,” Harvey said as he walked over to the window, and fired two rounds at the truck. He immediately ducked down to avoid any retaliation. There was a flurry of shots sent back our way, but at a speed that sounded like a single shooter. The driver must have been the only other person. There was a delay, a hesitation from the truck driver. He wasn’t driving away, but he wasn’t in the truck any longer. Harvey had moved to the living room window and looked out. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “He must like you.”
        He took aim and fired one more time. This time I could see the driver flail from the hit. He cussed and ran back to the truck. The injured man inside then heard the most dreaded sound ever. The truck tires screeched in the mud for a second before getting traction and speeding down the road. The lights from the truck were gone and now the silence had returned. Harvey pointed the flashlight (with a rather sizeable gun attached to it) at the man on the floor and I could hear him quietly sobbing. He held his limp, nearly severed hand in his lap. He was bleeding badly and I could tell he wouldn’t last much longer without help.
        “Go ahead, just do it,” he cried out with his voice breaking like a pubescent teenager.
        “Well, Jim, I’d hate to waste another shell. With our door missing we might need all the ammo we can get. You want to take care of him?”
        I stood up and