I pulled his submachine gun off the strap, gripping it in my hands as the first of his fellows burst through the bedroom door. I was ready and ripped off a clean three-shot burst that caught him in the chest. It staggered him and I followed it with another that caught him in the black-hooded face, splattering the wall with blood and grey matter. He slumped and fell as another submachine gun peeked around the doorframe and fired blind above me, showering me with plaster dust where I was hiding, covered over by the body of the man whose neck I had broken. I tried to keep my eyes open, the gun trained on the door’s aperture, waiting for the next one to appear.
He did, barely showing his head around the frame, and I peppered him with a three-shot burst that would have made Parks proud. It was flawless, impossible save for the fact that I was in close proximity and possessed of a steely calm brought about by hundreds of hours of training. A puffed cloud of red turned the air a subtly different color for a brief second before the body pitched forward. I would have let out a sigh but I had no idea how many more of them there would be.
I heard movement behind the doorframe and I saw a flash of black shadow against the bright of the kitchen lights. There was a burst of gunfire and I felt heavy impacts to the body that was lying atop me. Six bullets hit his tactical vest, thumping his corpse into me, hard, like miniature earthquakes jerking his body and bruising me with each hit. I lost my breath from the impacts, but I could tell from the force of them that none of them had penetrated through to me.
I flung the corpse toward the door, not really aiming so much as trying to buy a moment’s time; if the shooter had any more uninterrupted seconds to take aim, he’d surely be able to hit me in the head, and I was beginning to think I might have more than just myself to be worrying about. The corpse flew forward, reminding me of a time when I’d done something similar to a table in my living room on the day I first left my house. I heard the wet smack of it hitting the doorframe and collapsing as I ripped off two quick three-shot bursts. I rocked my body sideways and rolled to a crouch, waiting just inside the door to see what came my way. I edged closer to the frame on the chance he’d reach a barrel inside. It would only take another moment and I’d be close enough to grab a gun if it came through the door.
Unfortunately, I was still a step away when it happened. I saw the barrel poke in, and I looked up it as it pointed down on a perfect arc toward my head. My meta-enhanced eyes allowed me to see the subtle rifling at the closest end of the barrel, and even though I jerked my weapon up, I knew I wouldn’t make it before a burst of gunfire put my lights out for good. The smell of blood, of bile, of my own recently re-experienced vomit hung in my nose along with the heavy odor of the gunpowder discharge. That sharp, familiar aroma of a hundred days on the range was unmistakable, and more pungent than my recent digestive explosions. I looked down the dark barrel and waited for the flash that would end it, everything—and I felt a moment’s pity for the fact that I had left so damned much undone.
There was a sound of a soft click, then another, as the hand that held the gun pulled the trigger again and again to no effect.
“Well, now,” came an Irish voice from outside the door, “looks like you’re having a spot of bad luck.” The sound of something hard hitting flesh, and then a body hitting the wall was followed by the submachine gun that had been pointed at my face falling to the ground in front of me with a clatter. “You in there?” Breandan’s voice came around the corner.
“Yeah,” I said, my every muscle tense as I leaned against the wall, still clutching the gun to my chest, the stock hard against my shoulder. “You all right?”
“Me?” Breandan’s voice came back. “I’m quite fine. Made it to the floor before they destroyed my kitchen with a flurry of bullets. I’m not really sure I need that tea anymore, though, as I’m now quite awake.” He peeked his head through the door and looked at me. “You know, if you hadn’t distracted them and started tearing them up one by one, I’m quite sure they were planning to murder me.”
I sighed, ragged breaths coming more quickly than I would have liked. “Same here. That last one, the weapon jamming—”
“Bad luck,” Breandan said with a smile. “Doubt I could have pulled that off with all of them, but when it was down to one, it seemed easy enough to change his odds.” He extended a hand toward me. “Do you think there are more outside?”
I looked at the bloody mess on the floor of his bedroom, extending out into the main room as I took his hand and let him help me up. I tore it away from him after a moment and saw the surprised look in his eyes. “Sorry,” I said, “bad touch, remember?” I looked at the bodies piled around me. “You think these are Omega thugs?”