Flash Fiction: Hunting Range – Part 3 of 3!

Let’s finish this!

May I present, the eagerly awaited third part of…Hunting Range!

“Filthy breeder thinks he can hide,” one of them says, the machine in his hands giving him directions to where I am. He walks at the front of four other hunters, each holding a rifle and making small talk with the man next to them. The alley is big enough for them to walk abreast, but they choose to form rows, each two men wide.

“We know you’re here. Come on out you condom-hating breeder. I want your head on my wall,” says one of the men. They keep walking closer to me, and I wait for the first to pass my line of sight. My mouth is full of heat and I hold it back with clenched teeth.

A leg moves past my head, exposing a holstered hip, and the gun it holds. I am ablaze with hate and anger and fear and rage. The gun feels heavy in my hands as I grab it from his hip and pull it into an uppercut. It ends with a shot that recoils my hand up into the air above my head. My other arm comes down on my inner forearm and just as the now headless body falls, I make aim again.

Time is slow. Time is endless. Every child learns to fire a gun; learns of its power when they shoot a rat for the first time. My fingers understand everything that my brain cannot, and the chamber automatically primes itself for the next target.

The hunters each start to react, rifles raising in what to me seems like slow motion. The first one dies with a crashing fall. That one was for my eldest daughter. My respect.

That one was for my son. My pride.

That one was for my little princess. My joy.

That one was for my wife. My love.

One’s still alive. He squirms on the ground, clutching his destroyed hand, spitting out slurs mixed with bloody bile. I stand over him and look deep into his eyes.

That one was for my unborn child.

I’m on my knees, numb. I don’t know when I fell. The gun is still in my palm, clutched so hard that my knuckles are white, and my entire arm shakes with strain. I lift it up to look at it, staring at the grip. I spit a bloody wad on it and throw it away from me. It skitters across the black street and splashes into the pools that formed around the hunters. The alarm stops, and I’m left in the quiet of the night, crying for my crime of life.

“Why’d you stop the alarm?” asks a man in a white vest, turning to look at his companion. The light of the wall of monitors gives him an unearthly glow, and illuminates the thick smoke that leaks from his mouth. He passes the long tube to his companion, who accepts it with a smile before taking a long puff.

The second man’s mouth moves back and forth, like he was testing the taste of his answer. As the white of his hair restored back to brown, and the creases along his eyes recede, he seems to have an answer. A tooth grows back in as he speaks.

“Well I figure he just balanced it out. Ten dead for one too many kids. Seems only fair that he gets to live. He practically did us a favor.” He beckons at the number that dominates the upper portion of every screen. The amount now slightly lower than before.

The other man pauses for a second, before breaking into a smile. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Another job well done, then.”

“Exactly. Another job well done.”

Special thanks to: Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, and Zeony.

Did you like the article? Dislike? Tell me about it in the comments. I would love to hear your opinions! If interested in specific articles, or want to write as a guest, you can message me at scifibrandonscott@gmail.com. If you want to help keep this blog going, consider becoming my patron at https://www.patreon.com/coolerbs. Thanks for reading!


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