Page 19 - FINAL DESTINATION

FINAL DESTINATION
trash. It was out of his hands now. He had done his part. It was no longer his problem.
Except that it was.
Neil ran back and grabbed the box. He sat it down by the window and climbed out onto the sloping roof. His leather soled shoes had a hard time getting traction on the metal roof as he reached back for the box. He was just pulling it through the window when the door burst open.
The farmer staggered into the room trying to free himself from the splintered door. He looked around and locked eyes with Neil. His face was red with anger and he was breathing hard from the effort of breaking down the door. He only hesi- tated a second — the longest second of Neil’s life — before bringing the shotgun up.
Neil jerked back and his shoes lost their grip. He fell forward hitting his chin on the roof just as the gun went off. Sliding off feet first, he landed in a clear area near the back of the house. His momentum sent him rolling backward, coming to rest face down. The cardboard box — shredded from the shotgun blast— landed in front of him and a silver urn rolled out.
Stunned, Neil looked at his distorted reflection in the urn. He tried to take stock of what hurt worse. His ankle was throb- bing from his landing. His calf still hurt, as did his back, from climbing through the fence, but it was his chin that won for most painful. He flinched from touching it and his fingers came away with blood, but he had made it out of the house alive. That wouldn’t count for much if he couldn’t get back to his car.
He pushed himself to his feet and picked up the urn that was now pitted on one side by buckshot. There was no way he could make it through the thicket so he headed for the gate at the back of the house. He tried to run, but every step on his left ankle sent a spike of pain up his leg. As he rounded the big oak tree, he heard the low rumble of a diesel engine idling outside
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