Read More Short Fuses (Four Free Short Stories) Page 9

The gun went off, catching Preston Snow by surprise, and he felt as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach. There was no burning sensation, and surprisingly little pain, just a dull ache and a spreading coldness. His eyes widened as he stared at the face of the man who’d shot him. Unfeeling blue eyes stared back at him.

  Snow clutched a hand to his stomach and staggered backwards, blood pulsing from between his fingers. There seemed to be a lot of blood, but still he was hardly aware of any pain.

  The man with the gun watched dispassionately, the gun now at his side. His face was totally blank as if he had absolutely no interest in whether Snow lived or died.

  Snow felt the strength drain from his legs. He stumbled over a coffee table and fell on his side, barely conscious of where he was. The coldness was spreading from his stomach, up across his chest, a coldness that seemed to be drawing all the strength from his limbs. He tried to speak but no words would come and it was an effort to breathe. He managed to get up on his hands and knees and crawled towards the stairs.

  The man who pulled the trigger stood in the middle of the room, watching Snow with a look of bored disinterest.

  Snow scrambled up the stairs, frantically trying to get away from the man. He had a gun upstairs, somewhere. It was in one of the drawers in the bedroom. If he could get to it, if he could defend himself, then maybe, just maybe, he’d stand a chance.

  His tracksuit top was drenched in blood and it flopped around as he crawled. He heard footsteps behind him but he didn’t look back. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness and shook his head fiercely, trying to clear his thoughts. “Stay focused, man,” he muttered to himself. “Stay fucking focused.”

  He looked down at his stomach as he crawled and saw blood dripping down on to the threadbare stair carpet. He tried to stem the bleeding but as he pressed his hand against his stomach a bolt of pain shot through his midriff. He grunted. It felt as if a hot knife had been twisted inside his stomach.

  “For fuck’s sake, Snow, will you stay still!” shouted the man with the gun.

  Snow took a quick look over his shoulder. The man was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gesticulating with his gun.

  Snow reached the upstairs landing and pushed himself upright. He staggered towards the bedroom, putting his free hand against the wall to maintain his balance, smearing it with blood.

  The man followed him up the stairs. He took his time, with a lengthy pause between each step. It was the precision that Snow found terrifying. The man was taking it slowly, knowing that he had all the time in the world: no one would come to Snow’s aid. If anyone had heard the gunshot, they wouldn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t the sort of area where people telephoned three nines.

  Snow collapsed in front of the dressing table and pulled out one of the drawers. No gun. He cursed. Where’d he put it? Where hell had he put it? He tried to concentrate, tried to remember where he’d last see the weapon. He pulled open a second drawer and rifled through socks and underwear, cursing his stupidity for not having the gun out in the open. No gun. He tore the drawer out of the cupboard and tipped the contents on to the floor and searched frantically. It wasn’t there.

  There were footsteps behind him and Snow twisted around. The man stood in the doorway, the gun at his side, a confident smile on his face. Snow’s head swam and he slumped backwards, sliding down against the dressing table, his head banging against one of the open drawers.

  Snow’s eyes fluttered shut. He could feel consciousness slipping away. The pain was going, replaced by a warm glow. He sighed and his hand slipped away from his stomach, drenched in blood.

  The man walked over and looked down at Snow. He prodded Snow’s leg with his foot, but Snow didn’t react. Snow’s chin was down on his chest and a bloody froth dribbled from between his lips. Blood pooled on the floor around his waist, a thick treacly redness that seemed to sit on the surface of the carpet, refusing to sink into the pile.

  “You dead, Snow?” he sneered. “Don’t tell me you’re dead already.”

  He raised his foot and stamped down on Snow’s hand, crushing his bloody fingers. Snow’s eyes opened wide and he screamed in pain. The man grinned triumphantly and levelled the gun at Snow’s face.