Silver Bullets

(working title)

My father used to tell me that lightning bolts during a thunderstorm were arrows shot down to earth by angels, meant to strike down devils wherever they would gather.

Which was why he told me I should never be afraid of them- angels would never strike down a little boy who hadn’t done anything wrong, and angels never miss- so they wouldn’t ever hit me by accident.

Today, however, as I look down on the bar across the street from my viewpoint on the roof, I have to wonder if I would be struck down rightfully, before I’d get my chance to take my shot.

It’s freezing cold up here. The black raincoat I’m wearing does little to shield me from the torrents of water raining down on me from above. The cigarettes in my hip pocket are wet- I didn’t get the coat on in time to save them. Oh well, I swore to myself that I’d quit if I got this done right anyway.

If there is one thing I’m thanking the rain for now, it’s the fact that it somehow masks the otherwise unbearable stench of shit, smoke and grime wafting from the alleys below me. Otherwise I’d have to hold my breath. No, I’m not exaggerating here. I think it’s probably the tradeoff for the empty left eye socket, though part of me is inclined to believe that something else entirely is to blame.

Something, or more accurately someone. A certain someone who’s sitting happily in that bar across the street, warm, dry, and probably quite drunk. Would it surprise you then if I told you that that’s why I’m standing here in the cold, carrying a loaded sniper rifle while my Susie is alone at home?

There. It’s out. I have a gun. At this point, you’re probably bracing yourself for the sad story I have to tell, blaming that man in the bar for whatever way he managed to screw up my life. I won’t bore you with the details at this point- there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Or you could ask Susie- smart girl figured it out on her own from day one.

Whatever it is, it should suffice for you to know that this man I’m waiting for screwed up my life, and he did it big time. In my line of work, it’s well known that you only perform at your best when you have no connections at all to the target. Tonight will be the first time that I have killed a person out of hatred.

I’m no angel myself, but up until now I have never missed a target’s heart unless I’m paid extra to make it slow. And in the case that I do get sloppy because of how much I hate him, well there’s seven other bullets in the magazine. If it ever comes to that.

Time passes. My watch tells me I’ve been up here soaking in the rain for about an hour now. And there’s still no sign of the target since he’d gone in. It doesn’t really matter, though- it’s been three years since he almost destroyed me. If I could wait that long to find him, surely waiting a few more hours wouldn’t matter to me anymore.

And every fibre of my being tells me that tonight, every second I spend up here is going to be worth the wait.

The rain continues to fall. Few people, if any leave the bar- possibly waiting for the rain to stop so that they can leave dry. For irony’s sake, once I’m done here I’m going to go across the street and get a drink myself. I promised myself I’d quite smoking, after all, not booze.

And then I see him.

Coming out of the alleyway beside the bar- I can just make out his silhouette in the rain, and the matching brown trench coat and hat he’d been wearing when I tailed him here. Why hadn’t he come out through the front door? Had he gotten into some kind of brawl, and the people had thrown him out through the back?

It doesn’t matter. I take aim.

You know how they say your whole life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die? Well I don’t know if he’ll experience it when my bullet finds its mark, but for some reason, the moment I have him in my crosshairs, I’m the one having flashbacks. Not those lengthy ones where you can remember details like conversations, colors, tastes and scents- just one, vivid image of acid yellow eyes, and claws as sharp as knives tearing through my flesh.

It’s enough for me to pull the trigger.

Angels.

Don’t.

Miss.

The conveniently timed thunderclap drowns out the noise that the rifle makes. Across the street, he crumples down onto the sidewalk, his left hand over his heart. I would love to be standing there right now, just to see the look of surprise on his face- but that’s a privilege I’m going to have to forsake.

I’m not sure how long I stare at the dead body from the roof, feeling like I’ve finally been allowed to start breathing again after spending the last few moments being held underwater by unseen hands trying to drown me. With the rain still this heavy, and the fact that it’s way past midnight in a neighborhood the city would just love to forget, it may take a while before anyone even notices that there’s a body on the sidewalk.

My work here is done.

I get up from my crouching position, turn around, and find myself staring face to face with a ghost.

In a heartbeat, I suddenly realize that the one who’s going to die tonight is not going to be him after all. He’s just as drenched as I am, having abandoned his coat and hat and passed it on to some poor bastard who’s now lying in a puddle of rainwater mixed with blood.

But unlike me, he is unarmed.

What I thought was a triumphant grin on his face now turns out to be a look of fear, a look that I realize must be mirrored on my face right now. Because I’d be lying if I told you that I’m not scared shitless right now. Why do you think I chose to do it the coward’s way- from where he couldn’t see me?

For some reason, I don’t find myself raising my rifle to take a second shot. I don’t know how the hell he could have gotten up here, behind me without me noticing (no one has ever done that to me before), but what strikes me now is how he’s just standing in front of me, as though waiting to be shot.

“I know you,” he tells me. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth, but I’d like to believe him. If only so that he knows what it is he’s done to me, and why I tried to kill me.

I finally raise the rifle.

“And I also know why you want to kill me,” he quickly adds.

I’m not in the mood for psychological or emotional talks right now. “And by offering yourself to me here, you think I’m going to be convinced that you’re not a bad person and change my mind?” I ask him sarcastically.

“I don’t care if you choose to kill me,” he tells me. “That’s entirely up to you. I’m here to apologize for what I did to you.”

Apologize? If anything the very idea of it makes me even more ticked off. How could he possibly think this would suffice? Saying you’re sorry makes nothing go away. Especially not the scars he left behind.

“What happened to me that night…I didn’t mean for it to happen. We both know I wasn’t myself at the time. The Hyde to my Jekyll is not something I can control easily…and by now I’m sure you know that it’s true.”

For some reason, the scars on my chest start to hurt. I lower the rifle as I clutch my chest with my right hand. Or am I just imagining it? It’s as though they are trying to agree with him, to remind me of what I’ve become, and how I know, deep down inside, that it is entirely possible that he wasn’t conscious of his own actions.

I know I wasn’t. Not on my first full moon. The night I lost my wife.

So maybe he really is tormented by his own ‘Hyde’, as he calls it. As much as I am. Maybe he really does want to apologize. I look at his face now, and I realize that it’s not fear on his face anymore.

It’s resignation. He is ready to die.

But that does not make everything alright.

I have never claimed to be morally right. I’m not one of those people who can turn away from the opportunity to get revenge just because it’s wrong or because ‘it won’t make things better’. Hell, I don’t believe in the latter. Putting a bullet in this man’s head is going keep me smiling for weeks. The opportunity to piss on his corpse is better even than the prospect of getting cured or going to heaven or any of that crap.

I’m glad that he came all the way up here. Now I get to look him in the eye when I kill him.

I raise my rifle to point it at him again.

Only he is faster.

Much.

Much.

Faster.

I don’t even notice where he’d kept the handgun. By the time I notice that he’s holding it, there’s already a bullet in my right shoulder, and I’m falling backwards as the pain burns at my consciousness, laughing at me.

The rifle is no longer in my hands by the time I hit the ground, falling flat on my back.

He looks down on me, with that triumphant grin I expected to see on his face when I first turned around and saw him.

“Don’t worry,” he tells me as he bends down to pick up my rifle. “It wasn’t silver. I’ve only got normal bullets in this gun. Probably won’t kill you outright unless I shoot you through the head or the heart, but-

He shoots both of my kneecaps with his gun. It’s enough to make me scream. Not that it’s going to make any difference. No one will come. Not in time to save me, at least.

“Yes, it still hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” he laughed, before tucking his gun back into his pocket, paying more attention to the rifle now. He crouches beside me, and I see the glint of yellow in his eyes. He may not be wearing the same face he wore the first time I saw him, but it still sends a chill up my spine- the idea that he can just walk around in society with that human face.

The face that had deceived me into actually believing that I would win tonight.

“But you, Cartland, you obviously wanted me dead, so I’ll bet anything that this rifle is loaded with silver,” he smiles, before pointing the gun at my stomach.

No hesitation. He pulls the trigger.

Despite the fact that I’ve been shot three times tonight, none of that comes close to the pain I feel now. I don’t just scream, I writhe, shaking helplessly on the ground as I feel, and hear the flesh around the bullet wound begin to sizzle.

He scratches his head. “Oops. Guess it is. You’re more or less screwed now. Technically, if you can somehow crawl your way out of here and find another one of us within the hour, they’d probably have an antidote for silver poisoning. But then, everyone more or less knows you as a hunter. They’d probably kill you themselves before you get to explain yourself.”

I would love to spit at his face now. Reach up and punch him. Swear. Anything. And I probably would if I weren’t too damn occupied by the pain.

“Shouldn’t have hesitated, Cartland,” he tells me. A fact that I already know. “I just love pulling the innocent, remorseful routine on people who come after me. I lied about the control part, obviously. I don’t hate the killing. I live for it. There is no Jekyll, Cartland. And the only thing I really should apologize for now is for not killing you outright that night. In fact, I just might regret not killing you outright right now- the problem with letting you die slowly is that someone might intervene-

As he says this, he trails off for a while as he reaches his free hand into one of my pockets, pulling out my house keys.

“But again, the only people who can help you are the people you’ve hunted for the past few years. So I doubt they’ll be happy enough to help you. Either way, I’m sorry but you’re not the one I plan on tearing apart tonight.”

Oh God no.

As he stands up and turns to leave, I somehow manage to grab his ankle. Whatever pride I had isn’t important now. “Not her. Leave her alone.”

He puts on a mockingly offended look. “Leave her alone? Cartland, you’re obviously denser than you look. Your employers? The ones who want you to ‘save humanity’ have had me on their payroll for the last two years. You’re not here to kill me because you were ordered to do so, and since the orders didn’t come from them, the info faxed to you that led you to me was obviously not from them either.”

I don’t understand what he’s getting at. As he sighs exasperatedly, he obviously knows this, and finally cuts to the chase.

“That whore you’ve been sleeping with, Susan? She wants me dead as much as you do. Probably more, even. Why else would she hook up with an old fart like you? It’s cute, actually. I dumped her in the messiest way possible, and, sure, left her with a few dead bodies to clean up and the police after her, and now she makes it her life goal to have me dead. You’re not the only person she’s sent after me. It was funny the first few times, but now it’s getting old. So, if you’ll excuse me-

He steps on my right arm. It pops like a bar of soap, cracking under his boot. With his leg free now, he walks calmly away from me towards the edge of the roof.

Lightning flashes across the sky again. Just in time for me to see him leap off the roof.

So. Now all that’s left is me, lying face up in the rain, with poison coursing through my veins, a broken arm, and busted kneecaps. Already my vision is starting to blur and darken. When he’d told me I had within the hour, he was probably just being optimistic.

I think I’m crying. But I can’t tell with the rain constantly washing down on my face. Should I be surprised? Susie always did seem to know more than she was letting on. But that would mean that here, at the end of it all, I’m going to die unloved. No one is going to be around to cry at my funeral- assuming I get one.

And yet I still want her to live. Susie, I’m sorry I can’t defend you.

Perfect. Just perfect. Reno Cartland is a rotten old loser who botched up his last job. And even if I do meet her later, you know, there, then it wouldn’t make a difference. Hell she’d probably scold me for not doing it properly. And well, causing her death.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…