The hunters checked their wallets, argued with each other, and watched the rhino. It stood in the full sun, gray hide the color of ash, head down, eyes closed. Bullet holes the size of peas were clustered in two main areas, in the chest just behind the front leg, and in the head, under the ears. It had taken over fifty rounds of small caliber bullets, and somehow, it was still on its feet. Frank could hear its wheezing, agonized breathing from thirty yards away.
Theo was in the middle of saying, “If nobody has the balls the step forward and do some shooting, then—” when the heavy blast of a serious game rifle rolled through the park and something punched the rhino. It stumbled sideways, and slowly, gratefully, sank to its knees, and rolled onto its side. It took one more breath, and then lay still.
Theo jumped on the table. “Who the fuck used a bigger gun? You just made a big fucking mistake, you—” And then he saw Frank, coming across the dead grass, face pale and gaunt and streaked with dry blood, moving in uneven, quick steps, like a grim spectral shadow that had slapped on some flesh and blood and went walking among the living for a while.
Even Theo didn’t know what to say for a moment. But he recovered quick, shouting, “You just wait ‘til my dad—”
Frank shot him in the knee with the .30-.30.
The impact blew Theo’s leg out from under him and he went down, landing on his chest on the table of guns. Frank kept moving forward, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and pulling the .45 out of his jeans. None of the hunters moved. Until Frank shot the closest man in the face. He shot another before the first hit the ground. The other hunters scattered, squirting in all directions like water from the giant wheel sprinklers out in the fields. Frank shot two more with the .45. The last hunter was nearly across the street when Frank jammed the handgun back into his jeans, unslung the .30-.30, and shot the hunter in the neck. The man went down, arms and torso on the sidewalk, legs in the gutter, and didn’t get up.
Still, Frank followed him across the street and shot him in the head, just to make sure. He methodically walked back to each hunter, shooting every one in the head with the .45, until he was back at the picnic table and looking down at Theo. The boy had rolled off the table and lay whimpering in the grass, clutching at his thigh, just above his knee. Tears squeezed from his eyes and ran back towards his ears.
“Oh please, please, please don’t hurt me,” Theo whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I promise, oh please…oh please…” He rolled slightly back and forth, recoiling from the pain. “Please…”
Frank tilted his head and regarded Theo for several long moments. He eyed the .22s on the table and set the .30-.30 down. He selected a Ruger .22-.250, released the box-like clip, and grabbed a box of shells.
Theo kept begging. “Please, please call my dad. Please. He’ll take care of everything. He’ll give you all the money. Everything. Just please…Please…”
The clip locked into place back inside the rifle and he drew back the bolt, snicked it back closed. He shot Theo in the same bloody, ragged knee. Theo screamed, a raw squeal that swirled up and around and died in the dusty leaves. Frank shot him again in the thigh. And again in the crotch. Theo’s scream hitched, catching on itself, like long hair caught in a motorcycle chain and dragged into the wheels at eighty-five miles an hour, until he was only making a series of “Uhhh, uhhhh, uhhhh” sounds. Frank shot him in the stomach a few times, just for the hell of it.
Theo’s white face stretched tight over an open, silent mouth.
Frank said, “That’s the kind of game this is.”
* * * * *
Theo writhed in slow motion in the dead grass. His screams were too weak to carry across the street. Frank thought about running, jumping in Chuck’s truck and racing back to the long black car. But the rest of him didn’t want to run anymore. Despite the drugs rocketing through his system like an out-of-control roller coaster, he was terribly, terribly tired.
Frank paced while he waited. Theo’s guttural moans just made him itch to fire a few more bullets into the little shit. Frank figured he’d better save his ammo. Not only would he have Sturm to deal with, but also Jack, Pine, and the rest of the hunters. He went through all of the pickups, gathering guns. He left the rifles on the table alone; the calibers were simply too small for any serious gunfights. He stashed rifles around the park, in the trees, under the picnic table, around the fire engine.
But just as he was wedging a shotgun between the folds of fire hose, he froze, and stood stock still for several moments, as if he had gone into some kind of trance. The drugs had left his body alone for a moment, and ricocheted around his brain instead, firing off signals.
He unscrewed the cap to the tank and found it bone dry. If there was a fire, this particular fire truck would be useless. The keys were still in the ignition. He took one last look at Theo, surrounded by the corpses of seven hunters. Sturm’s son had stopped screaming and was now grabbing the picnic bench and trying to pull himself into a sitting position.
Frank started the engine. It wasn’t smooth, but it ran. He let the engine warm up a moment, grabbed the shotgun from the back, and walked back over to Theo. Frank was getting impatient, and Theo wasn’t bleeding to death fast enough. The last thing he wanted was for Sturm to come along and give first aid to his son. He rested the barrel of the shotgun on Theo’s knuckles, pinning them to the wood, and squeezed the trigger.
* * * * *
Frank put the fire truck in gear, and drove out of the park. He rolled down Main Street, gaining speed. He wanted to hit the siren and lights, but figured that might draw more attention before he was ready. He was pleased with his plan, and didn’t want anyone screwing it up before he had a chance to have some fun.
Myrtle was faithfully waiting in her plastic box inside the gas station. Frank drove right on in and left the engine running. He grabbed the nozzle and dragged the hose up to the top of the tank, stuck it in, and locked the nozzle handle, filling the empty fire engine water tank with gasoline. He turned and waved at Myrtle’s shocked face.
As the gallons of gas splashed into the tank, Frank reloaded the shotgun. It didn’t have the comforting feel of his own Winchester, but it would do. He kicked open the door. The broken bottom half was sealed in cardboard. The bells tinkled, and Frank wondered who in the hell would need a warning; the place wasn’t much bigger than a large closet. It wasn’t like you could sneak inside without the attendant spotting you. Frank put on his best smile. “Howdy.”
Myrtle’s pinched face got even more severe, as if she was trying to squeeze her eyes, nose, and mouth into one single organ. She said, “I don’t know what exactly it is you think you’re pulling, but you are not getting out of here without paying for that gas.”
Frank said, “Put it on my tab. You call Sturm?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
Frank brought up the shotgun. “Let’s pretend my business is testing just how bulletproof this plastic really is.”
Myrtle swallowed. “Fine. Yes, yes, I called him.”
Frank said, “Good,” and squeezed the trigger.
The shotgun instantly blasted the clear plastic into an opaque spiderweb of cracks and tiny holes. But the plastic held. Myrtle shrieked and flinched, flinging both hands in front her face. She glared out at Frank. “You sonofabitch. I’ll have Sturm cut your balls off, you lying, cat killing sack of shit.”
Frank gave her another grin and pumped the shotgun.
She whirled, unlocked the door, and ran. The last time Frank saw her, she was running down the highway, slippers slapping the asphalt, arms waving, red hair bobbing like a lit match.