Lab Rat part 77

Posted: April 18, 2011 in Fiction, Test Subject

I pull the trigger. Nothing happens. I flip the switch and try again. The gun roars and bucks in my hand. I don’t know where the shot hit but it definitely wasn’t my target. I almost lose my grip. I wish I had gone to the range with Dad once or twice. The driver flinches and runs toward the back of the van. Presumably to find cover. He pivots around the corner of the vehicle. I clutch the gun in both hands. My ears are ringing now, but I can hear Dad yelling. “Move it! The chopper’s coming back!” I hope they still need me alive, but somehow I doubt it. I can’t see more than the outline of the van through the smoke, but maybe I can use that to my advantage. I continue my run and plaster myself to the nose of the thing. I peer around the side. Shots ring out, and I can glimpse Jennifer and my dad firing on the men coming out of the various stores. Shit. This is way worse than I wanted it to be.

I breathe deeply in my mask and try to see the world-shimmer. Nothing. Damn. Looks like I’m doing this the hard way. I pivot around the nose and the driver’s door. Why he didn’t use it for cover, I’m not sure. Maybe it wouldn’t stop a bullet. I keep my gun pointed toward the back of the van and peer in. The ignition is empty. Of course it’d be empty. I drop to my belly. I can see the canister under the van. The smoke is still spewing out of the bottom. I can see the driver’s feet. He’s still around the back of the van. I flip the safety of my new pistol on and tuck it into the back of my pants. As quietly as I can manage, I pull myself forward and under the van. The gunfire and the helicopter go a long way toward masking the sounds of me scraping forward on the asphalt.

I keep my eyes riveted to the boots standing at the back of the van. They shift. He’s looking for me. They walk to the other corner. They shift again. Almost there. They walk to the driver side again. Shift. As the left foot picks up, I reach out and grab both ankles. I yank as hard as I can. My elbows and forearms grate against the road and pain lances up my arms. That’s nothing compared to the van driver’s problems though. He had just started to pivot again. I drag on his feet as hard as I can and he thumps into the rear bumper. His arms fly out above his head, and he hits the ground like a demolished wall. I can feel the crack of something hard reverberate through his body. I haul myself up along him as fast as I can. The cargo pants and the tactical vest make for excellent hand holds. I’m eye to eye with him in seconds. He looks at me through the lenses in his mask, but I’m convinced he’s not really seeing me. I strip his gun out of his hand and toss it away.

I’ve had a chance to be sober enough to be properly pissed about the way some people were treating me the other night. I’m glad that I stuck it out for the sake of a friend of mine, but I think if that happens again, there will be blood. No one deserves to be treated the way they were treating me. When I tried to apologize for the perceived problems (I’m not sure why but they had some problem with me) they tore into me anew. I don’t take shit from people as a rule, and I made one exception. It won’t happen again.

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