Shots continued to fill the air around me, forcing me to grip the log, trying to use it as a shield. Each shot made me flinch again, but none of the bullets hit me, and eventually I tried peering around the log again to see what was going on.
Ponytail's guys were mostly holding guns now, at least the ones who could.
The shooting started up again and I looked around, realizing again that none of ponytail's freaks were even looking at the three of us tied to logs. It looked almost like they were aiming for one of the windows of the main building, or maybe even the roof.
I felt a surge of hope when I realized something else.
Whoever else was out there, they seemed to be a good shot. And if they were aiming for Ponytail's guys, they were definitely on my side, as far as I was concerned. For probably the first time in my life, I hoped they were cops.
I saw two of Ponytail's guys fall on the other side of the fire. Ponytail himself and the Russian were still firing back steadily, the Russian down on one knee, partially hiding behind the stone basin. Then a shot got him directly in the face, and the Russian fell back, screaming.
Ponytail fell a second later.
The first shot seemed to get him only in the leg. After gasping and clutching his thigh, he kept firing until a second bullet got him in the middle of the chest. Throughout the whole thing, he never made a sound, unlike the Russian who was still screaming, rolling in the grass and making sounds worse than anything the burning guy had done.
I stared down at Ponytail's body and it hit me that he was probably dead.
The feeling of unreality stole over me again. A well-aimed shot threw another of Ponytail's people back to the grass. I saw them moving on the ground, so they weren't dead, but I could hear choking, gasping sounds, so the bullet might have gotten lodged in a lung. Another guy lowered his gun and started bolting towards the arches leading to the main building of the museum...until another shot brought him down, too.
Seemingly all at once, it was over.
The clearing grew quiet.
I mean, I could hear a few things. The seer tied to the far log was making sobbing noises as she struggled against her bindings, fighting against them so violently she was all the way under the suspended log. The Russian was still screaming only a few yards from where I was tied, and at least one other person pleading with someone, maybe with the shooter, or maybe with God, I couldn't make out their words well enough to know for sure.