It had been eight hours and he still hadn’t budged an inch. Eight long, painful hours of sweating bullets and his veins pumping battery acid. Time had flown by surprisingly fast in this unhealthy and mostly catatonic state. He began to wonder if he was even alive anymore. What if these wounds that he had suffered had ceased to be reality? He could be in hell now, paying for years of sin.

No, that wasn’t right. It was more than not right, it was unfathomable; ridiculous even. If there was anything that he ever did, it would be to not let himself give in to these insane and twisted perspectives of others. He was not a fanatic, not like those psychos that would be shown on the news whenever an organized suicide would occur. He wasn’t about to give in to some demented form of mass slaughter in the name of religion.

No, this was a crazy way of thinking. He wasn’t in hell because there is no hell. He had been shot a few times, four to be exact. He was bleeding; he’d been bleeding for eight hours. He couldn’t walk because a small piece of lead was fired through the bone, flesh, and muscle in his right leg. When weight was put on this leg, it was unendurable. His left kneecap had met the same fate, he was disabled. He couldn’t walk, and this was why he’d laid there for such a long amount of time, drifting in and out of consciousness. Time flew by because there was no way of telling how long he was awake during those dreadful hours of hopelessness.

He laughed at the prospect of the leg being the least painful place to be shot. That was ridiculous. It’s going to hurt no matter what when a searing piece of hot metal slams into your body, liquefying on the way and exploding into several pieces once it digs it’s way underneath your skin. If any place was a good place to be shot in, it would be the head. When the bullet enters a human cranium, nine times out of ten they die instantly; without even hearing the gunshot. Bits of brain matter are removed from the bullets path savagely as it makes its fatal journey through the skull. Once the bullet, given it’s powerful enough, breaks through the sea of fluids and confines of bone to zip onward until stopped by a more durable obstacle, the victim is dead already. A very peaceful demise; painless.

It hit him like a train wreck; he shook his head violently, trying to concentrate on any one thought. He had always heard that the first sign that one was dying was that they couldn’t hold a thought for longer than a few seconds. He didn’t want to die while lying in the middle of a wooden floor, situated inside of a cozy cabin located a little ways into a quiet forest. It had been so simple before getting himself shot, too. His target was lying limply on his side about 10 feet away, the bullets he’d met with were aimed with much more proficiency. The only difference with this other man was that his groans of pain had ended merely seconds after he’d been shot. He was dead, and starting to smell.

As the wounded gunman struggled to keep his mind on the same channel, the pain in his lower body began to kick in again. Present were throbbing, pulsating waves of pain echoing throughout his structure at a rhythmic pace. It hurt, and it hurt badly. He wondered if there was a phone present in the house. Knowing the man he’d come here to kill, there probably wasn’t. This guy was the single most paranoid criminal he’d dealt with in all his life; people had to visit him personally to talk because he avoided telephones like the plague.

No phone, no form of communication. He was stuck with two bullets in the upper section of his right leg, one lodged in his left knee cap, and one lone bullet that had gone through his shoulder and out the other side. A cleaner would most likely be along the next day to clean up the mess, assuming the job had gone right. The body of his target would be dropped in acid and the blood scrubbed clean. The stained and ruined wooden floors would be fit to eat off of.

He wasn’t going to count on a cleaner to rescue him; those guys were typically a tad insane. This cleaner would probably assume that the wounded, yet still living man was meant to be disposed of as well, figuring that the assassin had done a sloppy job. He would be knocked out, or maybe even doused in acid while conscious depending on whom they sent to clean up.

With a sigh, it was decided that he had to make an effort to crawl out of the house and somehow signal assistance. Assistance in the middle of a sparsely populated forest that contained only, for the most part, secretive hillbillies and criminals that obviously went out of their way to keep to themselves? It seemed highly unlikely.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he declared himself almost completely hopeless. A miracle might save him, but other than that he was doomed to lying on the floor in excruciating pain, pieces of his knee cap on the floor around him.

The idea of crying came to mind, letting out a few sobs and pouring his heart out in the middle of the quiet woodland. No one would know that this tough guy hitman had messed up his job; not only failing to find help or find a logical solution out of the situation, but crying like a wounded baby afterward.

A motor hummed at a constant pace, the noise slowly gaining in distance. The sound was like long awaited music, like the blessing of several angels approaching to give this man, who had wasted his life on crime, a second chance. He was rescued, this visitor would help him. It was probably a lost tourist, or family member of some local that got lost and ended up at this lonely cabin by some highly improbable twist of fate. If they didn’t come inside, he could muster up enough energy to yell once or twice, lure them inside. Gravel crunched and twigs snapped underneath four heavy rubber tires as a car pulled slowly into the narrow, very rural driveway. He waited for a few long, agonizing seconds for his rescue to be complete, his heart skipping a beat in excitement as the engine of this car clicked off. All was silent for a few moments.

The next events happened quickly, and only a hazy recollection of them remained later. Two car doors could be heard opening, and then closing as four heavy feet dug into the ground. Hurried, determined footsteps made their way hastily to the front door. The steps stopped momentarily, the hitman’s heart speeding up in anticipation.

All hope was lost as quickly as it had come. The air exploded into an ear shattering sonic blast fit to rattle dishes and plates off of shelves, clocks off of walls. Splinters of wood were slung about in every direction as a gaping hole suddenly appeared in the mahogany door. Rays of sunlight flooded into the house, hurting the killer’s eyes. His skin would have gone stark white had he not lost his color already, hours ago. A savage kick shattered what was left of the deadbolt and knocked the door violently off its hinges. He watched it slowly fall to the ground with a more than startling thud.

A more unwelcome sight could not have come. The newfound rays of sunlight were abruptly blocked by the figure of a tall man clad in a leather jacket who had appeared in the doorway. Held smugly in his gloved hands was a sleek, black, and smoking shotgun.

He wasn’t a lost relative of the Beverly Hillbillies, that was apparent.