Wolf Howling
Page 16
The screaming echoed around his mind like the crackle and hum from speakers turned up too loud. The music had stopped but the reverberations still rang. Both Wagners closed their eyes and listened to the sound of steel-reinforced military boots cross the wood floor to where the shooter stood over the Wagner on the floor.
The terror from his nightmare. That recurring dream where the figure in the kitchen turned and looked at him.
From his position by the bathroom door, Wagner heard the voice. He knew the words it would say. He mouthed them as the man on the other end of the bar said “Well, I’ll be goddamned. Isn’t that some circular, serendipitous shit right here?”
The shooter paused and Wagner heard the click and slide of the magazine being taken from a rifle. The magazine struck the floor about four feet from where Floor Wagner was sprawled out.
“Wagner Sinclair, right? The writer?”
Floor Wagner kept his eyes closed and tried to convince himself this wasn’t really happening. The other Wagner watched as the gunman reloaded the wicked looking bullpup rifle. He knew the rifle the shooter held. He knew the cape and wolf mask. He knew the shooter’s name as well. It was Albert. It was an evil looking rifle with a military-grade red laser and a strobe flashlight on the opposite side that could be triggered by a touch pad next to the pistol grip. It was attached to him with a tactical holster. He also had a Glock pistol.
Wagner knew which company sold the armor piercing ammo. He also knew what version of the blue-tipped ammunition was currently loaded in Albert’s rifle.
He knew it because he had written it.
“Of course you are. Of course.” Albert laughed to himself. “Man, this is some Alanis Morissette level irony, right here.”
The sound of Velcro being ripped apart filled the silence of the bar. This was followed by sliding plastic against nylon. The new magazine slapped into place with a loud metallic smack and the action of the rifle was pulled back.
Albert wore a black tactical load-bearing vest weighed down heavily with bullet proof plates on the chest and back. Several torn bits of fabric exposed the ceramic plates over his chest. The vest had done its job well, however, and none of the rounds had penetrated.
Now, with a fresh 50-round clip in place, he smiled, pleased with himself. He took his mask off so he could speak more clearly, “Do you know this joke? A man with a gun walks into a bar.” Floor Wagner scurried backwards, trying to get away from the danger.
Albert continued, “This man comes into a bar with the gun. He waves the gun around like some kind of crazy person. He’s pointing it at all the other men in the bar. He has these eyes, right? These wild animal eyes. You know he has been through some shit. So, there he is, waving the gun around and…you know what’s coming, right? Right? Then he yells out ‘Which one of you slept with my wife?!?’”
Floor Wagner backed into the corner. He saw Dalton’s body slowly bleeding out next to him. The colt .38 lay just a few feet away from Dalton’s dead hand. Maybe…
Albert turned on the red laser site. Even with all the gun smoke in the bar, the laser was bright and pierced the space between the shooter and Wagner.
The other Wagner watching this from the doorway wanted to scream. He wanted to tell his doppelganger to stop listening, to get the Colt. To put all five rounds in this psychopath’s twisted head.
Albert continued with the joke, “And from somewhere in the crowd... Hey!” Albert saw that Wagner wasn’t listening. “Listen up, this is the best part. Don’t miss this. From somewhere in the crowd, this guy yells back, ‘Buddy! You ain’t got enough bullets!’”
The red light jumped around on Floor Wagner until Albert was right above him. He said with a sly smile, “Not enough bullets. Har Har. Cause that sneaky snatch BITCH was a straight-up, goddamn whore. You get it? A goddamn whore. She had fucked the whole bar, she was such a slut. Poor dumb bastard.”
Albert breathed deeply and then stopped laughing. He said, “Mr. Wagner fucking Sinclair. Unbelievable. And they say there isn’t a god. Stare into the abyss long enough…”
Floor Wagner brought his gaze to the shooter and forgot all about the snub-nosed Colt a few feet from him. He looked him right in the eyes.
Wagner held the door jam and tried to steady himself. The next words he knew well. They were the end to…
Where the vest had been shot through and where the panel was torn open, Floor Wagner saw the fox on the shirt. And he knew what else the t-shirt said. It said, “I don’t give a fox.” Except where the word fox was, it was a picture of the fox. Then the Wagner on the floor knew what the other Wagner knew.
“Albert. How can this be… You are…” Wagner stammered.
“Stare into the abyss long enough, Mr. Sinclair, and that abyss stares back into you…”
The rounds hit Wagner’s chest and his breath left him, along with his life.
A rushing noise filled the bar. Like someone had turned on a wind tunnel. Turned that wind tunnel all the way up to 11 and broke off the knob. The remaining Wagner felt like Dorothy in the tornado. The world spun and the bar faded away. In the background, he heard something faint. The hazy strumming of a guitar player. He was singing Bob Dylan’s classic, “Tangled up in Blue.”
And then Wagner felt everything slipping away again.
His thoughts and memories faded.
And it began again.