Bang

The barrel of her gun shook, wobbling left, then right, up, then down. It was a six-shot revolver, but she always left an empty chamber under the hammer, in case she accidentally dropped it and it went off—a mistake she wasn’t willing to make twice. 

Still, with 5 shots she reckoned she could hit a man-sized target, despite her jittery hands.

The pursuing footsteps stopped when she’d spun around and drew her weapon. She strained her ears, hoping to hear breathing. Backlit by the full moon, she knew she was visible to her pursuer. She had to hope that whomever followed her didn’t also have a firearm; wasn’t at that moment training their weapon on her.

She looked into the maw of the tunnel—its inky darkness filling her vision. Her chest heaved up and down. The weight of her pearls feeling like an anchor around her neck.  

For a moment, suspended in that silence, she wondered if she could kill to defend herself. She’d never shot anyone—not on purpose at least. She’d gone target shooting, bullseyeing grain-whiskey jugs on her Aunt’s farm. Those jugs deserved it though, what with the hangover imbibing their content caused. She’d shot skeets before with an enormous shotgun that made her shoulder ache just thinking about. The skeets didn’t deserve it, yet she blasted them.

And what of her pursuer? Could she shoot them as easily as a glass jug? As a clay pigeon? 

“Jesus Lucy!” A voice called out.

Her finger twitch. Then a bang. Shattered glass. 

In the momentary illumination of the muzzle flash she thought she saw a face. A face she recognized…

“Jill?” she asked into the darkness.

Exiting the darkness stood Jill Herman, holding the neck of a shattered champaign bottle. 

“This was a good vintage love!” Jill said to her erstwhile chorus-line companion. “I filched it from the boss.”

“Seven sins of heaven Jill, what are you doing here?”

Jill looked at what remained of the bottle. “I was going to have a drink with an old friend.”

Lucy smiled. “I’ve got a bottle back at my place. And I could use the company.”

“Lead on.” 

Harder still. He was sure of it. He was not wary. Adeptus Astartes did not tire. Not like this. From just walking.

Ping. Step. Ping. Step. Step. Ping.

He’d catch up to his query.

Ping. Half-step.

As soon as he rested…just a little while.

He watched as a snowflake, as large as his transhuman hand, drifted and fell landing on his nose.

As the gloomy wind of Wazmuun howled, his eyes slowly closed…