It Might Be Wise, Part 6

         The bodies to the left and right of me jerked a little bit every few seconds as new bullets found fresh dwellings. I tried my best to be invisible in the middle, waiting. Waiting for what, I did not exactly know, but I figured hanging on and waiting for them to stop shooting for whatever reason just might have worked.
         It might have, too, had a fat Magnum shell found its way into my calf.
         Suddenly, all my cover did not seem to cover me so much any more. I rolled as best as I could back towards the doorway, slamming the chunky wooden barricade almost the whole way into place. I needed something of a shield.
         I needed something of a hug.
         A few slugs took up the occupation of assaulting the door with their little leaden wasp bodies, but none made it through. In near pitch black, in near deathly pain, I crouched, trying to regain control of myself. My calf felt like half the muscle had torn out through a wide hole about halfway up the back. Using what little light I had, I took a look at it. As far as I could tell, the muscle was still there, and a good thing that was, too. However, blood was pouring out onto the floor, and that never was a good thing. Especially not with how much blood I had lost in the past few days.
         I tore my shirt off and did my best to tie the thing shut. I needed all that red to stay inside my body. It was very important. Even as an amateur golfer, I knew that. I gritted my teeth as best as I could without grinding the edges off my molars and tied that shirt on tight. My right foot was going completely numb, and, though probably not a good sign, I nevertheless found it unusually comforting. I just had to hang on to consciousness now. If I blacked out, I would be done for.
         Scuttling backwards, deeper into the passageway, I kept my eyes on the door. I spared a few occasional glances behind me to make sure that Matthews was not there, but I pretty much had no choice but to assume that he was not coming. If he was, I was dead either way. Not a pleasant sort of outcome. I thrust one of my Magnums back into my belt and held the other in my left hand.
         The door did not open.
         I stared through the gloom at the portal to my potential demise, fearing for many things, not the least of which was never being rich. I also was mildly afraid of coffee, but that is a completely different issue. My gun wavered weakly in the general direction of that door as my mind battled itself for control of itself. I had to stay conscious. I had to stay in charge, in command.
         What would they do? From what I had gathered from the sheriffs’ actions, the most likely method they would choose would be to burst in here with all their strength and try to outgun me, a distinct possibility. And that was when the thought occurred to me: there was a shelf on the wall near the door. It was pretty much the only other thing down here aside from myself. The only cover I could possibly have. But it was not able to provide cover.
         It could, however, provide high ground, of sorts. Grunting as softly as I could manage, I dragged myself to my feet. I left several bloody hand prints on the stone walls before I stood straight enough to reach the shelf. It was sturdy. I certainly hoped it was sturdy enough to hold me. I had little choice but to trust the old plank on the wall. I wiped my hands on my jeans and grabbed it intensely.
         With barely any whimpering and with barely any tears shed, I pulled myself onto that shelf. It is very hard to climb onto something with numerous broken ribs and a bullet in the leg. I made it up, still. Like a doll seated on the edge of a dresser, I sat slouched against the wall, legs hanging off the ledge. Rather unlike a doll seated on the edge of a dresser, I drew out my pistols once more and pointed them at the door.
         Any minute now.
         The door did not open.
         Maybe the sheriffs knew I was hurt. Maybe they were waiting for me to bleed out, to fall unconscious. Maybe the soldiers had taken them out while they were focused on me. Maybe, oh Lord, maybe they were afraid of my fighting prowess and were expecting me to pull something ridiculous out of nowhere. Maybe they were expecting a trap. One of those had to be right, no? I felt like I had exhausted my possibilities. I somehow doubted they were going to leave me alone, no matter what. Pain was coming, and I hoped it was not going to be my pain.
         The door opened, oddly enough.
         I waited, not wanting to lose my edge. Light poured through the opening, again momentarily stinging my eye balls, but I was reading and squinting. Plus, my vision was kind of teetering on the edge of going dark, anyways. Three of the men burst in through the threshold, shotguns drawn. I saw their strategy now. Spread shot all down the passageway, so if I were anywhere nearby, I would get hammered by some of the scattered deadliness.
         And I just happened to be somewhere nearby.
         Rather than allow them to fire, I took the initiative. I was ready, and their element of surprise was not going to work on me. I began pulling the triggers as I began to make myself fall forward. The one in the middle dropped, and the two on the ends swiveled their guns towards my position. My position, however, was changing as I was firing.
         Their damn red circles were flying backwards as my falling body evaded their shotgun spit. Bullets flung from my hands, cranking my wrists backwards and jamming my elbows by the recoil. Bursts of fire suddenly stopped being from the pistols and began exploding instead in my chest as I landed and rolled into the far wall. The three were down, but I was pretty much down as well. Hopefully there not that many more outside.
         I spun the spent shells out of my six shooters, just like Beecham (God rest his hillbilly soul, even though it was me who shot him in the first place) had taught me. I reloaded as quickly as I could and began crawling forward, towards that door and towards that light of outside. I did not really want to remain in that tunnel for any longer than I had to. The darkness was starting to wear on me, and the wall was not soft on my right leg. Plus, it was starting to slick up a bit as I bled through my shirt and onto the floor.
         As far as I could see, there was no one outside the door. But according to my ears, there were a few more out there. And a jeep or something. Not so much of the bass and rumble of the army trucks, but more like something from a Land Rover. A vehicle. I could definitely use the advantage of a vehicle. I would not have to walk that way. I could drive away to a safe distance and find a way not to die. That sure sounded like a plan to me at the time. If I had a car, I would not need to leave on a helicopter. Definitely.
         I went for it. Stumbling on a bum leg, I limped something fierce to the exit, aiming for as much speed as possible. I needed that jeep. I hit the daylight to the serenade of a few firearms proclaiming their disgruntled state. I rolled forward, it being about the only move I knew, trying to locate my assailants. There was one up on top of the outhouse sort of thing, which was bad. There were two about thirty feet to my left, which was also bad. There was a jeep behind the two off to the left, which was loooooovely.
         Feeling the dirt splattered on my form like so many peanuts, and momentarily realizing that the two I had downed at the door just minutes ago had already been moved, I fell to my back and fired at the man on the roof with my right gun. Three bullets in, and I got the better trade, as he fell forwards off the building and onto his back on the dirt. Seizing the small advantage I had gained, I swung left, firing my left handed Magnum at the duo over yonder, the whole while stumbling to gain the cover of the fallen sheriff. Legs splayed out behind me, I slid to a stop with the man as cover.
         More bullets continued to attempt to impress themselves through me, but apparently my profile was low enough that it was not an easy shot. Either that, or these were not very good sheriffs either. Maybe the better ones had stayed back in Elvis to fight off the G- Men. No matter which one was the case, I did not get shot just yet, and that was alright with me. I used the body as a steadier and began to fire at the two. A slug plunked into the jeep, but the rest did not seem to do all that much. The two were crouched low, spreading apart and coming closer. Reloading.
         I took this opportunity to take the piece off the man against whom I was laying, counting out the bullets. It was one of the Anacondas, like I had gotten to carry to the Kansas City hotel. I grabbed his spare shells and reloaded. Seven bullets. That was much nicer. Swapping out the boxes of ammo, I took careful aim. A bullet fled past my face, giving me very good reason to flinch, but I once again drew that bead on the damn invisible red circle on the left one’s chest. And, with calm I did not think I was capable of (though in retrospective, it likely was just the pain causing me to slide into semi consciousness), I gently squeezed that trigger and plugged him dead center mass. He flailed for a moment and then collapsed quietly onto the weedy grass beneath.
         The second man, seeing his options, and probably wondering how this city boy had just taken down somewhere around a dozen well trained sheriffs (rightly so, I must add, because I was wondering the exact same thing and, chances are, with the exact same unhelpful results), brought his gun up by his chest and dove to the ground, rolling, watching me carefully, looking for backup, and searching for cover in the unforgiving wasteland of Elvis, Missouri.
         Somehow, he did not seem successful.
         Six more bullets detonated from my new little cannon, carving their cute little wakes through the painfully humid afternoon air. Two such wakes decided to carve themselves straight into his upper chest. He stopped wondering and diving and rolling and watching and looking and searching and all those activities that had not remotely helped him in his desperate quest not to be mauled by a ridiculously large hand gun in the use of a young fellow named Joe.
         And I, seeing no further enemies near the jeep, damned the torpedoes and took off in a dead run, or at least as much of a dead run as one can take off in when one of one’s legs happens not to work very well. I gutted it out anyways, feeling the blood drain from my head and into my leg and then promptly out of my leg. Eventually, and not without a good amount of stumbling, cursing, and glancing around, I made it to the Land Rover. My initial guess had been right.
         And this was not the city. The keys were still in the vehicle. Beautiful. And, thank the Lord once more, it was an automatic. I had never really driven with my left foot instead of my right, but I figured it would be a pretty darn good time to try it out. The ignition growled and the engine roared as I throttled it for all it was worth. Time to leave the wastelands of Missouri behind me. I could use a real bath. Maybe a few bucks, too, seeing as how the gas in the tank probably would not get me much farther than St. Louis. Still, anywhere but here.
         I stomped the gas with my left foot, a bit awkward, but not too bad when all I was trying to do was go as fast as possible.
         Rather unfortunately, there suddenly were a few sheriffs in front of me who did not want me to leave. Where were those stupid helicopters when you needed them? A quick scan of the horizon showed no aircraft at all. Wonderful. And now, bullets were crunching into the metal of my jeep. I ducked under the obligatory spray of glass as my windshield took a three fifty seven head on. I pulled out my Anaconda, only to realize that I had not reloaded it since I spent all the bullets within it.
         Great foresight, Joe.
         My head low, my teeth gritted, my left foot jamming the pedal to the floor, I lurched my way over uneven ground, away from the town and parallel to the tree line. Off to my right, near the town, there were still some soldiers fighting scattered remnants of sheriffs. Bodies were everywhere. Helicopters lay on the ground, a few smoking, most looking more or less landed. The fighting looked like it either had mostly ended or the sheriffs had completely bunkered up and were waiting for a better time to strike. That would not be a wise move, unless they had more reinforcements than the United States Army did.
         More bullets dug into my jeep, but thankfully neither did they decide to damage me or to hurt my tires. Within mere seconds, the shooters were far behind me, the action passed. I was home free. Only a long drive with a severely bleeding leg and a fading consciousness were in my way. I blinked sweat from my eyes, then dashed it away with the back of my hand. My hand smelled like blood. All mine, too, I thought. Though there might have been some from hiding behind bodies that took the bullets.
         There was a thin trail of the aforementioned crimson swirling on the bottom of my ride, pooling beneath my seat. It did not help at all to find that there was no road anywhere nearby. There was a dirt road somewhere into Elvis, but where that was, I had absolutely no idea. Just keep plugging along, I told myself. Just keep driving.
         “Just keep driving.”
         Yeah, that was the ticket. Talk to myself, keep me awake. Must stay focused.
         “Must stay focused.
         “A road will show up soon. Don’t you worry yourself, Joe. You’ve got it. You can make this. You’ll hit civilization eventually, and then you can get yourself fixed up.”
         Yeah. No more bleeding, no more breaking ribs. That would be nice. At this point, I pretty much could not care much less about any sort of compensation for all this.
         “You’re lying to me, Joe. You know you want money really freaking badly.”
         True. Fine. I wanted money. And I wanted to get myself to stop bleeding. Stop bleeding.
         “Get the money.”
         Go shoot some more people.
         Oh wonderful. We have a party going on in here, it seems.
         “A new side? I really don’t think I’d appreciate having to off any more of these rednecks. They get obnoxious, but they kind of keep my from getting my money all the time.”
         Yeah, and they kept hurting me quite a bit.
         So go hurt them back some.
         But there was the road.
         “There’s the road, Joe!” I squealed in delight. A road meant the eventuality of civilization. And the end of my internal arguments. That would be nice.
         Dirt sped underneath me, seeming so smooth and fluid beneath my wheels compared to the relative choppiness of the fields I had been plowing earlier. I had about a quarter tank of gas left, and that definitely had to be enough to get me somewhere where somebody could help me. The sun was sinking off to my left, meaning I was heading north. Good. That was where I eventually wanted to be heading. Back home.
         Back to that awesome library. Maybe even back to that superb golfing gig I had going.
         “You are starting to hallucinate, you know that, right?” I asked myself. I promptly questioned myself what I meant by that.
         “You must be really in pain and shock if you think you enjoy golfing at all.”
         You can never go back to golfing again. You probably can never go back to any sort of normal job at all, anyways. Maybe the army? That could work. You could shoot some people there.
         “I’m tired of shooting people!” I was tired of shooting people. No, you are not.
         These kind of things never end well, do they? Arguing with yourself and failing to come to any sort of rational agreement.
         Just drive on, I told myself.
         “Just drive on.”

-----

         Eventually, somehow, and showing the same sort of luck that had thankfully plagued me in the later small things, I found myself waking up in a hospital. The bed was soft, I was not bleeding, and I was on pain killers. Pretty much heaven. Only, the nurse was an older man, and that took some of the fun out of the whole thing. Still, a fat IV in my elbow and my leg heavily wrapped up and slung from a loop, I was more or less in heaven.
         I could recall, somewhat, hitting a small town after a good long while and stumbling into the gas station, asking for a bit of help. Apparently, either the man did not want me splattering my little red drops of blood all over his nice, clean floor, or he did not really think a dead person in his gas station was good publicity. Or, of course, he may have actually felt bad that I was in a pretty bad way and decided to do his part as a good Samaritan.
         Probably the first one. Nobody really wants blood on their floor. Blood is really nasty to try to mop. The mop pretty much is useless afterwards, too. I do not think, however, that I was conscious for much of my ride to the hospital. I did not even have a clue what city I was in, or what hospital. Heck, for all I knew, I was in St. Louis. I flagged down the nurse as he was passing by to ask him what the deal happened to be.
         “Excuse me, sir, but what’s the deal?”
         “Oh, you are awake? Sorry to have to ask such a dumb sounding question, but you kind of kept talking to yourself in your sleep for a long time.”
         “Yep, I’m awake. I think. Where am I?”
         “You are in Lakeland Regional Hospital.”
         “Where is that?”
         “You have no idea? This is Springfield, Missouri.”
         Springfield. Seemed much farther south than I would have expected. I had plenty of          questions, though.
         “How long have I been here?” I asked.
         “Almost thirty six hours now. A man brought you in, said he didn’t know who you were or what happened, just that you drove into town and were bleeding on his floor.”
         I knew it. It was the blood that turned him into a good Samaritan. No big surprise there.
         “Yeah. I had a bit of a rough day.”
         “Do you mind telling us what happened, please?”
         “Actually, yes, I do. I’ll need to speak to maybe some law enforcement, and maybe a lawyer, if that goes poorly. On a different note, how’s my good old body doing? It seems to be a bit unhappy with me.”
         “That’s why we need to know what happened. You look like you’ve taken multiple beatings and rough falls in the past few days. And, I must add, we pulled a bullet out of your right calf.”
         “Yeah, that’s about what I know. A car accident on Saturday, a beating on Sunday, a beating on Monday, a bit more beating and some diving around on Tuesday. Yep. The bullet was about the last one. I think that’s the majority of the physical woundings I have taken recently. How are they healing?”
         The man looked a good bit confused. Apparently, he wanted answers. I was not feeling particularly full of trust towards anyone at the moment, so I decided it would be best to help him treat me as much as possible without giving him any sort of actual understanding of what went down.
         “Well, there is no permanent damage to your leg, though you will not be able to walk on it for maybe up to a month. We’ll either have to set you up with a cane or with a walker. Or a wheelchair.”
         “A cane will do.”
         “We’ll get to that when it’s important. For now, you’ve still got a few days off your feet no matter what. Your ribs will heal fine, as will your face. The only serious injury you have suffered is the bullet to your leg. Are you sure you don’t want to—”
         “I am sure. I don’t want to be rude, but I think it’s necessary on a number of points not to tell you anything more.” Kind of a lie. I really was not trying to avoid being rude, but it sounded better that way. Colloquialisms and all that. Made everyone feel more at home.
         “Oh!” he started, looking a bit abashed. “I’m a little flustered today, sorry, but we need some important personal information from you.”
         “Such as?”
         “First of all, your name?”
         Wow. These guys had nothing. Not like I was carrying ID or anything. I guess it made sense. Felt kind of sorry for them all, now.
         “I’m Joe. Joe Buchanan Burkoff.”
         “Okay,” he said, writing it down, “and your date of birth?”
         We ran through the usual gamut, and even though there still was a good chance they had half that information already, I still obliged them and answered what I could.
         “Sir, if it is at all possible,” I began.
         “Yes?”
         “Are the cops on their way? I think I might want to have a small conversation with someone from that department. Things have been a little crazy for me, and I really could use someone trustworthy to discuss what happened.”
         “Certainly, Mr. Burkoff. I’ll have the office phone in for an officer in a moment. Until then, can we tempt you with—”
         “Food? Yes,” I answered so fast that he said—
         “—food,” after I finished agreeing to it.
         Hunger really is not very nice. Especially not to someone who has not eaten in a while, but rather has bled and ran and exercised ridiculous amounts. IVs can only go so far, to be honest. They can keep you alive, but they do very little for appeasing the tyrannical demands of your stomach. Food, yes, that was certainly what I needed at this point. Food. Not that I was expecting a feast, but I certainly would not complain even with old biscuits and a spot of runny milk- carton eggs.
         There is this funny thing about hospitals. It seems that when a fellow finds himself injured or somehow in need of a good hospitalization, there is this subtle, subconscious belief that being in said facility will make everything better. Somehow hospitals are supposed to make you heal faster and have no problems. Really, though, when you find yourself in a hospital, you are jammed into a bed, wearing some silly outfit, and plugged into with various needles.
         Nothing particularly comforting or fun about it.
         But it sure beat being shot any more. That was a life experience, let me tell you. Battle field scars and all that. Something to tell my grandkids, a good yarn to spin when I was done with this whole thing. Of course, I was almost positive that the only thing soon following this activity was probably going to be me and some unpleasant legal issues. Victim or not, I still had performed a few quite illegal sorts of activities. Such as bringing firearms and explosives into a public hotel. Oh well. Hopefully Matthews could get me out of this one.
         On the subject of my internal debates, by some coincidence or magic or whatever, a police officer rapped on my door. He sported a clean haircut, no facial hair, pants that fit, and a general attitude that showed him to be an actual city copper. He, likely, was about as confused as the male nurse I had shooed away earlier. Well, it was a good thing these urban law enforcement types were so speedy. I did not really feel like sitting there, unguarded. There was no good way to know whether or not all the sheriffs were gone, and I could guarantee that if any were left, they were going to try to gun me down something soon.
         Entering, the police fellow looked at me. “Good afternoon. I am Officer Stragan. Is there something you need?”
         He sounded city enough for me. “Yeah, officer, there are a lot of things I need, and one is to know what sort of crap the next few months are going to hold for me.”
         “Pardon?”
         “Well,” I said, “there was this whole big thing I got plunked right into the middle of, and some of the issues related to that might have ramifications for my future.”
         “I’m afraid I don’t follow. What did you say your name was?”
         “Um, Joe Burkoff. I’m from Chicago, but I seem to be missing my I D and all that. Rough week, like I told you.”
         “Slow down, Mr. Burkoff. I’m having a bit of difficulty keeping up. What exactly are you talking about?”
         I suppose I was not being all that particularly clear. First things first, though. “Did you hear anything about an incident in Elvis, Missouri, just a day or two ago?”
         Stragan took a few seconds, puzzled over it. “No, I don’t think so. I—”
         He was interrupted by a rather gruff voice from behind him. “Yeah, boy, I have.”
         Callahan stepped out from behind the too- slow Stragan, holding a large revolver in his hand and a very serious anger in his face. His torso was streaked with fat bands of old dirt, quite possibly caked on there by his own blood. As for his own blood, I could not tell. He did not seem to be bleeding at all at the moment, but that had no real bearing on how many bullets could be sitting in that body of his. How he had gotten loose, I had no way of knowing. I only knew that it really was going to suck for me.
         “You betrayed us, boy. And for that, justice must be served. Now.”
         Oh.
         Hell.

-----

         Stragan started to reach for his firearm.
         “Steady, kid. I’m an officer of the law, myself. Don’t make any stupid moves and nothing bad will happen.”
         The Springfield blue took a few steps back, arms hanging off his hips by his elbows, in a sort of fearful and fetal penguin maneuver. “Sir,” he said with a remarkably strong voice, considering his rather unfortunate position, “can I see your official documents? I don’t know where you were trained, but this is not at all how the law is enforced around here.”
         “And that’s exactly your problem,” Callahan followed with a spectacular spit off to the side. Some lovely brownish white foam bubbled around the bottom edge of my current IV bag. “You enforce the law with gentleness and meekness and a decayed sense of right and truth and law. Basically, you are just any sort of idiot trying his best to make money in the easiest way possible.”
         I knew who would win this confrontation, no matter whether the battle was settled with fists, guns, or words. And that winning side was definitely not the one I was rooting for. That winning side was definitely going to shoot me in a few moments, if not instantly. I had to get moving. Get out. The only problem with that was there mere fact that I was half strapped to a bed, with only one good leg and a few needles jabbing out of my inner right elbow.
         “You are wrong, sir,” said the surprisingly and likely unfortunately gallant Stragan. “From what I can tell, it seems that you might as well yourself belong on death row. How does that glorify justice?”
         “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Therefore, I am going to ask you to kindly shut your measly trap and back out of the room. My business here is with the backstabber only. I will shoot you if you are dumb enough to continue standing in my way.”
         Stragan paused. This had to be my only chance to do something, anything. I ripped the several needles out of my arm when Callahan was looking elsewhere, unslung my fatly wrapped leg from the holster, and rolled to the right. Callahan was on my right. He started, turned, reflexively aimed towards the far side of the bed, which was where I would be if I were trying to hide or run away. But I was not. I was going to take him down.
         Somehow my body found enough adrenaline to keep itself alive. I was pretty grateful for that. I have no clue how I kept moving.
         I do not think my fuzzy brain was quite able to keep up with the pangs of pain spiking down my limbs and through my face. Somehow, I was able to understand that it freaking hurt just to move, and yet somehow, I completely failed to care or be influenced by this. My leg throbbed twice, my rib cage pounded steadily, my body more or less flailed its way into the ankles of one rather sturdy and rather tall sheriff—a rather sturdy and rather tall sheriff also armed with a very large and very powerful sort of hand gun as well.
         He did not move at all, just kind of looked down on me quizzically.
         Thankfully, the young Officer Stragan happened to actually be an intelligent sort of copper. He hurled himself forward like a non- rotating, non- flying, and not really bright candy apple red Frisbee, taking Callahan down to the floor. Various medical equipment and all sorts of unimportant crap found themselves flung about in the wake of their arm- locking descent. I scuttled away towards the door, doing my best not to fall unconscious or at least back asleep.
         Fists flailed furiously in a very typical fist- flailing manner. Definitely quite furiously. Pretty soon (and by pretty soon, I mean that I knew it before anything even got going), I knew Stragan would find himself far beyond pummeled by the violence monger with arms the size of most men’s lawn mowers. Again, I found myself needing to make a decision.
         Run?
         Or stay to help?
         It seemed mostly like:
         Die?
         Or stay and die?
         Nothing particularly awesome sounding. Still, I decided that I should cast my lot against the militant arm of the sheriffs. Which did bring me to an important question, but one I put off asking until after I gave my aid to the quite needy police man buried under a few hundred pounds of pissed off hillbilly. I crawled over behind him, and as he was flinging a fat fist into a fearful face, I crammed my right elbow deep into his left kidney.
         Needless to say, he lost the power of that punch pretty quickly. He started to turn at me again, which was a mistake for a second time. Stragan recovered his poise and drove his palm full force into Callahan’s mouth. A little bit of bleeding ensued, as did a sudden reversal and a very rapid handcuffing. The fallen sheriff grunted, glared up at me from his prone position on the floor, redness trickling out from above his chin.
         “This ain’t over, Joe. Not nearly over.”
         Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. If it was not over, that meant that others had made it out of the siege at Elvis. And, no doubt, they were all just as upset with me as the lovely assassin they had sent. That was, assuming that he was even sent alone. Backup could be anywhere. Others could be only moments away, and with bringing far more instant death on their daily planners.
         I said as much to Stragan. “Others could be only moments away, and with bringing far more instant death on their daily planners. We need to get moving. I can’t stay here.”
         “I have no clue what the hell’s going on, Mr. Burkoff. But I do know that I need to take both you and this smelly old hick down to the station. And very quickly.”
         “That sounds completely agreeable to me. There is no place I’d rather be right now. Do you have backup on the horn?”
         “No, I don’t. But we’ve only got a few feet to go to my car. From there, it’s a quick drive on busy streets. No matter who they might possibly be, they wouldn’t dare trying anything that stupid in that public of an area.”
         I looked at him very strangely. “Hate to have to correct you, but . . . Well, yes, they would. They have, and they will. We’ve got to clear out, though, before Callahan here is considered missing and the others move in.”
         “Damn, kid, I hope you’re wrong. Either way, let’s go. I agree. Do you need anything? A wheelchair maybe?” He reached for his radio. The small black brick happened to be quite disgustingly missing. “What the—”
         I cut him off, using the traditional timing to avoid allowing him to insert any number of non- family- friendly obscenities in place of the dash. “Don’t bother. This creep beat you to it.” Pieces of radio lay littered on the floor, likely the first thing Callahan had gone for when the fight went to the ground.
         “Balls,” said the young police officer.
         “My thoughts exactly. Let’s beat it. I can walk, I suppose. I’ll just be kind of slow, but with this big lump in tow, I doubt you’ll be exactly powering down the stairs, either.”
         The fellow helped me to my feet, as much as it were, and promptly dragged the oafish brute to his. The three of us lunged out the doorway, lurching in a very awkward manner that is very hard to imitate without a cop, a sheriff in cuffs, and a wounded amateur golfer all together in a large clump of meandering humanity. A few passing nurses looked at us in a very creeped out manner, but none really tried to ask us any questions. Not like many people tend to question passing cops, especially not very determined looking ones like Stragan was managing to look like at the moment.
         Callahan followed along more or less meekly, just glaring at my back or shoulder or wherever it was. If he had been Superman, I would have been quite aflame. If he had been Cyclops, I would have likewise been dead. Heck, if he had been Matter Eater Lad, I doubted I would still be alive either. Good thing he was just a very angry redneck whose friends had been betrayed (and a few actually gunned down) by my very favorite person in the whole world.
         How many folks he had in the way of reinforcements I could not begin to guess. I had no idea how many sheriffs there had actually been before the Elvis siege anyways, let alone now after all that combat. I hoped fewer than a dozen made it out uninjured. But that still was a large number. If each member gave us as much trouble as did Callahan, no doubt we would be offed by number two. I noticed that Stragan was also carrying the sheriff’s dropped firearm. That certainly could be handy.
         White walls and white people all swam past my vision, blending together and making me very dizzy. Pain had stopped flowing and started to pool in large puddles of stagnant agony. Might as well push through it, though. It would not really do for me to go ahead and die to avoid a bit of pain. Even if it felt like my calf muscle was tearing away from my leg. Even if it still hurt to breathe. Darn those cops. They could have been a little more gentle.
         Or they could have been a bit more effective. I had kind of been counting on the feds to finish off those darn vigilante inbreds, but apparently that was a bit too much to ask for. At least this copper here seemed genuinely about to help me. Always nice to have someone working for you, I suppose. He was at my side, glancing left and right, clearly out of his league. But then, whose league was this, exactly? I could not think of anyone other than William Wallace who could be comfortable around fanatical warriors like these sheriffs. Although, I think even good old Bill Wally would have had some serious difficulties with them as well.
         We hit the elevator and stumbled in, cramming alongside a rather elderly lady with a walker. Her eyes, already ridiculously magnified by her ridiculously large glasses, widened to the brink of covering her cheekbones at the sight of whatever it was that we were supposed to be.
         I then realized that I was merely wearing a hospital gown. This was going to be a cold, awkward, and probably rather immodest venture back into the civilized world for me. I was going to evade a bunch of crazed hillbilly gunmen without shoes and without pants. No big loss, I suppose. Not that pants were ever that important to me, really, but sometimes it is kind of nice to face your potential doom with something to keep you from flashing the world when you fall down dead.
         At least they are not in the practice of burying you in the last thing you were wearing when you were alive, or the four people who would have come to see me anyways probably would have found better excuses.

-----

         The hallways merged eventually into one final one, terminating in a large set of glass doors. No one really seemed to look at us from either side, all more or less busy with their own work. Those doors seemed particularly ominous to me, nevertheless. On the outside, there was an ambush. I was sure of it. So was Stragan. Callahan was stone faced and fire eyed, still attempting that foolish yet somehow still mildly effective murder by glaring. I kind of wished he would stop. I did not want to be the first victim ever of a murder by glaring. That would be a crappy way to go down in history.
         The officer next to me paused for a second before powering through the doors, hesitating like any rational being would at this point. He drew his nine millimeter, keeping Callahan in front of him almost as a shield. I, the actual target, got stuck off to the side, unarmed and unshielded. That did not seem to make much sense to me, but maybe I would get lucky and they would flank from the right. I would have two shields that way. The cool afternoon air ran up the inside of my rather thin gown and gave me a nasty run of chills that happened to run the wrong direction.
         The chills were more or less forgotten when a whole lot of bullets decided to come to try to make my gown even less effective at covering my body. I dropped to the ground, trying to figure out where they were coming from. Stragan dropped as well, hit somewhere high, but still in working order. Callahan stood there, grinning at me like an ancient stone carving of a random tribal death god. Lead whistled in a very stereotypic way, and I realized exactly why people say that lead whistles. It kind of did.
         Actually, it sounded more like the afternoon air screaming as it died.
         I crawled forward, seeking the shelter of the police cruiser not twenty feet from our position. Police cars were bullet proof, right? I would have a good chance of surviving any further fusillades if I got cover like that. The copper on my right seemed to agree completely. Likely, he also had a spare radio in his car, which would be quite helpful as well. His pistol was out, but no bullets had been fired from it. Police folk are not particularly keen on blind firing in a hospital parking lot.
         With a hand heavy on Callahan’s cuffs, Stragan powered himself forward. The sheriff began to dig in his heels and try to keep us out in the open as long as possible. Eventually, one of the wild shots would connect. My luck could not keep up for that long, now could it? I punched the unruly sheriff in the back of his knee as hard as I could and crawled forward. The man buckled, suddenly very pliant to the officer’s direction. The three of us trudged on forward, Stragan and I on our hands and knees, Callahan bumbling along on a foot and a knee.
         A piece of asphalt exploded mere inches from a spot several feet from me. That could have been close, I thought as a few more bullets came close and almost blew chunks of my torso out on the parking lot. Stragan finally found a target amongst the chaos and raised his pistol. Two fast shots, and the cry of a unfortunately wounded man sounded out from the shrubberies off to the side. A good man. At least I had gotten stuck with a badge with a bit of accuracy.
         And then we hit the cruiser, slamming to a stop against its metal surface. Stragan chucked open the back door and shoved Callahan in. In retrospect, I imagined that that must not have been an easy task, but somehow he managed it in mere seconds. I figured Callahan had no clue what was going on, seeing as how this was not high on list of expected outcomes. The door slammed shut and, quite contrary to the usual police method of operation, he shoved me in the passenger seat. Likely he was completely winging it as well. This was just a weird situation for everyone involved. Thankfully, there really were not any bystanders nearby.
         A moment later, and the black and white, bullet pocked vehicle was full of its three riders, much to the chagrin of the assassins outside. Judging by what I could guess, there were maybe only four or five of them. A quick little roar beneath my bare feet, and the beastly car revved up all its juice and gunned forward from the parking lot. A few stray shots flew past our wheels, but thankfully, none of the tires found themselves shredded by that feared impact.
         Stragan screamed into the radio for backup and all that. A quick description of our plight, and then he had to focus on driving. Apparently, back at the station, they were not terribly familiar with what to do here, either. They would meet us halfway, they said. Just get moving, they said. Make it as far as you can, they said. Easy things to say, I thought.
         Callahan was entirely scowls now behind us.
         The mere fact that he was not talking or cursing or trying to escape at this point likely meant that they had further plans for our demise. Further and quite immediate.
         “Jeez,” I said, low on breath. I had meant to be a bit more eloquent and share some of the forebodings I was having, but somehow this conversation was incredible difficult to get moving.
         “Yeah. Holy hell.”
         “Oi.”
         “You think we are done?” he asked me, as he powered up the sirens and punched the gas onto the main road.
         “No,” I answered, being particularly honest. “Expect some nasty traffic, I would say. Keep your eyes open, especially for light blue pickup trucks.”
         “Sure thing, kid. Wow. What a crummy day. I never enjoyed visits to the hospital. And you did what exactly to tick these guys off?”
         “Well, I gave them up to the government, I suppose. It’s a pretty intense sort of pride they have in justice, you see. They are a bit beyond normal rationality.”
         “I’ll say. Let’s hope they don’t get it in their heads to assault a police station. I’m about sick of gunfire.”
         A bullet went through the wind shield.
         “Hey!” I screamed. “I thought these things were bullet proof!”
         “They are,” he roared over the screaming of the air. “That wasn’t a normal sort of bullet. That baby was huge!” He swerved a bit to the left and the right.
         A huge bullet. Something beyond the usual power and magnitude of these rednecks’ weapons. Oh Lord, let it not be the vigilante Agent Matthews.
         “Yeah, I don’t think that was exactly a normal sheriff firearm, Officer.”
         My comment was answered by a loud crack off to the front and left, followed by a crunch of metal at the side of the car. Glass was all over my lap, but nothing particularly cutting yet. As long as I did not have to move, I probably would not bleed from that. Which was kind of nice, except that Stragan shoved my head into my lap.
         “Keep your head down. Don’t give them an easy target. We’ve got maybe three miles to go. We can make this.”
         His optimism was oh so charming.
         But I saw the vehicle. This time it was a full blown Hummer cruising down the fast lane ahead of us. The back window had been replaced mostly by emptiness, but also by a massive rifle. And Matthews. Quite certainly the very fellow I least wanted to see. And he was looking at me. I threw my head back down just in time for the bullet to fly wide of the car. I knew I could handle this, though.
         “Let me have a gun,” I said.
         “What?” screamed Stragan, hands white on the wheel, face about the same color.
         “Let me have a gun. I can get us in the clear.”
         “That’s a terrible idea!”
         “Look, man, in about two shots, he’s going to give up on shooting me and aim for you instead. Do you really want to take a bullet in the face? Give me a gun.”
         “This is a really terrible idea,” he reiterated, handing me the Magnum stripped off of Callahan. Good thinking, I thought. That way, any bad shots could be blamed on the outlaw sheriffs. I grabbed the by now familiar hilt of the modern bullet chucker. It was time to end this, at least as much as possible.
         I sat up straight and sighted down the barrel. There was a face not fifty feet from me sighting down another barrel, and I figured I would have to give it my best shot now or never. That damn red circle was going to feel the thud of my finalizing firing. The trigger became squeezed by my tense finger.
         A good little flash.
         A quick little scream from my barrel.
         A swell little explosion of rubber as the back right tire imploded.
         Bingo.
         The overly large and overly uneconomic tank of a vehicle suddenly lost power and speed, not being able to maintain the hundred plus miles per hour it had been holding before, back when it had four working wheels.
         “Damn it, kid, what’s wrong with you?” shouted Stragan, a serious sort of scolding that I did not fully understand. I had just saved his life, after all.
         It was about then, then, when I noticed that the overly large and overly uneconomic tank of a vehicle happened to be losing ground to its right, a point towards which we were also speeding. Other passing traffic was doing its best to merge right at the sound of the sirens. More or less, we were locked in a lane with an ailing Hummer and a few gunmen. Okay, so maybe I should have gone for the other side. Hindsight, however, never saved anyone’s life.
         Stragan slammed on the brakes, desperately vying for control (in a disgustingly familiar sequence of events) on the pavement, trying his best not to ram the skidding chunk of metal tonnage before us. Matthews ducked under into the rear of the vehicle, quite evidently swapping out weapons. Resurfacing with a shotgun, the peeved looking fellow stared me in the eye for a quick moment. Our speed was down to about thirty miles an hour—it would just have to do.
         Keeping my fist tightly coiled around the three fifty seven Magnum, I jacked the door open and rolled out. There was certainly no good way to land, so I figured I might as should just have landed on the same shoulders that had taken a large part of my falling abuse of late. Cracked ribs screamed at me through my little gown, little bits of stone screaming back in rage at my agony. The ground is never soft to people who need it to be, and it is certainly less often soft for those who really, really are hoping for it to be so.
         A shower of sparks and shards splattered behind me in the cockpit of the cruiser. Shotgun pellets danced around, singing and weeping and making all sorts of shotgun pellet noises. But then, the behind me was a good bit before me, as I stopped driving forward and instead began a sort of diagonal roll towards the line of cars on the shoulder. And yet, somehow, through it all, I managed to retain the six shooter I had borrowed from good old Sheriff Callahan.
         I rolled to a stop not long before the police car did, only they were about thirty feet farther ahead than me. A thin slick of blood marked my passage, but blood from where was not exactly an answerable question. A mid sized four door sedan was parked just in front of me, and I borrowed the poor driver’s safety for my cover. From the Hummer issued several men, even the driver. The cruiser found itself thrown in reverse and driven backwards, likely due to Stragan not really being all that interested in seeing just how many times these men could miss with a shotgun.
         What that really all meant was that, for the next minute at least, I was going to be on my own. Hopefully the reinforcements from the station would get here soon. Having allies sounded like a ridiculously pleasant sort of idea to me. Still, I found myself crouching behind the wheel well of one particular Pontiac, feeling quite hunted and hounded. With the gun in my hand and a very terrified look on the face of the man in the front seat, I gave my best grin and tried to focus on the guys who actually were going to try to shoot me in just a few moments.
         Not knowing in exactly what capacity Stragan was planning to aid me, I went ahead and seized my opportunity. Shuffling down the street behind the cars, I popped my head up and took some aim. At least keep them honest, right? The three brutes were sprinting towards my position on the road shoulder with weapons in hand. Aside from Matthews, I could not recognize any of them. It mattered very little, really. Two shots in, and the right wingman fell.
         His friend was not too slow, though. A bullet licked a chunk out of the hood in front of me, prompting my reflexes to hurl me to the ground. Wonderful. These guys were definitely going to give me beyond a normal run for my money. Okay. Half my bullets gone. Hopefully backup was really close to arriving, because without a doubt a few more sheriffs were going to catch back up within mere moments. And I did not have the firepower to handle those.
         Speaking of firepower, a blast from Matthews’s shotgun pounded the vehicle in front of me hard to the front, shoving it towards me a few inches and setting off the alarm quite intensely. I rolled backwards, seeing if there was any cover off the road, but it looked like I would have to stay behind cars or get a fat payload of shot to my fleeing back. What I really wanted to be able to do at this point was run, but with a stitched and bandaged calf, a little half wobble was about the very best I could manage.
         Shuffling towards the next car down the line, this time a squat little Mazda (whose shiny blue paint job was definitely about to ruined and pock marked), I slid to the ground on the far side, searching for a target. Unfortunately, the two pursuers of mine were no longer on the street. Before they pulled out on my flank, I crawled in front of the Mazda. I had to keep cover. And I had to keep moving down the street.
         Not dying sounded smart.