Warpath

The rapist shoots glances back at me every few seconds because he knows what’s going to happen when I get my hands on him. I knock over a display and a canvas clatters off into the street. “Hey!” Some dweeb in a beret and a plaid shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple shouts and jumps off a high-legged chair. “My art!”

The rapist comes to a grinding halt in the middle of the crowd. Spins to face me. We make eye contact and I smile. Taste the blood in the water. Then he juts his arm in the air, ready to make these human cattle stampede.

His gun fires a shot off to the heavens, and the crowd goes batshit crazy like ants after a kid stomps their mound.

Screams, scattering, panicked chaos.

He sets off at a dead sprint and I give what I have to follow. Art fair folks dodge into shop fronts and behind cars. Strollers with sleeping babies zoom past with harried moms shoving them along.

The rapist grabs an old woman and throws her to the ground. If he’s trying to put something in my path his aim is way off. But then he grabs another woman and throws her. Then a young man. Adds in a trashcan for color, then another man.

I kick the trashcan and jump over one of the dudes. The rapist runs around a corner. I take it wide in case he’s going to jump me. Nope. It leads down a short alleyway, and there he is, knocking over more debris. A stack of empty cardboard boxes, more trash cans. He clears the other end and I bull rush through the obstacles.

He wanted the meet so he could taunt and then shoot me. He never dreamed of this. It says something about a man who runs and hurts people along the way rather than go toe-to-toe. You’ve got to be careful with that type. Cowards, but when things don’t go their way they take cheap shots.

I see him go over a hill with the bay behind him. He’s making for a brand new subdivision. It’s all vertical townhouses done in tight rows. Adorned with banners, balloons galore and a big sign which reads: TODAY! OPEN HOUSE!

He darts in the first house, the one with the open and inviting front door.

I hear gasps and shouts as I enter. There is a guided tour going on with a real estate agent in the front. The rapist shoves through a group of them and shoots a glance over his shoulder. I’m in; our eyes meet. He takes off. ALL BAMBOO FLOORS! rushes past me in a blur set to concerned shouts. ENERGY EFFICENT! TRIPLE-PANED WINDOWS! SAFE NEIGHBORHOOD! TWO BLOCKS FROM THE BEACH!

Up the stairs, knocking over an easel with some pie chart display on it. I get to the top and the people there are cautious, nervous, stealing glances, no doubt in disbelief over this. Us, bursting through their wet dream of a new luxury home. Soiled it with the gleaned knowledge that once I get my hands on him I’m going to beat him to death.

Hallway runs both ways. Window in front of me, rooms on both sides. Second flight of stairs beside me, running to floor number three. These homes are too narrow to have much square footage on a single level. They’re stacked. Hipster-style. My lungs want an elevator.

Where to? Not up. I would have heard it. Hold my breath. Tune out my heart. The gaggle of people down below has raised their nervous chatter to a cacophony. I need the rapist to give me a sound. I dart to the left, throw open a door. Clear the room in three seconds and out. Next door. Nothing. That’s it for this end. Past the stairs, next door is the shitter, spacious, marbled, gaudy gold trim and fixtures. Lifted right out of Saddam Hussein’s palace.

Maybe he waited until I ducked in a room, ran past me down the hall. I jump into the hallway, listen for feet up the stairs. Can’t tell. At the stairs I look up. Hear down below, “I can’t believe this! The nerve—” “way to screw up the day—” “probably a drug quarrel or they’re boyfriends and one of ’em—” “I called the fucking the cops, they never show up when—” “if these are the neighbors—”

“Shut the fuck up!” I bellow, rattle windows.

Gasps down below. Sweet silence; the living room is now a bone yard. Then—

Up the stairs. A sudden crash. I might be old, but I know the sound of a hip hitting furniture. He’s on the third floor. Two at a time then, the all bamboo flooring passes under my determined feet.

Third floor, movement to the right. I take cover behind some obnoxious balustrade that extends halfway to the ceiling and probably needs its own support beam. I check around it and aim my heater. Noth

ing. Nothing—

Sounds from outside. Up here? Not floating up from below. The AC is on; vent is right next to me, coughing ice up my pant leg. Down the hall, a real estate banner flutters. Breeze.

Open window.

Escape.

I go, muzzle leading the way. Too fast to give him any reaction time. Swoop into a bedroom. The room itself takes a sharp gasp I run in it so determined. Picture window, open. His feet on the sill, his ass ducking under the limits of the sliding glass. Hands outside, grabbing the house’s frame. He turns his head just enough to see me and pushes off.

Third story window, gone.

I get to it, see how the roof slopes out under the window to brace the rapist’s fall.

He’s sliding down into a corner made by two peaks, looks back and smirks. I aim my gun just as he goes over. I holster and shove through the window. Move fast enough along the slope to lose my footing. Fall on my side, skid down too fast. Scramble. Kick a foot up into this corner and kick the other foot up into that, claw the shingles. I stop, crabwalk down. Get to the corner and peer over, see the rapist.

He’s clubbing a man over the head, carjacking his truck. I can see the brake lights on, idling in the driveway of the open house. The rapist jumps in, and I leap off the roof.

I’m floating above the truck bed as the truck roars to life, taking my flatbed landing site with it.

I catch the tailgate of the truck across my gut and I just know I’m going to shit blood over this.