Joseph Ferrier
I awoke, peeling my face off the table, where the blood had dried, gluing my skin to the wood. For some reason, I expected to see a half-eaten Lo-Mein box when I opened my eyes. Just wishful thinking. My whole body was on fire. A hot sweat had coated my body in slimy perspiration I could feel had soaked into my clothes. I felt awful. But, I still had to move. Standing was trouble. I realized that as soon as my ass left the chair and my head spun. Throbbed, too, like a deep war-drum heartbeat in the depths of the earth. But it was all in my head. Just like the urgency. If I hadn't been so damn panicked, I might have made it.
The crying next door had stopped. I'd knocked over the rest of the gin while I slept. That sucks. At least I had my flask. I'd need it.
I packed up some essentials in an old duffel bag. By 'essentials', I really just mean a first aid kid, a lot of extra ammo, and some clothes. Odd that I, a free American with the resources to up and move to Canada, owns over twelve-hundred rounds of .45 ACP ammunition, and yet the only food in my kitchen is a single can of Vienna Sausages from god-knows-when. Breakfast. After eating my meager meal, I could think a bit more clearly. Except for the pain. That was still a fairly distracting factor. A couple swigs of gin later, and that wasn't an issue anymore. But, I also wasn't thinking very clearly anymore either.
I devised a plan. First, to loot the nearby apartments. I was certain that there was a good amount of food and supplies left over, if only not in my apartment. The first door I knocked on was the one I'd heard crying from the day before. No answer. I knocked again, a little louder. No answer. Once more, a full on 'cop-knock', three hard, solid raps on the door, and called out, "POLICE! Open up!" No answer. I knocked again, this time with my bootheel.
The door swung open as the frame splintered, the deadbolt tearing through the veneer like a little wrecking ball, and I entered the room, revolver ready in my left hand, my bandaged right held behind me, to keep it out of the way. It was pretty empty in here. Didn't even look like anyone had been there in weeks, it was so clean. It looked like a goddamn IKEA catalogue. Then I saw it. A red blossom, bursting up the pantry door, and a slumped body below, wearing a thick green oven mitt. There was a hole in the mitt, where an index or middle finger might be. The hole was ragged, a gunshot if I'd ever seen it. Well, that's why I didn't hear a shot. Her head was gone, torn off by what further inspection revealed to be a .357 Magnum revolver. Five full chambers. Off-brand. Absolutely no nonsense. If you gotta kill yourself with something, you could do a lot worse. I slipped it into the back of my waistband, and without even a trace of reverence, kicked the body aside and went to open the pantry. Something stopped me.
That 'something' was a wire coat hanger, coiled around the pantry's double doors. Oh dear. I knocked on the doors. "Police. Come on out-"
The doors stretched and groaned as something heavy hit them from inside the pantry. Something small. A child- The doors creaked and bent again, and the coat hanger screeched on the metal knobs. I stepped back, and raised my weapon. On the third impact, i fired twice, and the resulting thud within assured me of a good shot. I uncoiled the wire with difficulty, considering I only had one good hand.
Just then, there was a shout from the hall. "KNEES ON THE FLOOR AND HANDS IN THE AIR. I AIN'T FUCKIN' PLAYING." A man. As though I thought, perhaps, that maybe he was in fact playing, he felt the need to emphasize this with a shotgun pump. But I know the sound of an empty shotgun. And I know the sound of a bluff. And I heard both. Unfortunately, I am unfamiliar with the difference in sound of an empty or full bolt-action rifle. And that's what I heard next, accompanied by "Do what he says. We ain't playin'." A woman. I dropped my gun and knelt down on the floor, still unable to face my new 'friends'. "Go get his gun."
"Nah, you go get it."
I took advantage of their squabble to slip my hand inside my jacket. I only needed one thing.
"I got the fuckin' shotgun. You go get it."
"Give me the shotgun, and you can get it- HEY NO MOVING!" I dropped what I was holding, and it bounced on the floor, where it caught the light just right, reflecting gold and blue sparkles onto the ceiling. I took that opportunity to speak.
"I'm CIA. You're impeding a federal investigation." I heard a weapon barrel hit the floor as their jaws dropped.
"Oh, shit." That was all the time I needed. I tucked and rolled, snatching up my pistol in my damaged right hand as I went. The pain was blinding. I'd have to make this count-
BLAMBLAM! BLAM! They returned fire.
CRACK!
Clouds of smoke and disturbed dust floated through the room, obscuring everything in a light mist. I could barely see what had happened, but the sounds clued me in. One of them coughed, wet, phlegmy coughs, that could only produce that sound through a lungfull of blood. I got one. The other dark figure lay on the floor, unmoving. I got em both. I stood, feeling like Bruce Willis, and approached, walking like John Wayne. I made up my mind right then to forget about looting. Clearly, it doesn't end well. The coughing one raised his hand, and I spit on his face, before raising my weapon to his forehead. I could see it in his eyes. He was begging. There was a rustle in the hall. I spun fast, barrel already seeking a target. But all it found was a little girl, less than three years old, sobbing silently. I looked back at my assailants. Same hair color. Same eye color. Her parents. I holstered my weapon, collected my bag and left them there, left the little girl to say goodbye, and left her father to choke on the words 'I love you'. The rules of engagement had changed, and not for the last time, either.
I shed little more than a few tears for that girl and her parents. They made their choices. I made mine. Mine just happened to be a lot faster.
The elevator was stuck on the floor above mine, of course, and I was left with two options. I could force the door with the 'EMERGENCY' button, and make my way down the shaft. It was sure to be pretty clear, but the dangers were great. For one, what if the elevator dropped? Or what if I slipped? The other option was the stairs. Sure, I hate stairs, but with only one good hand, the choice was clear.
Surprisingly, the stairs were clear as well. It seemed as though everyone in my building got out alright. There was a hole in the plate glass lobby door, probably how that little family of looters got in. How stupid do you have to be to bring a child out here with you? It seemed as though everyone got out alright, except for the mystery of a full parking lot. What happened here? I picked out a Jeep, an old maroon one, and raised my sidearm.
BLAM!
One round, through the window. I fumbled with the locks as the alarm went off. I slapped the hood release and made my way around to the front, feeling under the hood for the latch, peeking around, certain that someone was about to sneak up on my. I pulled up the hood, and yanked off the red battery cable. The alarm ceased, leaving behind an eerie silence. I reconnected the battery after counting out thirty seconds, and threw my gear into the passenger seat, before kneeling down to pull open the console. What was it? Yellow to red? Green to red? Blue to red? Yellow to blue? I took a guess at Yellow-red, and was rewarded by the sound of a starting engine.
CRACK!
A shot rang out. My windshield shattered. I ducked.
CRACK!
A hole in the open driver's door. They were in front.
WHAM!
From the side, a shotgun. I drew my .45 in my crippled right hand, and held onto the steering wheel with my left, propping up my feet on the car floor, so they couldn't see me from under the Jeep.
CRACK!WHAM!
Only two attackers. I can take these assholes-
POPPOPPOP! POPPOP! Behind me.
Stings in my back. I fell onto the pavement. My shoulder was on fire. I was bleeding. A young woman stood over me in a red leather jacket. She laughed. The pistol in her hands was small, but seemed enormous when she put it to my head. I could hear them unzipping my bag. I could feel them pulling my weapon out of my hands. They found my ankle holster, too.
"No food. Lotta ammo. Sickass guns."
"Who goes around with no food?"
"Hit pretty fast. Maybe he didn't have time. 'Least he got us a car."
The woman spoke. "He can still hear you guys."
"Jesus, put him down. Have some mercy."
Her rouged cheeks, her cherry nail polish, her jacket. Right before she pulled the trigger, I heard my own voice in my head, saying,
Red equals dead.
I choked out a laugh. The woman put a boot on my face and pressed. "The fuck you laughin' at?"
I slipped my good hand behind my back as I rolled, to move her heel to a more comfortable position on my cheek. My right leg tensed like a spring. I spit out blood and responded, "Red equals dead."
The scavenged .357 thundered as I whipped it out of my waistband. My right heel crashed against her ankle, throwing her shot wild. POP! POPPOP! One round hit my chest and ricocheted off my flask. Her left eye burst like fireworks.
BOOM! BOOM! My weapon roared like a lion while I laughed like a hyena and bled like a busted hip flask.
In the end, no one got the chance to shoot me again. In the end, she got the same funeral I would've. Her buddies left in my car. I crawled and bled, and crawled, and bled. And crawled, and bled. And bled.
The rules of engagement had changed. And not for the last time.
