The Gun Man

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Westerns  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 16, 2016

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Submitted: June 16, 2016

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Tick, tick, tick.

 

The rattling step of the boots drew closer, closer, and he looked down at his blood-soaked shirt.

 

How did it come to this?

 

How long had that smoky skirmish in the alleyways and fire-filled corridors of the town lasted?

 

Looking down his arm to the tip of the barrel of the pistol he saw the drying, horribly sticky red sheen that covered his hand. It held on to the grip but only with the last ebbs of strength.

 

Tick, tick, tick.

 

He’d always had a knack for telling the time, and he guessed it was around four thirty-five in the afternoon. If he could just lift his arm to look he’d be able to see how right he was.

 

Not that it mattered. The boots were getting closer and he jolted at the sound of a shot a little way away. Just making sure, I guess.

 

He could crawl, or move, he was sure of it. The longer he thought about moving the more warmth gave way to the still cold. The less he seemed to care.

 

Tick, tick, tick.

 

The boots rattled and stomped as they rounded the corner and the face turned to see him. He’d mustered the energy to rest his pistol level at the chest above the legs in the boots, and as their eyes locked so did their barrels.

 

They were both frozen in stalemate, though they both knew that this wasn’t really a duel. Not even a last stand, perhaps just a last action. He wished he could muster a last, distinct, thought.

 

He wished he could summon an old, favourite memory, as he imagined he would be able to when he pictured this last day.

 

But he couldn’t.

 

Tick, tick, tick.


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