Copyright © 2009 R. E. Wood
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
Rick hesitated at the parking lot entrance. The flight or fight response to adrenaline kicked in, and the primal hormone surged into his arteries. He pulled in and made a U-turn so that his pickup faced the exit. He lunged out of the vehicle with the swaths of pant legs in a fist. He unscrewed the caps on all three cans and set them on the ground. Rick twisted a piece of cloth and dunked it into the gasoline. He doubled it up and stuffed it into a can. He did this three times and readied his matches. He took one can to the back door, which he had found during his stay in Parrish to generally be unlocked, and gently checked to be sure that it was still so. It was. He lit the rag end of the Molotov cocktail and quietly placed the can inside the door. Rick scrambled to the other cans and lit another. He spun like a discus thrower and let the second can fly at a back window. He did the same thing with the third can but aimed it at the roof.
Rick back-peddled to his truck, keeping his eyes on the church, awaiting the grand display. The first can exploded, and he nearly fell backwards. In drive and on his way, he heard the second can combust from the flame. He assumed that one blast had been two cans because he didn't hear anything else. Rick drove away as slowly as he could. His instincts told him that fast could not be fast enough, but he fought that urge and kept to the town speed limit. By the time he got to the right turn on Main Street that would lead him back to the interstate, he saw flames over the peak of the roof from the fire he'd started in the back. The pine would burn fast and furious as he had intended.