I want to load this gun up with bullets before we leave. That was something too complicated to achieve while Wolfman was walking around free, a rifle in his hands. My plan is to keep the gun stuck into his back and have him lead me to the truck. Then I’ll tie him up inside the truck and drive down to the town. A tricky plan to execute, but my feeling is, if I fire the gun right next to him, it’ll scare him enough he’ll comply. That’s the first reason for bullets. The second being the ability to kill him if I need to.
The gun safe is an unholy mess. The owner of this place must just dump all his hunting equipment down without even a second thought. The bullets in the door shelves are slightly more organized than those in the body of the safe, but not by much. As I scan the boxes, my disappointment grows. There’s nothing here but giant hunting rifle bullets, so big they look like mini missiles. The Colt Python is a .357, and as far as I can tell, there’s no ammunition for it in this safe.
I really want those bullets. I really, really, really want them. I’m not sure I can pull off my plan without them. More out of anger than anything else, I shove some gun cases and other crap around at the bottom of the safe. Out rolls one little bullet, one little round for my gun.
Getting on my knees, I dig for more bullets. In the process I find a puffy trucker-style camo hat and put it on. It sits high enough it won’t touch my head, but hopefully it’ll protect that laceration. After searching the safe from top to bottom, I wind up with three bullets for my gun. That’s it. Just three bullets.
While I load up my three rounds, it occurs to me it’ll still be important to keep him turned away. The blindfold will have to go if he’s going to lead me to the truck, but it won’t do for him to see how few bullets I have. Maybe I should stick with my plan of firing one off. At least I can keep the zip ties on his wrists. That’s helpful.
Bullets loaded, back on my feet, I hear a sound from the kitchen. So far the only sound I’ve heard is the running toilet, and hearing something from the other room turns my insides into molten lava. I tell myself it’s not a big deal, just him shifting around, but I go ahead and clasp my gun in both hands, ready to aim and fire if I need to.
Stepping around the corner, I see an empty chair. One beat, two beats, three beats, as I look for the right chair, the one with Wolfman in it, because I must be looking in the wrong direction, and then it hits like a fist. The chair is empty.
Footsteps pull my gaze over to the basement stairs. He’s already on his way down, but he pivots as I approach. He’s not just up and running, his arms are free too. I thought zip ties were unbreakable, but somehow he has broken them. It feels like an injustice, and my rage returns once more.
We lock eyes. Raising my weapon, I yell, “Freeze!” like I’m a cop. He ignores me and keeps going.
He’s headed for his rifle in the broom closet.
I can’t let him get that rifle. I can’t.
Slipping forward on my new sock-shoes, I’ve got to catch him before he gets that rifle. Halfway down the stairs I’ve got a view of the broom closet, and I was right. He’s going for his gun. He’s almost there. I can’t let him get it.
I squeeze the trigger, expecting serious kickback, but the gun doesn’t fight me at all. My little bullet doesn’t hit Wolfman, but it hits the closet. Wood splinters in the moonlight. Maybe it struck his hand, too, as he was reaching out, because he snatches his arm back and changes course. He’s now going for the outside door.
Only two bullets left.
I keep running down the stairs. I want to get right up next to him, shove the gun in his face, regain control. But there’s no control here, there’s nothing but panic in the dark.
At the bottom of the stairs now, turning to face him, I plan to yell “Freeze!” again, because that’s what I want. I want him to stop. I want him to be immobile again. Before the word flies out of my mouth, something smooth, hard, and impossibly heavy careens into my face. It thuds, bounceless, to the floor. It’s the eight ball from the pool table. He’s managed to throw the eight ball straight into my cheekbone.
I’m seeing stars, trying to get a bead on him, but the eight ball has done its work. Before I can pull myself together, he’s kicked the doorstop out and run away. No, not run away. He’s never going to run away. If I could believe that, I could let him go his way and I’d go my own. But he’s not going his way. He’s getting to high ground. He’s either going to come back through the front door, or he’s going to stake out the house until I come out, or he’s going to set the damn place on fire. He’s never going to stop, and that’s why I can’t stop. That’s why I run after him into the night.
My sock-shoes help me, and I’m not too far behind him. This is good. Maybe he’s not quite as fast as I thought he was. -Wolfman glances back, sees I’m giving chase. He speeds up, then veers toward a ravine. The ridgelines are no place for the hunted, as I know only too well.