I peek between the blinds, my pupils flickering with firelight. The city is aflame. Tear gas swirls, engulfing the fleeing masses. A dead hand clutches a blood-splattered sign: “FUCK THE NIGHTWATCH.”

Outside, the Watchmen draw closer. Tank treads crunch over charred bones. Loudspeakers call for peace.

“They’re coming,” I say. “Hurry.”

Finch stuffs a kerosene-soaked rag into a bottle of amber liquid, then adds it to the crate with the others. “Done.”

Glass clinks as we rush the crate to the rooftop. I peer down at the Watchmen below.

Finch hands me a bottle, then sparks his lighter. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

---

Looking for more? Check out all the free stories, drabbles, and podcasts. And be sure to follow @warrenbenedetto on Twitter.

---