"What's wrong? Someone's shooting at us! I'm trying to stay calm. Did I kill him?"

"Not quite..."

She was pissed. Pregnant and pouting, she cursed the biker. "I can't stand this — Oh, God! Your face, you're..."

"I can get new teeth. Now we have to get out."

"What's happening out there? Where can we go?"

Glen threw open the back window. "Away from here. Let's go."

"Mom! Dad! You here?" Chris Davis walked through his parents' home, calling out. No one answered. He glanced into the bedroom. A commercial jingle prattled from the bedside clock-radio. He went to the living room and saw the front door standing open. He looked outside. The street was empty.

"They here?" his cousin Roger called from the kitchen.

"No."

Gunshots boomed through the night. Jack Webster raced in through the kitchen door. "Someone's shooting on the other side of the block!"

"Christ. A shotgun." Chris locked and chained the front door. He hurried through the house, turning off all the lights, checking the windows and patio doors.

"Still want to go looting?" he cried at Jack as they passed each other.

There were more shots a few blocks away, toward the beach. The youths looked at each other, words failing them. Then a strange scream came from the street. It rose and fell; it wasn't a scream of fright, it was like a rebel yell. It ended in a crackle of mad laughter and the roar of a motorcycle engine.

The three teens heard the sound of their surfboards fall. They had leaned the boards against the back fence. Someone was coming in through the back.

The house was dark. Chris felt his way to his father's study. Roger and Jack were only a step behind him. Chris didn't risk turning on the lights.

"Gimme the lighter, Jack."