by Student32 (Hunter: The Reckoning | Fiction)
John was almost sorry he'd set off the sprinklers. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now his clothes were soaked through, and his grip on the shotgun was getting slicker. The alarm bells were screaming through his head, drowning out almost everything else. His lungs were working as hard as they could, trying to draw in precious oxygen. He hated being scared. Time to stay here for a moment, try to calm down.Hunkered down behind the repair counter, in the dark, with the sprinklers running and the alarms sounding, the only light from the occasional flash above, John knew that he had to make his move, and soon. He wiped some of the grime from his face and fumbled in the pocket of his jacket, looking for more shells. Only two. Damn.
He was there, somewhere, out among the display tables. And, it was too late to back down now.
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John and Paul had been best buddies. They had been inseparable since high school, even though Paul had gone on to college and John had decided to go to work. They'd drink beer together, shoot pool occasionally, and John had been Paul's best man. They saw each other less as the years went on, but they had made a point of going out every so often, just the guys. A man can only go so far without camaraderie, Paul said, and a wife just couldn't provide that.
They'd even been together the night that everything had gone wrong. Walking home from a bar one night, singing badly at the top of their lungs, they'd run into the biggest problem of their lives.
Paul had suggested that they cut across the park, a shortcut. A bad one, as it turned out.
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Knowing that the police or firefighters would be there soon, John decided that he had to move now. Run out from behind the counter, and behind that stack of boxes. The contents should provide decent cover and, God willing, that bastard out there would reveal his position. Damn.
Making sure he had a shell chambered, John prepared himself for the run. He watched a drop of water run down the barrel for a second, willing his heart to slow down. He swallowed, hoping to God that he wouldn't die here.
And then he ran. He'd never run this fast in his life, not even when Paul and he had been on the track team. He kept an eye out for a muzzle flash, through the sprinklers and the alarm flashes.
A shot rang out from behind a table of the latest in computerized surgers. John kept running, and more shots were fired. Yep, that was a .38 all right.
John dove and landed on the floor behind the boxes of sewing machines. He sat up and winced momentarily as the sweat and water ran into the scrapes on his elbows and knees. They never showed THAT in the movies.
He ducked around the boxes, and fired a blast, hopefully where the other shots had come from. He ducked back, and three more shots rang out. That made six. Time to go.
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The park was notorious as a local Lovers' Lane, and the pair had stumbled across a couple doing more than they should in a public place more than once before. Something to keep on the lookout for, as they passed the bottle they'd bought for the road back and forth. This time, however, had been different.
It was a balmy night in September, and the air was clear for once. Even at two o'clock in the morning, it was pleasant out. What chill there was, the alcohol took the edge off. And, apparently, the night was pleasant enough for another couple. John spotted them.
The girl did, yes, look like she was enjoying herself. But the guy� guy? What the hell was that growing out the back of his head? And his back?
That's when the voices came. Paul later claimed to have heard it say something like "ease its pain," like in that Kevin Costner movie. Paul was walking up to him, and said, "Hey, buddy, you okay?"
John, on the other hand, didn't hear a thing until the "guy" turned around. When he looked at that guy, who looked like a cross between Quasimodo and Freddie Krueger, he heard someone say in the back of his head, "it preys upon the innocent."
John had had enough time to register that the girl's neck was bleeding before the guy hit Paul upside the head. Slapped him. Paul staggered back, but the alcohol seemed to have softened the pain of the blow some. Even so, Paul had the beginnings of a nasty bruise on the side of his face. That's when John took the bottle and smashed Mr. Ugly in the face with it. "No one does that to my friend, you ugly�" The bottle felt somehow warm and vibrant in his hand, but that didn't seem important. What was important was how Mr. Ugly whipped his head back.
Mr. Ugly looked at John, and grinned what would have been a toothy grin, had there been more teeth. And made to punch him in the mouth, when Paul yelled, "No!" Mr. Ugly's hand stopped short of John's face, and John hit him upside the head with the bottle, which shattered spectacularly against the malformed skull, liquor spraying everywhere.
Mr. Ugly turned and ran.
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John ran, and set his sights on the figure crouching down behind the display table. It was the bastard over there, or him.
Suddenly, John's face was in the carpet. Someone had failed to secure a power cord for one of the display models, and his foot had caught. And he didn't have the shotgun in his hands anymore. In fact, his right wrist was burning inside. He knew that one, from an old hurdling injury. He'd sprained his wrist.
He scrabbled to his feet, and then he was staring at a hand, pointing a revolver at his chest. The nickel plating on the revolver reflected in a fascinating manner, the water from the sprinklers refracting the dim, flickering emergency lighting.
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Life went on after that day, but the pair had often talked about what had happened. They'd called 911 for the girl from a pay phone and left. Paul had explained the bruise away to his wife, saying he'd walked into a door frame while drunk. Paul and John swore never to talk about that night to anyone but each other.
However, it became apparent that Mr. Ugly was not alone. Often, mostly at night, both saw those like him. And
they weren't much friendlier. In fact, it almost seemed common at times.
They started arguing about what to do, but Paul won out in the end. Paul had said that they had to be helped, that they needed to understand these things. John kept saying that someone ought to do something about it. And, in the back of his head, he dreamed of being that person. But Paul was the one with the college degree, in psychology, no less.
John tried to keep his loathing, his hatred, for these creatures in check. He couldn't understand why these things caused such a strong feeling in him, but he had held onto it as long as he could. Until today.
John didn't understand why Paul didn't want him around any more. It had been weeks since he'd been invited over, and Paul was always busy, with work or some project or other.
So, John had decided to pay him a visit. He walked up the path, past the neatly trimmed hedges, and to the front door. It was when Paul's wife, Elizabeth, answered the door that it all broke loose.
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"You bastard. You killed her."
Paul, leveling the pistol at John's chest, was talking. It was obvious that he was barely restraining his rage.
"How could you betray me like that?"
John spat on the ground, but his heart was pounding in his chest. Play it cool, man. You can make it out of this, he thought.
"She was already dead, you idiot. Why the hell didn't you me? She was a freaking monster, like that guy! It was only a matter of time before she chewed on your neck!"
"You piece of crap! You never liked her! You always were jealous of me, weren't you? Weren't you? I'm sorry, but I moved on in life! You, you're stuck in a rut. It's not my fault you never found anyone, never made anything of yourself!"
The revolver wavered, and John went for it.
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Elizabeth answered the door, and John looked at her. Then, he really saw her. Her face, no longer youthful, but gray and split down the cheeks. Stringy muscles exposed in her neck, bones in her hands. The hair falling out in places. The eyes, staring at him, dead.
She was dressed for work, apparently about to leave the house. John yelled, and Paul appeared behind her. He grabbed her, and pulled her back.
Harsh words were exchanged, and John tried to shove past Paul, into the house. John had only left when Paul produced a .38 and told him to stay away from his wife.
It had been so easy. Grab Dad's old shotgun, and take it out to the garage. Cut it down, the barrel and the stock. File down the rough edges, where he'd sawn it off. Looked just like the ones on the news that they kept taking from gang-bangers. Find the shells, put them in a pocket.
He'd managed to sneak into the sewing machine store where Elizabeth worked, near closing time. She'd be the last one in the store. He snuck in through the back, when the repair guy had gone out for a smoke. They left the back door open, because the fumes from the chemicals were better going outside than into the store with the customers. In the men's room, which would likely not be patronized between now and closing. She wouldn't check it until no one else was there.
It was easier than he'd thought, shooting his best friend's wife. Easier, because she was already dead. It certainly took a lot of shells, though. After the first one, he'd set off the fire alarm, to cover the sound. He'd reloaded the magazine twice before she'd stopped crawling on the ground.
And that's when Paul walked in to pick up his wife and take her home.
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John tried to grab the pistol, but his hand slipped. Damned sprinklers. Paul pulled the trigger, and the bullet hit John in the gut.
He staggered backward, the air knocked from him. He hit the display table behind him, an older model sewing machine digging into his back. Then he sat down. Hard.
He reached down and touched the blood on his shirt. He couldn't breathe in anything more than a shallow gasp. He felt the liquid warmth on his fingers, contrasting sharply with the coolness of the sprinklers on his face. Then he looked up at Paul. His best buddy. His friend for life.
He tried to speak but couldn't get any words out. He was becoming lightheaded.
Paul was looking at his friend, and at the gun in his hand. He dropped the gun. The emotions ran across his face: first exultation at revenge for his wife, then horror at shooting his friend, and, finally, remorse.
It was remorse that he settled on, even as his friend bled to death, slowly, his mouth opening and closing, and audibly making gasps. John's head rolled, and he stared directly into his friend's eyes. He was trying to say something.
"I'm so sorry, John. I'm so sorry." There were tears in his voice. John couldn't tell if he was really crying or not, because of the water. He didn't want to die like this. Not here.
"I'm so sorry."
That was the last thing John heard.
