elude me.
I cross my arms over my chest and ease a semi-automatic .45 cal hand gun from a holster under each arm, unable to keep from picturing myself in one of those old war movies I saw when I was a kid. I’m on the front lines, and the Festers are my sworn enemies.
I take a long, calming breath; then without further hesitation, I explode from behind the tree like a flash of lightning and into the clearing, my hands coming up smoothly to squeeze off the first two shots immediately, both hitting one of the Festers directly in front of me squarely in the head knocking them lifelessly to the ground.
The other two freaks charge and I pivot from my first two kills, quickly leveling a slug into the chest of the foremost attacker. A female Fester emerges from behind him as he crumples into a heap, and she’s on me before I can get another shot off, diving at me like a banshee, ferociously lunging towards my face with razor-like fingernails. In the heat of the moment, I feel strangely calm. This is what I do. This is where I belong. This is what gives meaning to my life.
With intuitive movements, I spin out and away from her charge, my right forearm smashing down across her hands to deflect the attack. In an instant she’s on me again, more infuriated than ever, but I’m ready for her and slam the butt of my gun into her forehead just as she completes her turn. She falls to the ground, dazed, her body twitching in awkward movements.
For a moment I just stand here, quietly observing the woman before me, tapping my fingers absentmindedly on the grips of my guns. I’ve never enjoyed killing the Festers. I’ve heard rumors that some of the Sweepers find it sporting, but I just can’t bring myself to see them as anything other than pitiful creatures that need help. I suppose in a way it’s odd to feel like that considering this is my job. Unfortunately, the only help I can offer is putting them out of their misery. And deep down, if I’m honest with myself, I know there’s a more primal reason for wanting this job. It’s the thing that drives me night after night.
The girl in front of me makes a strangled noise in her throat. Her eyes are a rich shade of mocha and somehow beautiful despite being set in that diseased face. I try to picture what she would have been like before. Probably dark skinned, shapely, perhaps a kind and gentle person. Then again, maybe she was a real jerk that nobody liked. Her expression contorts oddly and it’s almost like she’s trying to convey something to me through it, as if willing me to understand, but she’s starting to rise and I shake off my hesitation, extend my gun towards her forehead and pull the trigger.
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