I watched the Molotov cocktail sail through the air,
tumbling end over end, before exploding on top of Jim’s car. A few moments
later, the car exploded.
“Good thing we parked in the garage,” Georgia said from
her spot behind my shoulder.
I chuckled despite the pandemonium in the streets. “No
kidding.”
We resumed our nervous vigil, watching from our third
story window as a mob worked its way down our street, upending parked cars and
smashing windows. The few people who tried to stand up to the angry mass were
rebuked with force, usually left in a bloody pile.
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