Story #272 - Gunshy

Gunshy

There’s something distinct about the sound of a gun cocking, the sound of the hammer being drawn back and the pin locking into place.

It’s not the kind of thing you notice ordinarily, but trust me, you can’t miss it when a barrel’s pointed in your direction and the man with the trigger in his hand looks like he’d rather reach down and use his bare hands to end your life, or at least break a few of your bones.

I hadn’t been looking for a fight, and I certainly wasn’t looking to be on the wrong end of a steel barrel, but unfortunately that came with the territory.

Chasing down Runners was an easy way to make money – if you had the right mindset and you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Usually, I had both in spades but the last few months had been rough; something about dragging kids back to the Housing Projects was starting to leave a foul taste in my mouth. Most of them were snot-nosed little punks who thought a life on the street would be preferable to the handouts the government gave them for free, but lately I’d been coming across dead-eyed boys and girls, tiny things that had no business trying to survive in the Underground. Hell, it was rough on me, and I had a place to go at the end of the night – I had a government-sanctioned contract.

“Don’t move, asshole.” Supposedly, the voice of the man above me belonged to an eighteen year old who’d escaped lawful assistance last week, but from his voice and stature, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was at least thirty. I’d heard rumors about the experiments the government had been running on these kids, but like most of the nutrient-free propaganda the citizens were forced to chow down on, I was sure there was no truth to them

Looking up at the eyes of the beast in front of me, however, I started to question that particular surety.

“No problem,” I said. “How about I stay here and you take my gun and leave – it’ll get a good price on the Underground market, or you can just keep it for protection.”

“Shut up!” A large vein on the kid’s forehead was standing out, pulsing and engorged. He was on the brink – the trouble was, I had no idea what brink that was.

“OK, OK –“ I started, then cut off as a I realized exactly what “shut up” meant. I’d always been more talkative than was good for me.

“Who sent you?” The kid grated. “Wellson?”

I kept my silence, even though I had a powerful urge to ask just who the hell Wellson was and why he’d send me. I was a curious, but not curious enough to take a bullet to the brain. Still…

I raised an eyebrow. That would make my interest clear without giving the kid reason to shoot me. Of course, he might decide to shoot me no matter what I did – something that sent a tremor of fear running through my legs. I’d been kneeling for the better part of half and hour, and damn if it hadn’t started to hurt.

“Wellson!” The man with my gun bellowed, and I tried to keep my eyes wide and innocent. I really didn’t have any idea who this Wellson was, but I didn’t want to give off the impression that I knew more than I was saying.

“Fine!” The gun dropped an inch as the kid’s arm sagged. “Talk!”

“I don’t know who this Wellson is, kid,” I brought my hands up in front of my face as he pulled his lips back in a snarl and straightened his arm. “Really! I’ve got a contract to bring in Runners, that it! The government pays me after I bring you back – I never see a real person!”

“Liar!”

“I’m not! I’m not!” My mind reeled, desperately trying to come up with something definitive, something that would convince the kid I was telling the truth.

The gun lowered an inch; maybe my outright cowardice was having an effect.

“Maybe.” The kid grunted. “Most of Wellson’s guys can handle themselves a little better.”

“Thanks,” I said drily, my sense of humor re-asserting itself as it seemed my life might not actually be in immediate danger, and the kid smiled, a wan thing that drained me of any mirth.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the kid said quietly. “You’re going to Run me in.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, kid?”

“It’s Eric, and don’t ever call me ‘kid’ again.” I nodded; we were back on familiar territory now, and I was back to being scared as hell.

“Eric, why –“ He cut me off.

“Wellson won’t see me coming this way.” Another thin smile crossed his face. “And he certainly won’t see you. It’s obvious you’re not as weak as you look, or you’d never be able to chase down Runners. Together, we’ll blow this thing wide open.”

Asking what on earth he was talking about was at the top of my priority list, just as soon as he lowered the gun. He did me one better, tossing it at my feet and then turning his back.

I didn’t think; I moved. A shot rang out and Eric stumbled forward, hands clutching at his back. A strangling sound ripped from his mouth as he tried to find his footing, and it took me a moment to realize he was laughing.

“Good!” He bellowed. “I’m glad to see you have the nerve.” Shrugging off the short jacket he wore, I could see my bullet had made it through his white t-shirt, but I didn’t see a drop of blood. Eric smiled over his shoulder as he tugged up the tail end of the shirt, revealing a compressed copper bullet and smooth, unbroken skin.

There’s something distinct about the sound of a pistol round hitting the ground, the clack of metal on asphalt.

It’s not the kind of thing you notice ordinarily, but trust me, you can’t miss it when it’s falling off of the man you just shot in the back.



- D