by Logan Jacobs
A lot seemed to happen in the next second. The mutant staggered back a step as a fountain of blood arced into the air. A second spray splattered the area behind the cat man as the bullet pushed through muscle and tendon and exited through his shoulder. The mutant crumpled to the ground, even as the alarm had started to sound in my head.
I knew instinctively to let the trigger slide back rather than quickly pulling it again to fire the second chamber. If the cat man stayed down, I would only need one bullet and I could save the second bullet for Peter. When the mutant remained still, I looked down at the gun in my hands, and shook my head sadly. For all its power, the damn thing only carried two bullets.
When I glanced out the window again, I saw the cat man was curled up on our side of the street. Blood was seeping from the exit wound, and I assumed from the hit to the chest, and the man was making plaintive mews.
“Rog?” one of the other mutants called quietly.
“I’ll kill you, Peter,” the cat man gurgled.
“I wish they’d just leave,” Sorcha whispered.
“So do I,” I replied. “Because we only have two bullets left.”
“But the new gun…” she protested.
“Only holds two bullets, and I’m down to the last one in the Ruger,” I stated. “So I’ve got to make these last shots count.”
Chapter 7
“So how do you make both shots count?” Sorcha mused as she stared at the car across the street.
“If we take out Peter, I think the rest will slink away,” I replied.
“You’re probably right,” she said. “I get the sense that he’s the only one that’s really invested in this. The others all thought this was just going to be a quick fight, with them emerging victorious because there are so many more of them. The gun scares them.”
“And gives us the advantage,” I added as I grabbed the Ruger twenty-two and slung it over my shoulder with the strap. “They have no idea we only have two bullets left.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked as I stood up.
“Get Peter,” I smirked as I climbed over the broken windowpane and out the window.
I heard muted exclamations as I dropped into the weeds, then started to walk across what was left of the yard. A head poked over the top of the car, but it wasn’t Peter, so I simply pointed the Maverick without pulling the trigger. The head disappeared, and a more frantic discussion took place.
I stopped at the crumbling curb and waited to see who would be brave enough to appear first. There was a squeal that reminded me of a mouse that’s just been caught by an owl, and then a young woman who looked like she was little more than gray flesh stretched across a human skeleton darted from behind the car and ran down the street. If she hadn’t been running, I would have sworn she was already dead and had been for some time. I was so startled at first, and then so horrified, that I watched her run off without even pointing either of the guns in her direction.
While I tried to recover from the vision of the running dead woman, another young kid who could have been either male or female sprinted after her. The pair ran until they reached the next corner, then veered into one of the yards. They climbed gracelessly over a fence and disappeared from view, though I could still hear them as they ran through the debris.
Another long discussion followed from behind the car, and finally, Peter risked a look. He only put his head up for a moment, but he still looked angry rather than afraid.
“Fucking normals!” Peter yelled. “Anywhere else in the world and the mages would have killed your ass by now for having a gun! Is that why you’re here? Did the mages send you to kill off the mutants?”
“I’ve got no argument with you,” I replied calmly. “I wouldn’t have shot any of you if you’d let us leave quietly like Dani asked.”
“Liar!” Peter shouted.
And with that, Peter and a large, hairy man lunged over the top of the car. I had no idea what their strategy was, or if they even had one. Maybe they thought they could confuse me with two targets, but since they were both moving toward me along the same line, and I had the Mossberg in my hands and the Ruger within easy reach, that didn’t really work.
I took out the hairy man first, since he was, by far, the faster of the two. He was several steps ahead of Peter, but I was able to bring the Maverick up and fire when he was still halfway across the road. I was ready for the punch this time, and I kept the gun pointed at the hairy man despite the punch to my arm. I didn’t even bother to watch him fall.
As the Maverick vanished from my hand, I pulled the Ruger from my shoulder and pointed it at the mutant before he could even notice that his partner had gone down.
The deafening boom of the Mossberg Maverick, followed almost immediately by the crack of the Ruger twenty-two was enough to send the last of the local wildlife still in the area scurrying for cover. A flock of pigeons took to the air and a pair of squirrels bolted into a tree. I managed to register all of this, even as I saw the final bullet find its target.
Peter seemed to fall in slow motion. The bullet from the twenty-two hit him in the middle of the chest, and I was a bit surprised when the top half of his body jerked backward while his legs were still moving forward. There was an awkward moment when the two halves pulled at each other, and then Peter levitated off the ground for a few tenths of a second. Gravity took over then, and Peter landed on his back on the pavement, a small hole in his chest, a river of blood pouring down his chin, and a pool of crimson spreading around his body.
The Ruger was gone as well, but the other mutants either didn’t notice or didn’t care. One was brave enough to run over to the cat man and half-drag, half-carry him away, but the others took off without a backward glance. I watched the ragtag band follow the path taken by their peers and didn’t move until the last sound of their departure had died away.
“Sorcha?” I called out after the ringing in my ears subsided and the birds started to chirp again.
“I’d say you made those last shots count,” she noted.
I turned back toward the little house, but Sorcha had moved away from the window. I waited a moment, but the mage didn’t appear at the door like I expected. Of course, she probably couldn’t move the cabinet on her own, I chided myself, and I walked back toward the smashed window.
I peered inside, but Sorcha wasn’t inside struggling with the cabinet. In fact, I couldn’t see her anywhere. I climbed back over the windowsill much more carefully than I had when I had climbed out and looked around the little house.
“Sorcha?” I called again.
“Down here,” came the muffled response.
I followed her voice to a tiny door in the kitchen. I spotted the skeleton Sorcha had mentioned, dressed in a faded flower print dress and collapsed in front of an oven whose door was still open. The canine skeleton was on the floor near the back door, and the feline skeleton was curled up on a counter. I shook my head at the strange scene, then stuck my head inside the door.
I could pick out Sorcha’s measly flame in the dark depths of the cellar, though not much more than that. It sounded like she was trying to move something, but I couldn’t see what exactly she was doing. I heard her sneeze, and then something clanked to the floor.
“Sorcha,” I repeated as I looked at the steps that led to the cellar. “We should probably get going before those kids get back to the school and tell everyone what happened.”
“Right, yes,” came Sorcha’s reply. “But I think there's something down here that will help us move along a bit quicker.”
I tested the first step, then moved cautiously down the rest. Sorcha was near the far wall where several boxes had been stacked. There was also a pile of children’s toys and an old rocking chair. But Sorcha had found something of interest hanging from the wall, and I moved in closer to see what it was.
“Bicycles,” Sorcha explained as I joined her.
“But the tires will be flat,” I commented.
Bikes were sti
ll popular, especially around towns, but the tires were always a problem. The original ones required air, which meant a pump of some sort, to keep them inflated. Bike owners usually scavenged their own, but they weren’t always easy to find if you ventured too far from home. The other option was one of the new tires that didn’t require air, but they tended to be hard on the rump and usually broke after a few short miles.
“That’s what I thought,” Sorcha said as she moved the light so I could study the bikes, “but the tires are still inflated. I’m not sure they even need air, but I don’t know how that would be possible in pre-magic bicycles.”
I felt a moment of panic as I considered the possibility that this was one of the homes that Dani had mentioned, where a mutant had taken up residence, and that the bikes were being maintained by a pair of mutants who wouldn’t be happy to find us or the bodies in their house when they returned. But it was clear, even in the paltry light of the flame, that the bikes had been here for some time and no one had been refilling the tires or riding them around the streets.
“They don’t look very big,” I finally offered.
“They may be for children,” Sorcha conceded. “But I think we can still ride them.”
I shrugged and stepped forward with a sigh, since it was clear I was expected to retrieve the bikes. I managed to pull both bikes from the rack and set them on the floor of the cellar. It was hard to tell, but one looked like it was pink and the other was a pastel blue-green shade.
Sorcha smiled and picked up the pink bike with both hands. The Irishwoman seemed surprised at how light it was and gave a little laugh of approval. With a wink to me, she carried the bike over to the steps. After a pause to study the steps and consider her options, the mage started back upstairs with the bike held on one hip.
I started to look around the old cellar, but the flickering light followed Sorcha rather than staying in this room full of pre-magic oddities. As soon as the mage stepped into the room upstairs, I was back in total darkness and all the curiosities disappeared from view. I cursed at the sudden lack of light, then felt around for the second bike. I finally found the handlebars after a bit of blind fumbling, then managed to carry the bike to the steps without crushing anything underfoot.
I made it up the stairs, slowly, and stepped into the kitchen with the second bike. I noticed that three of the cabinet drawers were open, and then I spotted Sorcha in the front room with a handful of old rags. I watched her for a moment as she wiped away the years of dust, then lugged the second bike into the room.
“You’re right about the tires,” I said as I dropped the second bike to the ground. The bike bounced once before it settled.
“It’s amazing,” Sorcha chuckled. “Tires that don’t go flat. How come there aren’t more of them around?”
“Maybe someone’s been hoarding them,” I suggested with a grin. “Maybe there’s an entire black market in inflated tires that we don’t know about.”
“After some of the things we’ve seen, I wouldn’t be surprised,” she snickered.
“I do think they’re children’s bikes,” I said as I sat on the blue-green one for a moment and wiped away some dust and peered at the writing underneath. “But I think they’re tall enough that we can use them for at least part of the way.”
“I think so, too,” Sorcha agreed as she stood back to admire the pink bike.
“What a strange name for a bike,” I mused as I studied the bright red letters that had been revealed beneath fifty years of dust. “A mongoose. Is that shorthand for a humongous goose?”
“It’s an animal,” Sorcha explained. “I read a story when I was a child about a mongoose kept as a pet. It saved the family by killing a dangerous snake. My father told me that ancient people really did keep them as pets in some countries because they would fight and kill the most dangerous snakes in the world.”
“Why would you name a bike after one?” I mused. “Were they really fast?”
“The one in the story was,” Sorcha replied with a shrug. “They’d have to be, to fight a snake.”
“Huh,” I murmured as I tried to picture what type of animal would hunt snakes. I’d seen raptors grab snakes before, of course, and even watched a black bear catch a rattler, but most animals shied away from snakes unless they were really hungry or really desperate.
“Oh, and I found these on a shelf near the door,” the Irishwoman suddenly blurted out as she reached inside her pocket.
She handed me a silver cardboard box that still had traces of ink on the cover. Something inside clinked when she placed it in my palm, and I carefully opened it.
“Bullets!” I yelled in surprise.
“It thought you’d be happy,” Sorsha giggled.
“Wow, wow, wow, wow. What a great find!” It was hard to contain the excitement I felt, and I nearly dumped the collection on the floor when I shot to my feet from the pure joy of it. I quickly wrapped the box in both hands, took a deep breath to steady myself, then sat down on the bike again and studied the treasure more carefully.
“I think they go with the gun I found, since it was near the spot where I found it,” she explained. “We could take it with us, now that we have bullets.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed as I carefully picked up each bullet one at a time and studied it.
The bullets reminded me of the flying machines at the airport in a way. They were long, smooth cylinders, just like those old machines, but with a flat top at both ends rather than a curved nose. There was a bright band of red plastic wrapped around about three quarters of the bullet’s length that was then folded over one of the ends. The end with the plastic had what looked like a child’s picture of a sun carved into it while the metal end had the word ‘Winchester’ and ‘twelve ga’ stamped into it.
Grooves had been cut into the plastic that covered the bullet’s length and the words ‘Super X’, or maybe it was supposed to be read ‘X Super’, had been stamped on top. Beneath that, I could just make out a two followed by two zeros, and then the phrase ‘nine pellets.’ It looked like there was supposed to be something between the two and the zeros, but that part had faded away on the bullet that I was studying.
“What do you suppose nine pellets means?” I asked aloud.
“Maybe there are nine pellets inside?” Sorcha suggested as she ran a rag over the seat to the pink bike. “We could cut one open and see.”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “We can’t afford to waste any. Maybe there’ll be an explanation in that book that Evan gave me.”
“Does it give you any clues on the box?” she asked.
I put the bullet back in the box and closed the lid. I carefully wiped the lid clean but the only thing it had was a picture of a man on a horse next to the letter ‘r’ in a circle, the name ‘Winchester’, and a plea to keep safety first while enjoying ‘our’ sport. There was also a picture of an impressive stag, a repeat of the information that had been stamped onto the plastic, and the phrase ‘Buckshot Unplated Shot’.
“I think these are called shot rather than bullets,” I announced.
“Shot,” Sorcha repeated as she wiped a rag over the bike that I still sat on.
“Or maybe buckshot,” I amended.
“Why buckshot instead of bullets?” she asked. “Because it’s a different type of gun?”
“I dunno.” I shrugged and resumed my examination of the box. One side repeated the names ‘Winchester’ and ‘Super X’ along with a string of numbers and a long group of words. The only part I could make any sense out of was the phrase ‘Made in U.S.A.’. The rest of it appeared to be nonsense and certainly didn’t offer any help on how to load the shot into the Mossberg Maverick.
The other side of the box carried a warning, one in English and one in a language that might have been French, or maybe Spanish. It didn’t really matter because the English version was scary enough. I was advised, in capital letters, not to use the ammunition in Damascus or twist barrels to start, and I peered at the Maveri
ck for a moment to see if it had a twisted barrel.
“What does Damascus mean?” I asked after I reaffirmed that the Maverick’s barrel was straight.
“It’s a city,” Sorcha replied.
“Are you sure?” I pressed.
“Has been for thousands of years,” she snickered.
“Huh,” I pondered. “Did they make really bad stuff?”
“What do you mean?” she stopped dusting long enough to ask me.
“It says you can’t use these in a Damascus barrel,” I explained. “I thought that might be because the barrels from Damascus weren’t well made or something.”
“Well, I’ve never heard that said about Damascus,” Sorcha mused. “But since the previous owner bought the gun and the bullets, I mean shots, I assume it should be okay to use them.”
It was a valid argument, especially since I had no idea how to tell if the barrel had been made in Damascus. I decided Sorcha was right and so I turned back to the rest of the warning, which continued on with several other guidelines. I needed to remove excess lubricant, avoid the breech if the gun failed to fire, wear shooting glasses and hearing protection, and point the gun in a safe direction at all times.
I sighed and shook my head. I had no idea where the breech was, and I certainly didn’t have shooting glasses or hearing protection. Maybe I could stuff some cotton into my ears, but then how would I know if someone came up behind me? I was only halfway through the warning, and I was already disgruntled by what I’d read.
Next, I was told not to shoot at hard surfaces or water, to prevent ricochet. That almost sounded fun, but maybe only when no one else was around. The next part of the warning was less enjoyable, though, with dire predictions about birth defects, reproductive harm, and other serious physical injury. It was enough to make me want to drop the box and forget the whole thing, though all of those problems could apparently be relieved by having adequate ventilation and washing one’s hands.
It was the most confusing warning I’d ever read, and at the end, I had no idea if it was safe to tote the box around with us or not.