Punishment

Punishment1

A short story by2

Mark Harrington3

I approached the door with caution, how would it go down this time? On my last attempt I had managed a full one minute and twenty four seconds, if only I could remember the sequence! In low, move left into the living room, avoiding the bullet that had caught me so many times before should i enter too slow or hesitate. Then up sharply, the first shooter would be directly ahead, just beyond the sofa. I remembered the very first time that we'd faced each other, an eternity now. His face a mask of surprise that I would never forget as I fired twice and watch on in grim fascination as his face imploded and blood arced from the back of his head and splattered against the wall behind.4

To this day I would still usually fire twice, even though there was no need, just being nostalgic I guess. In all the countless times I’d run the scenario since, he'd never given me a problem, and I knew I had the four bullets left I’d need to make it safely to the kitchen, where I would have a small respite to reload (If I didn't cock it up again for the millionth time). The two bullets fired offered me some small variation in a much worn theme, I had watched this man die so many times I had begun to hate that veil of surprise that he wore, and had punished him so many times for that fact alone, maybe one to the knee and one to the heart? That would teach him. Why was he never ready? Surely he knew I was coming? His friend that dispatched the first shot wasn't so slow, and surely gave him warning of my arrival?5

But no here he was again. His gun by his side, just staring in dumb incomprehension as I steadied my gun. I had tried reasoning with him on so many times, but I now knew that he, nor any of the others could be reasoned with, that they were as if on autopilot, within six seconds, his face would screw up in fear and he would finally bring his weapon up, if I stood where I was, his first shot would miss wildly, embedding itself in the wall behind the door way. But his second shot invariably found its target, and so I fired a single shot and watched as he flew gracelessly backward and hit the floor.6

Only one shot this time? Yeah I know, I’ve been looking for a way to use the extra bullet you see, because I knew that when I make it up the stairs that the lights will be shut out, and although I had time to reload in the kitchen, I figured one lucky shot before that point could finally allow me some head way.7

No time to hang around though, the guy who fired the first shot is coming down the hall way and I know he'll come in hot. I pitch forward past the sofa and turn resting my weapon on the back support, hoping that if he gets lucky that the padded cushion will shield me from his missile as it has done on many times before. I should mention that the scenario is adaptable now, for every slight change in my movement and tactics, I am changing things from the way they first went down. And those changes make life unpredictable.8

In three, two, one... I fire, trying to anticipate the head coming around the corner, but I’m too soon by a fraction as the shot whistles by his head, he jerks his head back in surprise and turns, leveling his weapon. This guy is good, I’ll give him that. How many times has he got me now? I have the extra bullet but if I don't make this shot, it's irrelevant because my brain matter will give the carpet cleaner a hell of a job, if I don't make it that is. I fire an instant before he does, I close my eyes, knowing that this is down to luck, if I haven't been in time and he has taken proper aim...9

Something whistles past my ear and I feel a searing burning pain, am I dead again? I wait, with my eyes closed. I hear a soft thump and I know that for now I am still breathing. I reach up with my left hand and touch where my earlobe once was. I'd been lucky this time. This guy had killed me outright so many times I’d forgotten, but death wasn't the worst part. If i died I’d be at the front door again, ready to try over. But if i'd been hit, I’d have to live with the agony until I was spared or just bled out; those were the worst ones, my own personal hell, literally.10

My ear stung like hell, but I was still alive. How long has passed? Seconds? With the adrenaline pumping it seems like hours and the longer I leave it the more unpredictable things become. The guy in the kitchen should be behind the bar, but the longer I leave it, the more nervous he becomes, and that can mean anything.11

This usually means one of three things, if I go in now; he'll be crouched behind the breakfast bar, with his shotgun leveled at the door, if I burst in, then boom. But if I give him time, he'll get nervous and that usually means he'll come to me, but depending on how things go, he may well leave the kitchen by the opposite door and start to sneak down the corridor in the same direction his friend did. And a shotgun blast in the back is usually one of the nastiest ways to go i can tell you. The anticipation is usually the worst part as I imagine him coming in behind me, and so I react, I approach the door from the side and grip the handle, and slowly turn it, sometimes this has the desired effect as the third guy sometimes panics and fires aimlessly into the door frame allowing me time to step forward and fire through the hole that was created. I try to remember his name as I press down but it escapes me as it has been so long since I have known him or been able to talk to him.12

The shot doesn't come, so I push the door forward with all my strength and dive in low, his reactions are sloppy and he squeezes the trigger too late as I make the floor, the echo of the shotgun blast ringing in my ears, I roll to my right as he turns, opening up the angle of the breakfast bar, firing twice into the abdomen of this man I knew long ago and had called friend. He falls and as he lies there and I breathe raggedly, the blood from his wound slowly begins to flow and traces the lines of the white tiled floor making intricate squared patterns as it goes.13

I have the spare bullet as I had planned, now is my only chance to reload before the stairs and so I fire randomly into the ceiling, hoping beyond hope that the bullet finds its mark, knowing damn well that it won’t. I would lie here and rest but I know that’s not how things went the first time, and that my mind wont allow me, and so I reload as I look achingly at the shot gun, wishing that I could pick it up and use it as I attempt the seemingly impossible, cursing myself for the millionth time at my stupidity that i hadn't picked it up the first time.14

I pick myself and move to the hall way, I stare at the body slumped in the doorway to my right, his eyes open, staring back into mine as if accusing me, and I allow myself a moment of regret and whisper my apology. But the time has come, the moment of my death draws near as I comprehend the stairway. How many times now? How long must I be punished? I know in my head that time is ticking on and I must make my ascent.15

The problem is there are three of them, and they have all got their guns trained on the top step, that is where I died the first time, although I have on one occasion made it past that point and lived another 15 seconds or so. And that is what gives me hope, if I can make it past the point where I died the first time then surely I can make my way through the whole scenario? It is that hope that spurs me on yet again as I lay my foot on the first stair. Or is hope part of my punishment? The false belief that I can make it through this hell? For you see I am indeed being punished, for once upon a time I entered this house and killed three of my friends, as you have witnessed me do so far. It's pretty vague to me now, but I remember that we were like brothers, our own little gang and we had just scored big. That’s right, we were drug dealers and one night I came here high, with the purpose of taking it all for myself. And whether I am in hell or purgatory I do not know, but I am doomed to repeat the events of my death over and over as punishment for my sins.16

But enough on that, I mustn't allow myself to dwell on the past, I am on the middle stair and on cue the lights go out above, and I am drawn on, with no hope of flight or rescue as I prepare to meet my doom, I can hear the soft sound of someone moving their weight and I try to conjure up the faces of the people who lie await above me and cannot. And so I finally reach the top stair and the flash that comes from the darkness. And again I am falling...Knowing that in seconds I will start my eternal torment over.17