Gunshot

He didn’t like to think of himself as a criminal, but he was.  They all were.

A spark of lightening triggered a tremendous roll of thunder.  In the dark, Hart couldn’t tell where he was going, but he had traversed these Manhattan streets for years, he knew them like the back of his hand.  With each bolt of lightening, the towering remains of skyscrapers loomed ominously over him, their smashed and shattered windows becoming twisted, evil faces staring down at him, threatening him into submission.

The rain was thick, dropping from the heavens like thousands of tiny fists, pelting his bald head and running into his eyes, half blinding him. He walked quickly, just shy of jogging.  He breathed heavily; he had been walking for over an hour, now.  But no matter, he was almost there; just a bit farther.  

He kept his right hand in his pocket, stroking the small revolver.  It wasn’t much, but he had kept it secret for over a year, now.  Most everyone else had foolishly used up their weaponry fighting petty turf wars and pointless power battles.  Hart had stayed out of it the best he could, but he had had to shoot on occasion.  

This was going to be one of those occasions.

It didn’t always used to be like this.  Almost a year previous to the day, Hart had had a good life: a wife, a child on the way, a cushy job as an accountant for the Harrison and Mark publishing company.  But then, during the commute to work, the ground had began to shake with such violent force, buildings all around started to crumble as if they were made of sandstone.  After that, it got blurry for Hart, but he vaguely recalled his car getting crushed under a falling gargoyle.  How he got out, whether on his own, or someone pulled him out, was a mystery to him.  He remembered making his way back to his house, in a state of shock at the devastation all around him, only to find a burning wreck where it had once stood.  His entire life was in that house, including his wife.  After that, it got hazy again: he remembered flashes of joining a small group of survivors and trying to help people out of the rubble and carting away the deceased. Innumerable were dead, thousands upon thousands wounded.  It was a miracle Hart had escaped with little more than a cracked elbow.

He had learned later, that the earthquake had destroyed a chemical factory on the island, and a deadly virus escaped, causing more death and disease.  Once again, Hart had been unbelievably lucky to be one of the few hundred that were naturally immune.  Once word of the virus spread, the rest of the country pulled out the help they had sent in, and the government had the bridges to the island blown, and the tunnels collapsed.  Manhattan became a No Man’s Land.  The survivors banded together, but dissention spread, factions formed, war erupted.  It was hell.

But that was a long time ago in Hart’s memory.  For him, he could barely recall what it was like before the quake.  No one knew why New York had suddenly gotten hit with one, but that didn’t matter much anymore.  All that mattered to anyone was survival, plain and simple.  Food, while plentiful at first, was now scarce and precious.  Hart didn’t like to think of himself as a criminal, but he was.  They all were.  He stole, sure; he needed to eat.  But he drew the line at murder.  He didn’t kill.  That is, at least, until tonight.  He knew what he had to do, and he meant full well to do it, God help him.  He stroked the metal in his pocket.  It was a wicked object, he had seen it speak its language all too many times, but it gave him a strange sense of calmness.  It scared him.

He walked deep in thought, when his leg sunk down into a pothole filled with rainwater.  He threw his hands out in front of him as he fell.  He landed hard with a grunt.  He cursed himself, he should have been paying attention.  He picked himself up and there was a shooting pain in his side.  A cracked rib, or worse.   It didn’t matter now.  He thrust his hands back in his pockets and began to walk.  The revolver was missing!  He spun, rain flying off him.  He dropped to his hands and knees looking for it.  It was so dark, it was hard to tell.  His hand swept across something small and cold; the gun.  He picked it up out of a puddle, breathing a sigh of relief.  He wiped it off the best he could and continued on.  Not much farther…

The buildings began to thin, and eventually stopped.  Ahead was a hill, covered in dead grass.  At one time, it was a beautiful place for a picnic.  Not anymore.  He climbed to the top of the hill; its view of the mainland across the water was stunning.  This was the perfect spot.  He turned his face to the sky, savoring the redeeming rain as it washed over him.  He brought out his gun, but didn’t look at it.  He was no murderer, but that would change, oh yes.  He cocked the hammer.  He was tired; so very tired of the fighting, the hunger, the sleepless nights, the death, the disease.  It would be over soon.

Still staring up at the sky, he brought the gun up and placed the barrel on his temple.  He closed his eyes.  A calm peacefulness came over him.  For the first time in a long time, he smiled.  He took a slow breath and pulled the trigger.

Click.

What?  He opened his eyes and stared at the gun.  It was soaking wet, water dripping from the shells.  The gun was useless.  He let the revolver slip from his fingers.  He stood there, in shocked silence before his knees finally gave out.  He fell to the ground in a kneeling position, and cried.

Unfortunately, he was still no murderer.