Desolate The Complete Trilogy

4



If he was going to do it right he’d have to get a gun. Who wouldn’t be scared shitless looking down the business end of a gun? A knife just wouldn’t do the trick and he wasn’t big enough to be physically imposing. No, he’d have to have a gun. He’d shove it in that bastard’s face and watch him shit his pants and beg for mercy.

Oh God, please no. Don’t hurt me Howard. I’ll do anything thing you want, just please don’t hurt me!

Yes, it would be sweet.

The problem was, Howard didn’t own a gun. He hadn’t fired one since his dad tried to introduce him to hunting when he was twelve years old. He shot a couple dozen rounds from a .22 and tried a shotgun once or twice. He even shot a deer with his dad’s old lever action .30-30. He cried. He sobbed like a baby after he watched the deer try to stumble forward on dying legs and fall to the ground. It lay there bleeding and dying and staring at him. His dad said it was okay, that he shouldn’t feel bad, but Howie knew that his dad was secretly disgusted with him. He was disgusted that his only son cried like a girl after he got his first kill when he should have been proud.

After that, Howard never went hunting with his dad again and his dad never asked him to. He didn’t care for hunting and didn’t even like guns or shooting at all, but he was at least thankful that his old man was a hunter. A hunter has lots of guns.

With the last can of Blatz long gone, Howard got in his car and carefully drove the three miles to his parent’s empty house. Arthur Bell and his wife Betty had retired a few years ago. With their newfound freedom, they spent a lot of time traveling in their new Winnebago Adventurer. They were currently on a tour of the Pacific Northwest.

Howard let himself into the house and headed down to the basement. In his dad’s workroom he reached for the key on top of the gun cabinet and opened it. Inside was a wide assortment of rifles and shotguns. He looked at the old .30-30 that still brought back shameful memories of that day back in November years ago. A long gun like a rifle or shotgun wouldn’t do the trick. It would be too hard to conceal.

He crouched down and opened the metal lock box at the bottom of the cabinet. Inside was one of Arthur’s most valuable possessions, his government model M1911 Colt .45 Automatic. He brought it back after his tour in Vietnam and only took it out to fire at the range a couple of times a year.

Howard looked at the box of .45 ACP cartridges next to the case. Should he load the gun? He hadn’t thought of that before. What if the bastard didn’t get scared right away and didn’t take him seriously? He could fire a shot into the ceiling. That would definitely get his attention.

He released the magazine and fed seven shells into it. He saw an extra mag in the box and loaded that one too. Better safe than sorry.

He tucked the gun under his belt like they do on TV and headed upstairs to the kitchen. In the cabinet above the fridge he found an unopened bottle of Black Label. He spent the rest of the night drinking in his dad’s favorite chair watching infomercials.

At 8:00 A.M. he got in his car and drove to Willmar Industries. Creighton didn’t know it yet, but that bastard, that arrogant little prick, was about to get a visit from a very pissed off ex-employee.