The Moment the Gun Went Off.

The gun went off. The shotgun went off and through the roof of the truck. The bullet ran through the thing corrugated metal that covered the driver from the elements, the harsh sun that shines down in the harsh South African summer.
The bullet was ripping through the sky, the bullet crushing each individual molecule. The nitrogen, the hydrogen and the oxygen all ran out of the way of the hurtling mass of steel with a carbide tip. The other trace elements were able to find a way out too. They moved aside, and then were able to fill in the vacuum that was created in the shockwave. The bullet ripped through the blue sky. Looking to the sun, in the spots created by the buckshot, in glimmering light piecing through the roof, spotlighting little speck on the vinyl seat, and the volume of Thomas Gunn on the seat.
Van der Vyver looked up through the shattered holed in the ceiling of his truck. There was no longer the light shining through the holes. Some of them were blocked with the slumping head of the man who was riding on the back of the truck. A thick viscous liquid seeped through the small holes in the truck. The crimson sang decorated the seat and the volume of Thomas Gunn lying on the seat.
The white farmer pulled the truck over, and started to scream. He did not know where the bullet hit. He did not know that the shotgun blast ripped the head of the black man riding on the back of his truck. He did not know that the man on the back of his truck was dead. All he knew is that at the time, he wished it was him who was slumping on the cab of the truck; he wished it was him, and not his young son who had his blood dripping through the roof. On the inside, their blood was the same. On the outside, the society would not know the difference.