Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Morgan’s eyes flickered open. He saw only darkness. He closed his eyes and opened them again. No change. He rubbed the back of his neck, climbed to his knees. He tried to stand and lost his balance. His hand flew out and he grabbed something wooden. It wasn’t attached to anything and didn’t offer any support. He fell forward into a pile of clattering items, metal and wood. Something fell on him, plastic and heavy. He didn’t try to stand this time, crawled forward, a tentative hand in front of him. He found a wall, no, wait. It was wooden. Hinges. A door. He felt his way up until he found the knob. He twisted it, fell forward into the light, a clattering wad of brooms and mops. An empty metal bucket rolled out in front of him. He staggered and stood, felt the back of his head again. Swelling. He looked at his hand. No blood. How long had he been in the closet? Morgan checked his watch. No more than five minutes. They’d expected him to be unconscious longer, out of the way. Who the hell were those guys? What had the gang leader said? He’d ordered a search floor by floor. If Morgan acted quickly, he could make it upstairs in time to warn Valentine. Or he could save his own ass and run away like a little girl. It shamed him a little that he paused an extra few seconds to decide. He bolted for the stairs, legs still wobbly. He didn’t pause at any of the lower floors although he wished he knew where the gangsters were. Possibly they were already ahead of him. Perhaps he would find only bodies on the fifth floor. He didn’t stop to think about it, bounded up the steps two at a time. When he reached the fifth floor, he collapsed, lay sprawled on his back, heaving for air. His lungs ached for breath. His stomach churned and burned with alcohol. His brain spun with the knowledge of imminent death. He willed himself to his feet, jogged the maze to Valentine’s office. He threw open the door, stumbled in, startled a “whoa” out of Jenks. “There’s a bunch of black guys coming up here with guns,” Morgan said. Morgan leaned heavily against the doorjamb, out of breath, sweat sticking his shirt to him, his heart nearing terminal velocity. His eyes took in Valentine’s office, darted around the room, and landed on Wayne DelPrego, who sat in a corner chair with his head in his hands. Morgan frowned. What was his student doing there? Then Morgan saw Jenks. His eyes shot wide. “You!” Jenks looked confused. “Yo, Professor. What are you doing-” Morgan leapt, hands outstretched, a feral scream splitting the air. He hands went around Jenks’s throat, and both men tumbled to the floor. “Where have you been, you stupid son of a bitch? I’m going to get fired because of your sorry ass.” “Get him off me,” Jenks yelled. “Get him off.” “Professor Morgan!” Valentine leapt on Morgan’s back, heaved him off Jenks. Jenks rubbed his throat. “He’s crazy.” DelPrego had watched the whole altercation unfold, hadn’t moved. “I’ve looked everywhere for you!” Morgan deflated in Valentine’s grip. “Fuck it. Just fuck you.” “These young men have been hiding here with me,” Valentine said. “Those men downstairs are killers.” “No time for this story now,” Jenks said to Valentine. “We need a way out of here.” Jenks went to Valentine’s desk, where Bob Smith had dropped the revolvers. Jenks had been glad to see the guns because he was afraid he’d need them. He tucked the.38 into his belt and checked the load on the Old-West Colt. Wayne DelPrego sat up from his chair. He looked pale and distracted. In a low, even voice, he said, “Give me one of those.” “No way,” Jenks said, without looking at him. “You’re not straight in the head.” “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” Maybe it was the eerie calm in DelPrego’s voice. Jenks nodded and handed the Colt to DelPrego. Valentine thumbed two shells into the double-barreled shotgun. “I know a way downstairs. Follow me.” They followed Valentine out of the office, zigzagged the crazy turns of the fifth floor, and stopped at a door with the word ELECTRICAL on it. “Here?” asked Jenks. Valentine opened the door, and Jenks recognized the fireman’s pole he’d helped the custodian carry. It descended through a wide hole in the floor. Before Jenks could say anything, Valentine leapt on the pole and slid down. Jenks followed. The fourth floor whipped past and the pole ended. There was an alarming second of free fall, and Jenks landed on a dusty mattress. It was the third floor. Morgan landed on top of him. “Get the fuck off.” “Excuse me, Batman,” Morgan said. “I don’t have a lot of pole experience.” They managed to roll out of the way right before DelPrego hit. The four of them were in an abandoned classroom. Valentine cracked the door to the hall, took a peek. “I don’t see anyone,” Valentine said. “The stairs are directly at the end of the hall. We go down to the first floor, and there’s an exit outside right there.” “Let’s go,” Jenks said. They filled the corridor, stalked the hall with long, determined strides toward the stairs, guns at their sides, jaws set, eyes hard. The door to the stairwell flew open and three gangsters filled the other end of the hall. Jenks recognized Red Zach’s men. They saw Jenks and the professors, and their hands went into their coats. Valentine, Jenks, and DelPrego lifted their guns as one. The gangsters fired at the same time. The hallway erupted, shook with gunfire. Dust fell from the ceiling, plaster flying where lead hit. Morgan hunched against the wall, arms over his head. He felt his coat jerk where a slug ripped through the fabric. He heard yelling, realized it was him. Birdshot from Valentine’s twenty-gauge sprayed the first gangster. He dropped his gun, screamed. The other two fired back. Jenks fired three times. The first bullet went wide. The next two struck home. The gangster who’d been sprayed with the birdshot lifted off his feet, a new red hole in his chest. The thug next to him fell back, his head spraying blood. He twitched on the ground a long second before going still. The last of Zach’s men bolted back for the stairs, firing wildly over his shoulder. The door banged shut behind him, and he was gone. Smoke and cordite hung in the air. “Dear God,” Morgan said. “We got to move,” Jenks said. “They heard the shots.” They ran for the stairs. DelPrego paused over the bodies of the dead black men. He stuck the Colt in his belt and picked up the two fallen pistols, heavy automatics, one nickel-plated. Jenks looked back. “Fuck that shit, Wayne. Let’s go!” They flew down the stairs, feet barely touching each step. The exit led them out to the blizzard. It still howled, wind flinging snow and sleet. “Where’s DelPrego?” Morgan shouted over the wind. Jenks turned around, saw DelPrego wasn’t behind him. “Shit.”

These were the men who’d killed Timothy Lancaster. DelPrego held the pistols like white-knuckled death. He’d scour Albatross Hall, and all would fall before him. Nothing mattered but his white-hot vengeance. He found them on the second floor. They stood in a cluster, a half dozen of them, one gesticulating the story of the shooting on the floor above. DelPrego ran toward them, picking up speed with each step, arms extended and guns leading the way. Their faces turned, eyes wide, screaming. They pointed guns back at him. Curses. DelPrego didn’t hear. There was only the hot buzzing, blood pressure pounding hot in his ears. He squeezed the triggers as fast as he could. The hail of lead shredded the group, one gritting teeth, grabbing an arm. Another pitched forward. Two ran. Three returned fire, big automatics spitting fire. DelPrego caught a slug in the leg, he screamed, went down, but twisted to keep his pistols aimed at the group. He kept squeezing the triggers even after his gun was empty. His head swam, stomach heaving. Another bullet plowed a deep groove into his left shoulder. Blood gushed with each heartbeat. He lay on his side, dropped the empty pistols, and pulled the Colt from his belt. He cocked it, fired along the tile floor, and shattered the ankle of one of the gangsters. The gangster screamed, collapsed to the floor, squirming to get ahold of his ruined ankle. The puddle that formed under his shoe was thick and red and spread rapidly. Two more bullets smacked into DelPrego’s chest. He no longer felt the pain, only the dull impact. He fired the Colt one more time, but the bullet went wild. He was shot again. Again. His eyes looked up, dull and unblinking. The smile was faint and oddly peaceful.