The Fired Gun

Introduction Warm, red blood crept through his fingers and stained the ornamental grip of his.22-caliber pistol. Pain arched up and down his arm from a deep gash near his elbow, and the whole limb was useless now. He had no idea how bad the wound might be or even if it might be life-threatening. But he suppressed the fear, shoved it down, and swallowed it like bitter cough syrup. Numbed it. Replaced it with rage. “You stupid tree-hugging piece of s**t!” he screamed in the target’s general direction. With his back pressed up against a metal cylinder, filled with petroleum, it wasn’t the most ideal defensive position. But he couldn’t risk putting himself out in the open. Not in his present condition. “Hand over the rocks! Right now! I’m not f*****g kidding!” Thunder boomed in the distance, a storm rapidly approaching from over the ocean. Though it was mid-afternoon in the now-deserted refinery, and a slit of light threw a yellow glow on everything around him, the sky appeared bruised with dark clouds. It could start raining at any moment. “Why would I do that?!” came a high-pitched voice that echoed off the tanks and machinery. It sounded deceptively girlish and innocent. But the woman in question was in her early fifties, and she’d already murdered hundreds of people. “I will f*****g kill you if you don’t! You’re out-gunned,” he lied. “Hand them over, or I’m gonna gut you, and I’ll take my f*****g time!” He heard a sickening laugh. “You would have done it already if you could, friend! And what is it to you? Why are you here? My work ensures that there will be a world for you to live in. It benefits you and every person in your life.” Footsteps on metal. In the distance, he heard sirens. Dizzy from the blood loss, Dakota squinted out from under a baseball cap, which hid his dark curls. It had the oil company logo emblazoned on the front. He spied the figure as she appeared to his right. Auburn hair, half-braided and messy. Light skin. Freckles. Something like a dress, made of heavy woven material and salmon-colored, overtop jeans. And three talismans spread out across her chest. She was rail thin, almost sickly. The bones in her shoulders and ribcage stuck out. Her eyes, amber brown and set back in her skull, pierced through the distance between them. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t want to learn it. She smiled, and wrinkles appeared at every corner of her face. “The people here are nothing but vermin, sucking the life out of this planet. But She has given me great gifts. She provided the means to defend herself. Don’t you see? Powerful tools forged inside her womb! And through me, She works. I can stop them. I can stop the black stains and the smoke and the poison, using what She has given me! It’s what She wants. I can feel it.” He gulped and reluctantly moved his gun hand away from the wound, knowing full well that the bleeding would probably increase. Pointing the weapon at her, “Mother earth wants you to murder people? People who have families? People who are just—just trying to make a living?! Hey, I’m all for green energy. I recycle. Do my part. But I don’t f*****g kill innocent people!” The woman laughed again, this time dismissively. “She is dying because of these people. These rats that crawl all over Her. That cut into Her. That burn Her up. All to make a quick buck. All to fuel their giant SUVs and keep their mansions at a perfect seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. How can you call them innocents? They’re monsters. They’re a disease! And I have the cure. I have the solution, and She smiles upon me as I administer it.” Right. Another religious nut job. Dakota suspected for months that an environmentalist-turned-terrorist was responsible for the refinery explosions and drilling fires. But it seemed she worshiped the Earth. Personified it. Saw the talismans as some sort of defense mechanism generated for a human disciple to use in wiping out pollution and fossil fuels. He agreed with her politics. Of course he wanted a cleaner planet. Not only for himself, but for Kenna and her future. He hated global warming and species going extinct and all the other problems places like this caused. And he had no idea where the talismans really came from. Adelaide likely knew the answer, but she’d sooner take the information to her grave than share it with him. But none of that mattered. This misguided right-fighter had slaughtered hundreds if not thousands of people by now. Not only was she brutally killing defenseless people, but she did it openly and fearlessly. She used her magic necklaces in plain view of anyone who survived her wrath. Pictures were popping up on conspiracy websites. It was only a matter of time before real media outlets started reporting it. She had to be stopped. And anyway, it was his job. “Then why not hit them at night? Or go after the f*****g CEOs? Why take out the poor saps makin’ ten bucks an hour? I think you just like killing. Same as half the people I meet who wear those necklaces. You like hurting others. It gets you off. And you just use crazy s**t like that to justify it.” Honestly, her reasoning didn’t really make a difference. Though she’d got the jump on him with a small explosion—which, while wounding him, helped to clear the site of witnesses and additional victims for the time being—she could do no direct damage now. He was simply stalling, trying to form a plan of action. He only knew two of her talismans and what they did. One caused metal and stone to heat up rapidly, and the other could move air in and out of a closed space. The combination allowed her to create intense explosions out of pretty much any container with flammable ingredients inside. All she needed to do was increase the pressure and cause a spark. Luckily, it seemed one or both crystals needed time to recharge before being used again. It was a trait shared by many of the disaster talismans, which could only produce one or two big attacks before requiring a resting period. But the woman had a third, unutilized talisman, and its purpose was a mystery to Dakota. While she may not have been able to hurt him directly, thanks to his trusty defensive rock, there was always a chance she could find a way to do it by proxy, like with the blasts. He wanted to keep her talking while he decided what to do. Shooting a gun in a place like this could prove catastrophic, and anyway, he’d already spent half his magazine. Despite heavy use, Dakota still couldn’t shoot worth a damn. No amount of training or advice seemed to help. His hands were never steady enough, and his aim always left much to be desired, especially in tense situations. He had no problem pulling the trigger. The bullets simply disagreed with him as to where they should go. “The society of men does not care if machinery gets damaged. They will just build more. If Her cries are to be heard, there must be an audience!” Heard? Now that was an idea. Of the eight talismans currently at his disposal—mostly loaners from Adelaide—there was one he hadn’t employed very often due to its potential to harm bystanders, as well as its distinct lack of subtlety. But no one else was around. And he could think of no better way to immobilize his adversary. With a slight grin, “Na’zeck eta ma.” To him, the noise that his pale pink talisman produced sounded something like a church bell and a gong ringing in perfect harmony. It was pleasant. Almost comforting. But to anyone else? It surged forth in a deafening roar. It filled the area around them and exceeded any gun shot or blast in strength. At once, the flower power bomber dropped to a crouching position and covered her ears with both hands. But he knew from experience that nothing short of already being deaf would drown out the unrelenting noise. In fact, if he used it long enough, she might become just that. Gripping at his wounded arm, Dakota quickly strode across the empty space between them. Above the magic ringing, he heard something like a scream or whimper exude from the woman’s mouth. But he paid it no heed. “Ko,” he shut off the talisman. When she looked up with tears in her eyes, he pressed the barrel of his gun into her forehead, took a long sniff, and pulled the trigger. She dropped like a stone. He ripped the necklaces off of her lifeless corpse and shoved them into a brown leather satchel at his side. With his head spinning, he made his way out of the damaged refinery. Though fleeing the state would have been ideal, Dakota needed immediate medical attention. Thankfully, ambulances were now on the scene. He convinced a young paramedic that he was a new recruit on the job—which is why he didn’t have a full uniform or proper ID—and that he’d been injured by the blast. Once the guy patched him up somewhat, he took off before anyone could ask any real questions. It had been nearly two years of doing jobs like this. Before he could even begin, Adelaide insisted that he get in shape. He took to jogging around the city—his only real attempt at exercising. It was difficult and he hated it, but he could see the value in being able to run away if needed. She wanted him to lift weights, too, but Dakota refused, saying that he was strong enough for their purposes. After all, he’d killed the firebug with just a piece of metal. He started out small, threatening old rich people until they coughed up talismans that they didn’t even know how to use. His first real case was a teenager with a stone that could make people fall asleep. The kid had been traveling from town to town, putting people out, and robbing them. Dakota didn’t kill him, but he did end up shooting the teen in the leg when he came after him with a baseball bat. His first professional kill involved a middle-aged white man who was obsessed with making gigantic—and deadly—dust storms. He was a violent racist, pissed off that Latino people dared to live in his vicinity. He used the storms to target farm workers at first and then major metropolitan areas later. It took some time for Dakota to track him down, but when he did, it was surprisingly easy to kill him. He broke the prick’s legs with a crowbar, pointed his gun at the back of his head, and shot him. Ironically, one of the dust storms shielded Dakota from witnesses. Since then, he’d killed dozens of people, usually employing a combination of magic and guns. He became numb to it. Unfazed. Even when he got injured, like with the most recent mission, it wasn’t a big deal to him. So long as he survived and could return to Kenna and their home base, he considered it a win.