McCarthy Style Imitation Paper

They huddled in the closet of what seemed like hours. The sound of explosions vibrating the frame of the house and the screams of those still out in the streets. Occasionally theses sounds were punctuated by the sounds of gunfire some distant some close. The shots punctuating the minutes like the ticking of a clock.

Can we help them? the little boy whispered.

No

But why can’t we?

Because we can let anyone know that we are in here.

Why?

Because it’s purge night and we have to stay safe.

What's the purge mommy?

It's the one day every year when there are no laws and regular people like us have to hide from the bad people out side.

In the tombdark of the closet the the little boy shuddered and pulled his legs closer under him. He reached over and grabbed his mother’s hand. Gripping hers, with his knuckles bonewhite.The sounds from outside suddenly intensified and seemed to move closer. The sound of running feet. Pounding. Gunfire ripping apart the night like knives. Suddenly a voice screaming. It seeming to come from the front porch. More shots. Silence. With wide eyes the boy looked up at his mother, in the gloom of the closet with the looming shapes of the coats stored there hanging over them like the shadow of death.

Mommy are you sure we're safe?

Yes

You promise?

Yes but shhh we need to be quiet. Okay?

Okay.

The silence was rent by a crash, followed by two more. Then the sound of splintering wood. Then another crash as the front door was slammed onto the floor. The tramping of several pairs of heavy boots filled the air, then moved down the hall away from the closet, like receding thunder. In the closet the boy gave quiet sound of terror. Immediately the mother's hand had covered his mouth and muffled the cry.

Shhh. We have to be silent.

She said in a nearly inaudible voice. With the hand still covering his mouth like a buglers bandana the little boy slowly nodded. Slowly the mother removed her hand. She then reached over pulling the boy closer to her in the inky blackness, knowing what she would have to do if they were discovered. She could feel the cold weight of the small pistol lying on the floor on her other side. The glisten of the traces of light that managed to snake their way through the boards on the windows and the slats of the closet. The humming power contained within such a small piece of metal. The sound of footsteps approaching again broke the silence. The sound of the impending tick of doom. Like a clock counting down their time remaining. The footsteps sound closer and a shadow falls over the closet door blocking the few rays of golden light the were filtering in. The mother's hand is back over the little boys mouth. Her other hand gropes for the gun, then closes over the cool metal. The little boy’s saucerlarge eyes stare up at her. The door to the other half of the closet is smashed inward. Crumpling like a balloon deflating. The lights extinguish as mother and son close their eyes. Just darkness. A fraction of a second later two shots, just as the other closed door splinters over them.