The Devil's Gunman

by Philip S Bolger

I guess my delaying was part of that, part of satisfying my mind. I was pleased I had a pretty girl who enjoyed talking to me, even if it was mostly through texts and emojis. It wasn’t the same as filling the void of someone to care for and share your life with, but at least it was something along that track.

  In many ways, this date was my return to normalcy, even in the face of a supernatural attack. Most of us crave a connection to normal. It might manifest itself as childhood nostalgia, a favorite meal, a theme song, or some kind of minor ritual you can overlay on whatever weirdness is currently occupying your life. I think it might be a defense against insanity, or at least against mental breakdown.

  This was, in some ways, my last meal on death row, and I knew what I wanted. The fact that I was going to have it in the company of someone lovely was the proverbial icing.

  When I walked up to the restaurant we’d chosen, I saw her waiting for me, clutching her purse and looking immaculate. She’d chosen a red silk dress, imprinted with golden icons of some sort. She had her hair up in a bun, a pair of chopsticks through it. I noticed the chopsticks matched the color of her dress and had the same spiraling, golden icons. She wasn’t wearing glasses for the date. Though I quietly wished she would’ve worn glasses, her deep brown eyes were captivating, nonetheless. The dress was form-fitting, and while I couldn’t see any cleavage, the outline of her breasts was very clear, and I had to avoid staring. While I’d never call myself a gentlemen, I had a little bit of dignity. Or maybe it was fear from recent experience—try checking out a succubus against her will, and you end up enslaved for all eternity. Or so I’m told.

  “Please tell me you didn’t pick this place because I’m Asian,” she said.

  I hadn’t even considered that. Mostly, I just wanted some good Pad Thai.

  “No,” I said. “This is Minnesota, and I wanted to go somewhere where ‘spicy food’ is more than chicken with a dash of pepper. Why, has someone done that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the last guy I went out with did.”

  “Sounds like a real winner,” I said, holding the door open and nodding at an elderly couple walking out.

  “I guess,” she said noncommittally as we approached the hostess stand. Before long, we were seated underneath an oversized photograph of what appeared to be rural Vietnam. The restaurant was crowded, but not packed, and since it was a Tuesday night, that seemed to validate my decision to give it a shot. The air smelled of that delightful blend of spices that permeates every good Thai place, and as I settled in, I realized that a hint of happiness was creeping back into my life. Top 40 music played innocuously in the background, its saccharine, upbeat, repetitive bullshit serving as the perfect backdrop for my reintroduction to the dating scene, providing that mind-numbing sense of normalcy that only repetition can.

  “I’ve heard the Pad Thai here is to die for,” I said. She raised an eyebrow at me.

  The menu matched the photograph hanging above the table—this was a Vietnamese place. The menu was full of Pho and Banh Mi, although the Pad Thai selection was also good.

  “Pasta, Nick?” she said. “With your build, I figured you were mostly a salad kind of guy.”

  I shrugged. “The cocaine helps.”

  She laughed, a rippling effect that coursed across her face, accenting her dimples. My heart fluttered a bit.

  “Maybe you should take a little extra for those back wounds,” she said, playfully.

  “Can I get a prescription for that?”

  She laughed again. “It’s not 1905, Nick. Sorry.”

  The waiter came over and took our appetizer and drink orders. I tried to make a show of checking out the wine, but Collette declined, saying she didn’t drink, so I quickly reversed course and ordered a mineral water.

  “So, Nick,” she said. “Where are you from? What’s the Nick Soren story?”

  I shrugged. “Not much to it. Typical story, really. My family’s from St. Cloud. I grew up with hard-working, Lutheran parents who were ashamed I inherited their work ethic, but not their morals. Went to college at University of Minnesota. Worked in investment banking, then regular banking. Then I got into contracting, and now I’m here.”

  “I went to U of M, too,” she said. “When were you there?”

  “I graduated in 2008, from undergrad,” I said. “Got an MBA in 2012.”

  “You’re an educated man,” she said with a hint of amusement. “Surprising, given your proclivity toward—”

  “Being a lowlife?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  I shrugged. “I am who I am. I’m not perfect, but I’m alive. That’s enough for me.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “What do you do for fun?” she asked. “I don’t think bleeding counts.”

  “That’s my first choice,” I said. “But I also like action films and music.”

  Her eyes lit up. “What kind of music?”

  “Mostly EDM,” I said. “Lot of deep house, electro, and some indietronica. Trap when I feel like it. If I’m going old school, I dig new wave and a lot of the early techno stuff. Think Kraftwerk.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You would.”

  “What?” I said. “EDM isn’t good enough for you?”

  “It’s fine,” she said, “if you like repetitive, commercial shit designed to pander to shallow coked-out club kids.”

  “So, I suppose you’re into Tchaikovsky and Beethoven?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “No, wait, that’s way too hipster. You’re a rock fan, someone who never recovered from the death of metal in the ‘90s.”

  Collette shook her head.

  “Nah,” she said. “Rock’s alright, and I’m partial to Megadeth, but that’s not where my heart is. I’m more of a Dead Kennedys kind of girl. Gogol Bordello, Reagan Youth, the Ramones.”

  “Ah, punk,” I said. “The only genre as dead as Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. At least classical is recognized as art.”

  She shrugged. “Dead, alive, it works for me. I need music that speaks to me, music that makes me feel like starting a riot.”

  “So you want music to riot to, but I’m the lowlife?” I asked. “And simple music, at that, with all the complexity of a garage band?”

  She rolled her eyes again. “I don’t think an EDM fan is in any position to talk shit about music being simple. Any way you slice it, I’ll take three chords and the truth over six minutes of the same beat, overlaid by some douchebag with a popped collar asking if I can ‘feel it.’”

  “Yeah, but you’ve gotta realize, the best versions of punk were all new wave, which sounds a lot like—”

  “Techno, or early EDM, yeah,” she said. “Which is why new wave is shit. Devo is to the Sex Pistols like the San Rock paintings are to Mona Lisa.”

  “The foundation of their whole existence?” I countered. “I think you’ve got your timeline mixed up.”

  “I’m impressed you caught what I was talking about,” Collette said.

  “Can we agree that the shit they’re playing here is awful?” I asked, pointing up at the ceiling as yet another bubblegum pop, autotuned-to-death, monstrosity clogged the airwaves.

  She laughed a bit and nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s a point of commonality. Fuck pop music.”

  “Fuck pop music,” I agreed.

  “Grandmother said you were married,” Collette said, changing the subject. “What happened?”

  Fucking thanks, Lotus, I thought.

  “She passed away,” I said, declining to mention it happened because I’d put a knife to her throat and slit it from side to side as a devil looked on.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Collette said. The sympathy in her eyes seemed genuine, and she reached across the table for my hand. Her hands were soft, and her nail polish matched the red and gold she wore.

  “Thanks. Obviously, I’m single now,” I said, waggling my ringless left hand. “How about you? Divorcee? Is there a brooding Mr. Zhang in the background?”

  She shook her head.
/>   “I’m mostly focused on my practice,” she said. “I’ve had a few boyfriends, even one fiancé. Never been married, though.”

  The conversation stalled as the waiter brought us some dumplings in peanut sauce. I offered her first choice, and she used a pair of chopsticks, clumsily, to try to pick one up. After an abortive attempt, she switched to a fork, the look on her face daring me to make a comment.

  I didn’t. I had my own dumplings to enjoy. I chewed, greedily, savoring the taste of the pork. The peanut sauce was especially delicious—savory without being overpowering.

  “What about you? What brought you to where you are today?” I said. “No, wait, let me guess—you did really well in medical school, but are so wholesome and heroic you had to work in a free clinic, because otherwise you’d feel like you weren’t contributing enough.”

  She laughed hard, nearly choking on her dumpling.

  “Nick,” she said. “It’s cute that you think you know me. But you’re completely wrong. I graduated from med school at UT Galveston and got most of my philanthropy out early. I worked for Doctors without Borders for a bit and came back a couple of years ago.”

  She smiled.

  “And I work at that clinic, which you know damn well is a Health Pals affiliate, because I enjoy the work. I’d be just as happy at a big hospital or a research institute. The clinic needed a GP, and I had the opportunity for promotion without any seniority or office politics, so I took it.”

  “So, you’re a pragmatist?” I said, raising my eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture. “I knew I liked you.”

  She smiled and helped herself to a second dumpling.

  “I know my goals,” she said, pausing slightly to take a bite of the dumpling, “and I’ll reach them.”

  “I love ambition in a woman,” I said.

  “You love ambition in yourself,” she countered. “And love seeing yourself reflected in women.”

  She wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t about to satisfy her by agreeing.

  “I think you’ve got me wrong,” I said.

  “Oh?” She replied, feigning surprise. “Is this the part where you tell me about the charity you run and all the good deeds you do on your weekends?”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding, “when I’m not busy volunteering at church, freeing Tibet, and saving the whales, I’m a regular humanitarian.”

  Her smile showed just a hint of condescension. “I’m sure you think you are.”

  I’d never been simultaneously pissed and turned on before. Weird feeling.

  “If you think I’m such a piece of shit, why’d you agree to come out with me? Pity? Favor for Lotus?”

  Collette shrugged. “I think you’d be a good fuck and not the kind of guy who’d pine after me. I’m not interested in attachment, and I’m tired of games.”

  I nearly dropped my fork, though I recovered.

  “What do you say, Nick?” she asked, looking at me and dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “Think you might be able to fill that bill?”

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  I don’t remember what we talked about for the rest of dinner—the usual minutia, maybe a conversation about the medical business, maybe some lies about charities I’ve never given a cent to. I just remember trying not to think about how much I wanted to tear off her red silk dress and feel every inch of her.

  I managed to restrain myself through the meal and through the drive to her house, but then?

  We’d barely made it into the hallway, and she was halfway through taking off her coat, when I pressed her against the wall. She looked in my eyes and smirked a bit as she put a hand behind my head and drew my lips to hers. Passion and lust flowed through me as I kissed her deeply. She bit my lip a bit as we disengaged, and she crinkled her nose and smiled as I leaned forward to kiss her again. I used my free hand to unbutton her dress, and the silk slumped around her shoulders as we made out. She wiggled a bit, her breasts jiggling delightfully as her dress and coat hit the floor, and I stole a look as I came up for air.

  “C’mon now, Nicky, have a little patience,” she said and shoved me off. She was wearing a lacy, black bra and a matching thong. She turned and ran to her bedroom, and I followed.

  She had prepared well—the king-sized bed was adorned with silk sheets and pillows, red with gold trim. She jumped on, lying on her back among a fortress of pillows. Accent lights glowed a soft pink, and I noticed she’d put music on—something jazzy with way too much saxophone. A light scent of lavender and something sweet I couldn’t quite place blanketed the room. She took off her bra with one hand and beckoned me forward with a waggle of her finger. I ran toward her at a clip that would make Usain Bolt jealous. I dropped my pants as quickly as I could, stopping only to make sure my VP9 didn’t fall out of its holster.

  “C’mon Nick,” she said, writhing on the bed, her arms over her head. “You’re taking too long.”

  We had something resembling a marathon. We explored every inch of each other. She rode me. I leaned her over the bed. She scratched my back. I tied her up. I don’t recall exactly how long it took, but it felt like a pleasurable eternity, a lustful dip into something resembling heaven.

  After some time, candle wax, crop marks, and a suite of sex toys that would’ve embarrassed a porn star, Collette and I lay in bed next to each other, listening to the rain on the windows.

  She laid her head down on my chest and breathed.

  “You’re a much better lover than humanitarian,” she said.

  “Not the worst thing I’ve heard post-sex,” I said, wishing I had a cigarette. She chuckled. I ran my hand through her hair and held her close.

  It felt good.

  The cuddling was better than the sex.

  I didn’t know if that was a statement about how pathetic I was, how lonely I was, or my need to be with someone who didn’t immediately see me as a preternatural hitman or faceless man in the crowd. Someone who just wanted to be with me, if for no other reason than to share a bit of each other.

  It felt great, even though it reminded me of how much I missed these kinds of connections.

  Outside, the skies had burst. Water droplets cascaded down the window above Collette’s bed.

  “I love that sound,” she said. “That pitter-patter of rain. There’s no better weather.”

  I didn’t respond; I just kept stroking her hair. I assumed whatever shampoo she used was magical, her hair was so damn soft.

  “Some cities look better in the rain,” she continued, “and none look better than Minneapolis.”

  “None?” I asked.

  She turned her head to look at me. “None. I’ve seen New York, Chicago, Seattle, D.C., Shanghai, Berlin, London…If the weather’s nice? Sure, they have their charms. But when it rains, those cities feel…sad. Empty. Not Minnie. Rain brings out Minnie’s beauty. I’m not sure if it’s the architecture or, as cheesy as it sounds, the spirit of the city.”

  She turned her head and threw her arm over me. I tried not to focus on her boobs as she readjusted. I failed, and found myself staring. I reached down to fondle her, and she grinned.

  “I’d never live anywhere else,” she said. She snuggled close to me, and when we locked eyes, I felt my heart flutter. This woman was a treasure.

  I hadn’t realized I dozed off, until the ringing of my cellphone jarred me back to reality. Collette lay next to me—her back turned, she’d probably gotten too hot as we slept—and I stumbled toward my crumpled pants on the floor. I pulled my phone out with a bit of trouble. I didn’t check the caller ID as I hit accept.

  “Hello?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t sound too drowsy.

  “You’re in danger,” rasped Lotus. “So is my granddaughter. You need to leave.”

  Shock-infused adrenaline coursed through me, shaking off the sleep and the lingering comfort. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lyndale,” she hissed. “They’re moving. The Coven just told me. Officially, we’re neutral. I’m not supposed to be making this call. G
et out of town, get to Josiah. He’ll be expecting you.”

  She hung up.

  I picked up the VP9, shucking off the holster as I drew. Collette looked surprised.

  “Nick?” she said, pulling the covers over her breasts, her eyes still coated with sleep. “What’s happening?”

  “Lotus says we’re in danger,” I said. “And I believe her. Get dressed, we’ve got to leave.”

  “Nick, what the fuck?” she said, anger in her voice. “This is my home, I’m not leaving—”

  “Look, you’re a lovely lady, and I’d really enjoy telling you about all the people trying to kill me, but some of them are probably on their way. Any chance you have any guns?”

  “Violence isn’t a good way to solve problems,” she said.

  Oh, fucking great. I was going to get lectured by the world’s only pacifist punk enthusiast about how guns are bad in the five minutes before my death by vampire. Just what I needed.

  “That’s great,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too condescending. “You can tell me all about how terrible violence is once we’re safe.”

  She groaned and hopped out of bed, pulling on a pair of leggings with a cartoon dog on them and a Vikings hoodie. As she stuffed a few of her possessions into her hoodie, I finished getting dressed. I tightened my belt and checked to make sure I still had my extra magazines.

  That was when I heard the noises on the roof. There was clicking, first, then tapping. The sounds of footsteps advancing.

  Then, from the living room, I heard a window breaking.

  I motioned for Collette to be quiet and gripped my VP9, levelling the pistol in front of me. My rune glowed in the dark, and I focused on the bedroom door, which was open. Our clothes made a trail to her front door. Behind the door was darkness, faintly illuminated by a light from the bathroom.

  There were footsteps—light, pausing. I imagined a vampire scanning the room with a rifle or shotgun. I kept the pistol levelled and kept looking down the sights, even though my rune meant I wouldn’t need them.

  The first vamp to turn the corner was wearing tactical gear, and he looked like he was some kind of hipster mercenary. I drilled three rounds through his forehead, and he went down. I saw the second vamp, behind him, and fired again, causing him to regroup. The first vamp was writhing on the ground, but my rounds hadn’t completely blown off his skull, just mangled it. The flesh was reforming, and garbled screams came through his ruined mouth. I stepped up, aimed at his neck, and put five hollow points through it, stitching left to right. His neck was completely severed, and the writhing stopped.