Snipe Hunt

Freddie threw his body backward and sprawled to the ground as two bullets shattered the wood door behind him and the third caught him on the nose and connected his two nostrils.  The cartilage was shorn clear of his face and he blew violently out to expel the blood and flesh running into his pharynx like mucus from a bad cold. 

He squeezed both triggers with his eyes wide open, sending the .9mm bullets in the direction of the unseen shooter.  Freddie spun on his back and kicked the riddled wooden door until the bottom half opened wide enough to wiggle his body into as more bullets crashed into the jamb above him. 

He got to his feet and ran down a set of stairs, trying several locked doors on his way. 

“Where the hell am I?”  He grumbled in a voice without the aid of a proper nose and loaded fresh magazines in his twin Kimber semi-autos and blew more blood out of the hole in his face.  It didn’t feel like blowing his nose, because the nose was gone.  It felt more like clearing his throat through a blowhole in the center of his face.

 A door opened to his left and the theme music to some game show echoed in the stairwell.  Freddie jerked both arms up and aimed his pistols at an old man wearing thick glasses.

 

“Where the hell am I?”  Freddie asked.

The old man put a shaky hand to his ear. 

“Huh?” 

“Where the hell…” A bullet tore through the old man’s left temple.  Freddie fell to a squat and aimed but saw no one.  A deep voice, decorated with a caustic Russian accent spoke from somewhere in the stairwell. 

“I have shot fish in barrels before.”  It said.  “I didn’t like it.  Go, snipe.  I count to ten.” 

Freddie ran into the old man’s apartment, shut and locked the door behind him.  Two shots ended The Wheel of Fortune on the television. 

There was no fire escape out of the single window of the old man’s apartment.  The view was moss covered brick. 

He rolled an upright piano away from the wall and hid behind it, both guns pointing at the front door. All was quiet and he strained to detect some movement, some sound from outside.  He brushed the spot where his nose had been and screamed aloud in pain.  He found a paisley tea towel and pressed it against his face.  It stuck. 

Someone chuckled just beyond the door.  He emptied all ten rounds of one pistol, the bullets ripping large holes in the cheap wood.  One bullet tore through the doorknob, wrecking the lock and allowing the door to creep open. 

The entrance was barren. 

Freddie dropped the empty gun and held the other in both hands.  The pain pulsated through his face into his skull, and made the spot behind his eyes feel full of stinging wasps. 

When the phone rang in the pocket of his cargo pants he near panicked and almost shot himself in the thigh.  He clenched his eyes tight, expecting a bomb and gripped the Kimber until his fingers ached. 

As his wits came back to him he put his focus on the door.  A shot rang out and the piano keys shattered into a black and white haze of piano particles and splinters.  A second shot hit something deep in the instrument and a loud “Bong” like a great grandfather clock filled the room after the echo of the shots dissipated. 

   Freddie rolled to his left and fired back twice before diving into a pass through and landing on a kitchen floor.   Another shot from beyond took out an eyehook holding a cast iron skillet above his head.  It crashed onto his shoulder and he cursed out loud in pain.  His collar bone was probably broken. 

He fired back with his good hand, but there was no one at the door, the bullets sailed on to insignificance.

“Where…”  He started, but couldn’t finish, his words shocked out of him.

A pump-action Benelli shotgun appeared on the floor next to the oven.  It was simply… there.

The phone continued to ring. 

He fumbled around in his pocket.  At the single touch of the “talk” button everything went still, and a white “PAUSE” appeared in front of his vision.  He blinked to make it go away.  It remained. 

“Hello Fred Bambera.  To hear this message in Spanish, press one followed by the pound key.” 

A small moment of silence passed.

“Fred Bambera, thank you for participating in this Snipe Hunt.   You are no doubt experiencing some memory loss.  This is normal.  You may put your weapon down, no harm will come to you in this mode.“

The voice on the phone told him who he was, his date of birth and social security number.   A picture of a gaunt man with an eye patch appeared in his vision.  Underneath his picture was the name, “Igor Brotnick.”  Igor flashed away and a map of the building lay before him, superimposed in backlit white over the old man’s apartment. 

“I’ll be damned…”  Freddie said. 

He picked up the shotgun and pumped it with one arm. 

12 guage. 

Fully loaded.

 Its heft was superbly balanced, and he felt like he’d been using it his entire life. 

“For a hint, press three, followed by the pound sign.” 

He did.  After a moment he smiled. 

Freddie pushed the “end” button and opened the refrigerator door.  He grabbed a glowing green bottle and downed the contents. 

He could feel an itch in the middle of his face as his nose grew back.  He took a long, deep breath into his nose and felt a rush in his brain that extended to his arms.  The tea towel fell, the round blood stain stuck to the floor. 

“I see you Snipe.”  The Russian voice said.  It was close.  So close. 

Freddie balled up his fist and put the thumb end to his mouth and made a snipe call.

“Snipe this.” 

He whipped around and let fly with the shotgun. 

. 

The End