The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 18

The Following Afternoon.

I grab the trunk of a tree about seven inches around and spin myself behind it, Desert Talon in hand, covering Bureaucraticus. There is splashing and the sound of soft dirt giving way under foot. Kerouac surmounts the embankment with his slack-jawed smile. “Will you love me in December as you do in May?” he asks and lays down a wall of fire with his AK.

I shoot three times and drive him into cover. Nepotism rolls behind me and jams a new clip in his weapon. Kerouac returns fire and I duck behind a tree. “Hurry up!” I shout. “How is he still alive?”

I shoot at Kerouac another three times and run backwards as soon as Nep’s on his feet. After a few strides with gun trained Kerouac doesn’t come out of cover. I spin and dash past Nepotism.

“I think I got him,” I yell, cradling the shotgun to my chest like a football.

“Really?” Nep asks. “I thought you got him before.”

A burst of rounds answers that question for me.

“I guess I missed.” I pump a round into the shotgun, one-handed. “Go faster.”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” he says, spitting with exertion.

“You aren’t giving me my fair share of being shot at.” Three more slugs sail over our heads.

“Trust me,” he snarls. “I’m a lot closer, I’m sure I can hit you.”

I point to the sunbeams playing on the forest floor beneath us. “I think there’s a road up ahead,” I say. “We’re almost clear.”

Nepotism is panting. “Tell me when we get there.”

Another round cuts between us and pushes us into cover. I jump a fallen log and roll to refuge in the spanned digits of its upturned gnarled roots, emptying the shotgun as I go. I think Nepotism is behind a boulder only a glacier could deposit, but I didn’t see the last place he landed. I toss aside the shotgun and draw my Desert Talon.  Kerouac approaches cautiously, about fifty yards out.

“Nep!” I bark. Kerouac sees me, so I have to duck down before he can shoot. I wait a few seconds impatiently and again call out, “Nep!”

No answer. “NEP!” I shout, picking my head up to make sure Kerouac isn’t right on top of me. He has his weapon aimed, but his attentions are drawn elsewhere. “Nepotism!” I yell, and at this point, I’m starting to get worried. Kerouac is still closing, near enough where I’ll be forced to deal with him soon. I wish I had a grenade.

Go to Part 19