The Meridians(8)

They were the eyes of a madman. But not a schizoid personality. No, these were the dead eyes of a man who is methodical in his madness; for whom carelessness serves no purpose and so is never indulged in. The worst kind of madman.

"Swampy says -"

That was all the contract killer got out before Scott moved. Before Scott turned. Before Scott aimed and fired.

The surprise registered on the man's face for only an instant as the bullet Scott had fired ricocheted off a nearby wall, sending a hail of concrete chips into the man's face, momentarily blinding him. But the man was a professional, and even though he was blind, he already had his own gun out, and fired it almost the same instant that Scott did.

Scott felt something tug at his stomach. He felt something like a cold breath of air in his center, and knew that he had been shot. He felt himself pitch backward with the force of the shot, and that was what saved his life as the killer before him racked off a second shot, a shot that whizzed millimeters over Scott's head - so close that it cut a furrow through his close-cut hair - and that would have surely taken his head off if Scott hadn't just fallen back with the force of the first hit.

He put one hand to his stomach and felt something slippery. Blood, yes, but also something more. It felt like his guts were trying their best to go from inside him to outside.

He didn't care. He racked off a second shot of his own, and saw the killer's dead eyes come to life as pain ripped through the man's shoulder - a shoulder that had suddenly turned into a mass of meat and bone with the force of Scott's bullet.

There was a clatter as the killer's gun hit the pavement, falling from now-nerveless fingers.

Scott brought his gun up to shoot again, to finish the job, to kill the bastard that had killed his family, but his vision suddenly doubled, then tripled, then went black.

It was only a moment, a split-second. But it was long enough that when he could see again, the killer was a good twenty paces away, running as fast as he could down the alley.

Scott tried to stand, but felt the gushing wetness at his center again, and faltered.

No, dammit.

He shoved his fist into his stomach, the small remaining part of his brain that was acting rationally shocked that his wound was so big that he could actually put his fist into his innards. But it was enough to slow the blood flow, at least, and keep his intestines from spilling out of him.

Then he put a foot below him and painfully shoved himself into a standing position. More wetness came forth, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything except hunting - and killing - the man who had killed his family.

Scott lurched down the alley, bouncing off a wall before he managed to get his feet properly underneath him and start doing something that approximated running. Luckily his quarry didn't seem to be moving much faster or having much more luck running a straight line: blood stains marked the walls on either side of the alley every few feet, and Scott could hear the hitman bouncing off things only a few feet ahead.

The sound gave him an extra burst of strength, and he continued after the predator who had suddenly become prey. He saw a flash of gray up ahead, then heard another gunshot and a crashing noise. Apparently the hitman had a spare firearm, and it sounded like he had used it to shoot through the lock of one of the doors that lined the alleyway.

Scott coughed, and felt wetness spray from his lips and wondered how much longer he could keep on. He knew he was dying, knew he should go back and lay down next to his wife and son, but instead he kept going, kept on his quest to destroy the thing that had destroyed his greatest treasures, shattered them like Ming vases under a sledgehammer.

He saw the doorway the killer had gone through up ahead. The entrance to whatever establishment lay on the other side of the portal was wide open, but Scott could see nothing on the other side of it. His vision kept blurring in and out of focus, and the cold he had felt in his gut was slowly making its way up his body, through his chest.

It was getting harder to breathe.

But he kept going. He moved to the doorway, then peeked into the dark space beyond. Doorways were one of a cop's least favorite things. There were too many bad angles, too many places that a shooter could lay in wait to fire at anyone who went through them. But again, Scott found himself not caring about the danger. He was already dying, he had already lost everything he had to lose, so what more could be done to him?

He went through the doorway full speed, heedless of the danger that presented itself with such a careless rush. But no bullet tore into him, no new slug pierced his body.

He made it through. And again, heard a noise.

It was the sound of someone rushing up stairs. Scott ran toward the sound, feeling his legs grow slower and slippery with blood, but willing them to speed in spite of it. He was in time to see the killer's feet as the man disappeared into the second floor of this place.

Scott looked around. As bad as doors were, stairs were much worse. There was only one way up them, and that was to barrel straight ahead and hope that anyone waiting for a cop would not choose to lean out and shoot point blank into the limited shooting gallery of the stairwell.

Besides, Scott didn't even know if he was capable of making it up a stairway at all, let alone move at speeds great enough to avoid incoming fire and return fire of his own.

Shut the hell up!

He realized that the voice he had just heard in his mind was his own; was his own consciousness overriding his fears and doubts and urging him onward, after his killer and the killer of his loved ones.