Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

I almost tossed it down but unwrapped it and stuck it in my mouth instead. “Okay, Lou?”

Thanks, dude.

I screwed the silencer onto the end of the.32, grabbed a crowbar from the floor of the shed. I put on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Show time. They’d locked the back door, but not terribly well, no chain or bolt. I pried it open, the wood splintering. A little noisy, not bad. Nobody came to investigate. The door opened into a short hall, washer and dryer on the right. Both machines were running. The noise probably helped cover my entrance. I turned left into the kitchen.

Empty. The sound of the television came from the den beyond.

I entered the den. Shorty’s back was to me. He leaned over a CD player, was putting a disc in. He didn’t hear me come up behind. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned.

He saw me, eyes big. His mouth fell open, sucked breath for a shout. I stuck the silencer down his throat, and his lips closed over it reflexively. I pulled the trigger. Poot . A miniature volcano of blood, hair, flesh, and bone erupted from the back of his skull. His eyes rolled back, and he slid off the gun barrel with a wet pop as he slumped to the floor.

I looked at what he’d put in the CD player. Johnny Cash. Why not? I pushed it in, hit play. Turned it way up. Picked up the television remote and hit mute. I understood in some disconnected way that the pain medication was mixing badly with the whiskey. I tried to remember how many pills I’d had in the last few hours. At least two.

I heard bizarre, demented laughter. It was me.

I took out the nearly empty Jim Beam flask, held it awkwardly in my bad hand.

The bassline for “I Walk the Line” began, and a woman appeared in the kitchen door. Not the dirty blond, thinner, young and pretty with a heart-shaped face. She saw me, her hand going to the surprised O of her mouth like she’d just let a little girly burp.

Poot .

A little yelp and she pitched forward, kissing carpet.

I took a hit of Jim, fumbled the bottle to the carpet and bent quickly to pick it up before it all spilled out. At the same moment, a shotgun spoke thunder behind me. Somebody had come around through the other hall. The pellets blasted over my head, shredding plaster on the far wall. I spun a small arc, firing quickly to catch my attacker.

Poot. Poot. Poot. Poot .

I’d caught him with the middle two bullets halfway through his attempt to pump another shell into the shotgun chamber. He staggered into the wall, slid down dead into a sitting position. The bearded guy. I heard a scream. People shouting orders back and forth.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.

I picked up Shorty’s dead body, kicked him ahead of me in front of the opening to the hall where Bearded Guy had come from. The hall became a hail of gunfire. I wasn’t there. I was legging it fast around through the other hall.

In the living room, the ex-military looking guy was thumbing fresh rounds into his revolver, he saw me-

I keep my eyes wide open all the time.

– butter-fingered the bullets. We both watched them fall in breathtaking, slow motion. They bounced off the carpet. His eyes came back up, met mine.

Poot. Poot.

He fell.

Because you’re mine, I walk the line.

Outside, a car started.

I exploded out the front door, dropped the.32 in the snow. The Jeep escaped at a dangerous speed down the steep driveway. I drew the Minelli cannon, fired until it was empty.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Each shot was accompanied by a spectacular gout of flame. The Jeep’s left taillight shattered and went out. The back window disintegrated. I caught the back, right tire just as the Jeep was going into a tight curve. It rolled on its side, sliding down the snowy slope and off the path, snapping saplings, until it smacked into the trunk of a large pine with a sickening metallic crunch.

I watched for a few seconds, but nobody got out of the Jeep.

Going through the rest of the house took only a minute, but they were all dead or gone. On the way back out I grabbed the.32 out of the snow, reloaded the clip.

I skipped down to the truck. The bitter cold, I now found exhilarating.

At the wreck, I went to one knee and looked in the Jeep. Two people hung upside down. The man in the passenger side was new to me, but it hardly mattered. I could tell by the angle of his neck, the way his head was jammed up against the windshield that he was all done.

The dirty blond dangled from the driver’s seat, blood dripping from her nose and one ear.

“Help me,” she said weakly.

“Who’s that?” I pointed at the dead man in the passenger’s seat.

“Tom.”

“Good.”

“Help.” Her voice was a sad, tiny croak.

“I want the girl.”

“Tina.”

“I know. Where?”

“The lake cabin.”

“I know. Where?”

“Up the mountain.”

“I thought this was up the mountain.”

“More.”

“Tell me how.”

“Left out of the driveway. Stone Lake. There’s a few cabins. People build. It’s the only finished cabin. Closest to the dock.”

“What road?”

“Stone Lake Trail.”

“Okay.” I leaned into the can of the Jeep, reached passed her and pushed in the cigarette lighter.

She pawed at me with desperate, feeble hands. “Please.”

The lighter popped. I used it to light Lou’s cigar, puffed a big blue-gray cloud which twisted away on the dark wind.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am the angel of death and mercy. There used to be an angel for each, but now we’re the same.”

Poot.

A dreadful, slow drowsiness replaced the twisted euphoria of the pills.

I trudged back up to the house, tossed the cigar into the snow.

In the kitchen, I splashed water into my face, drank big gulps from the faucet. I went in their bathroom, took a long leak in the toilet.

I slugged it down the mountain, the snow halfway up my shin. The cold seeped into my bones now, the bottom of my pants wet. I was numb and tired. I looked up, noticed the snow had stopped.

I climbed into the Silverado, cranked it, turned the heat up all the way.

I turned around and drove slowly over the mountain road. Maybe ten minutes into the drive I passed a sign. It was dark, and I went by too fast to read it, but it might have said Stone Lake Trail.

I turned the wheel, and the truck came around sluggishly. There wasn’t any traffic, so I crept upon the sign at 5 mph. Stone Lake Trail.

I made the turn. The road was dirt, a steep climb, even steeper than Tom and Tina’s driveway, but the truck didn’t have any trouble. I flipped it into four-wheel drive just to make certain.

My eyelids were lead. My mouth lolled open. Breath came roughly, heavily. I pulled the truck over, set the emergency brake. I needed the thermos; maybe there was coffee left although it might not be so warm.

It was down behind the passenger seat. I bent down for it. Reached… down.

Down.

My eyes popped open.The truck was running, and the inside of the cab was an inferno from having the heat on full blast. I was still sitting on the driver’s side but bent over, face against the passenger’s seat, arm back behind the seat in mid-reach for the thermos.

I sat up. My back was in knots. The headache behind my eyes meant business. The pain pills had caught up with me, and I’d paid the price. I rolled the window down an inch, welcomed the cool wash of air over my face.

Dawn poked through the trees, bathed the winterscape in shades of orange. The snow on the ground was even and unbroken. An unspoiled wilderness. It looked like a picture postcard.