Behind Markel there was a rustle of clothes, a scraping on cement, then a loud gasp. Rocky looked past Markel to the base of the statue.
Markel said, "Darlene! Don't be frightened! Get the M-1 from the front seat of the car. When he moves, shoot him!"
Hesitant footsteps shuffled on cement, and the car door clicked. Rocky did not move. "She ain't got the guts," he said. Noiselessly, Markel moved toward Rocky, but quick as thought Rocky spun, the knife ready. Markel stopped, tense.
"I can't wait, square man. I just can't wait to start working on you."
"You haven't a chance, Rocky. After she shoots you I'll chop you into a hundred pieces and burn every one. Even a freak like you won't recover from that." Rocky, his left arm out to balance himself, came at Markel, the knife low and steady in his right hand. Behind Markel the car door clanged shut. Rocky came on, the knife silver in the sun.
Without raising his voice Markel said, "Now!" and waited.
The M-1 cracked. All the sunlight in the square flamed at Markel as the bullet slammed into his back, and then he was falling into the flame and the flame engulfed him, but it was hard, like cement, and he dug his fingers into it to keep from falling into the blackness beyond it.
Beyond the flame someone was crying. A woman's voice said, "I couldn't let him hurt you again, Rocky, not again." Through the flame came a golden bird, hopping grotesquely because it had no wings. The bird was crying, and Markel reached out to it. But the flame flared silver between them and, still reaching for the golden bird, Markel slid from the hard flame into blackness. And that was the end of Markel and his dream.
That was the end of all dreams.