Fuzzy Navel

10:46 P.M.
SWANSON

SWANSON IS TEMPTED to move farther away. Those two shots the woman cop fired from the garage came very near him, kicking up dirt just a few feet in front of his face. But he’s the one who gave the order to get in closer, so he’s determined to stick it out.

He and Pessolano shoot the last of the outside lights, then change back to night scopes. The constant juggling of scopes bugs Swanson. A lot of things about this situation bug Swanson. But this will all be over soon. When the cop fires her last rifle round, he’s going to order his men to break into the house and finish the job point-blank. Enough of this long-distance bullshit.

In concept, The Urban Hunting Club was brilliant. Dazzle the police and the media with three sex offenders who all die at the same time. Do it from a distance, so there’s less likelihood of witnesses, and no personal contact with the targets. Kill three more offenders a few days later, to make it seem like the targets are random. Write a note to the newspapers, explaining the goal of ridding Chicago of perverts. Then disappear into legend.

Swanson even thought about the far future, forty years from now, making a deathbed confession and stunning the world. Explaining he did it all for his precious Jen. Making a grand speech about how it is every private citizen’s duty to protect the people he loves. Along with the right to bear arms, there is a responsibility to use those arms for truth, justice, and the American way.

It would have been a damn good speech.

But Munchel had to fuck everything up. Now TUHC are cop killers. Instead of being admired by millions, they’ll be hunted forever, chased to the ends of the earth. They’ll be called psychos instead of vigilantes. In the TV movie, Swanson will be played by Harvey Keitel or Christopher Walken, instead of Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis.

It’s all gone to hell. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Swanson sights down the night-vision scope, looking into the dark house through the front bay window. He’s moved ten feet to the right, away from the spot where the cop came close to hitting him. The stretch of grass he’s on is slightly elevated. Not quite a knoll, but raised enough so he can see into the living room and look down from a slight angle.

He sees green. A world of blurry, indistinct, phosphorescent green.

Though he doesn’t admit it to the guys, the starlight scope isn’t the easiest thing to use. With Swanson’s whole field of vision monochromatic, the only way to identify people is by shape and movement. Earlier in the night, Swanson put three rounds into a chair, thinking it was a crouching body. And he also discovered that the house has a cat in it, which kept darting back and forth, messing up his concentration and his aim.

The ever-increasing wind has also been a factor, throwing off several shots that were otherwise on the money. That fat cop should be dead three times over. Swanson knew Pessolano felt the same frustration, because the Desert Storm vet had been only fifteen yards away, and Swanson heard him swear after every miss.

Swanson also knows he’s jerking the trigger. Every shot, the butt of the TPG-1 slams into his shoulder. The area has been tender for several weeks, from all of the practice, and the bruise hasn’t ever healed. After the dozens of rounds fired to night, it hurts like crazy. Swanson flinches every time he fires, and this tiny movement is throwing off his aim.

Add in the pressure of getting done quickly, and the fact that Swanson isn’t a very good marksman to begin with, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to hit anything.

But that is all about to change. The next person who appears in Swanson’s scope is going to die. He can feel it.

Swanson blinks, takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip on the TPG-1. He aims the starlight scope on the hallway, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.

Something blurs past his line of fire. Swanson adjusts, finding the figure again, watching it disappear into the garage. He holds there… holds… holds… holds…

The figure appears again.

Swanson fires.

He misses – the target is moving too fast. It’s the woman cop, and she has the rifle. She ducks behind the couch.

Swanson pulls back the bolt, ejecting the empty cartridge, loading another one. He re-aims at the sofa and puts a bullet through the middle, where she was just a second ago.

I got her, he thinks. I must have.

Movement, in the lower right quadrant of his scope. He adjusts, sees someone squatting by the window.

The woman cop.

Swanson pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He didn’t load the next bullet yet.

Stupid bolt action rifle. Why didn’t Pessolano buy semiauto -

Swanson feels a sharp tug in his chest. He hears the shot at the same time.

Did she just-?

The pain runs Swanson over like a truck. Someone has him in a giant nutcracker and is squeezing his ribs, making it impossible to draw a breath. He touches his breastbone, looks at his fingers.

Blood. A lot of blood.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Swanson crawls away from his gun. His breath comes back, and the oxygen burns and stabs at his insides. A weak cry escapes his throat.

He fumbles in the darkness for his belt, finds his radio, brings it to his face.

“… shot…” he manages to whisper.

No one answers.

“… I… got… shot…”

No reply. Why won’t they answer?

Swanson looks into the woods. Where’s the truck? Where did they park it? He has to get to a hospital. Has to get there so they can take this bullet out of his chest.

“I didn’t catch that, Swanson. Can you repeat?”

He stares at the radio. Presses the talk button.

“… shot… been shot… need… help…”

The radio falls from his hand. Swanson coughs, feels something wet come up. Everything is getting all topsy-turvy. He isn’t going to make it to the truck. He isn’t going to make it another foot. He wants to lie down, go to sleep. Swanson falls onto his face, and the universe explodes into a Technicolor panorama of agony.

Swanson moans, manages to roll off of his tortured chest and onto his back. He stares up into the night sky. Each time he inhales he wants to die. He wants, needs, to talk to Jen, to tell her he didn’t mean for it to work out this way. This isn’t the ending he planned on.

“Swanson?”

It’s not the radio. Swanson’s eyes drift to the right, land on Munchel, standing next to him.

“Jee-zus, man! You got yourself shot.” Munchel stares back at the house. “I knew she was good. Glad I only gave her three bullets.”

“Doc…tor…” Swanson wheezes.

“Hell yeah, you need a doctor. Shit, I can see blood bubbles coming out the hole in your chest. You are seriously fucked up.”

Swanson wonders why Munchel is just standing there. He should be dragging him to the truck, or shutting off the cell phone jammer and calling an ambulance.

“Hos…pit…tal…”

Munchel leans over. His face looks huge, and his expression is grim. “See, here’s the problem with hospitals, Greg. They have to report gunshot wounds. How quick do you think they’d connect a rifle slug in the chest with what happened to night in Chicago?”

“…won’t…”

“Sure they will.”

Swanson forces it out. “… won’t… tell…”

“Oh, I get it. We drop you off, and you don’t mention us at all. Even when you’re on trial for all of those dead cops that I killed. You don’t say anything at all about me or Pessolano. Is that right?”

Swanson coughs. His mouth feels hot and wet. He can’t believe Munchel wants to talk this much while he’s dying. The talk can come later. Right now he needs help.

“Do you promise you won’t rat out your buddies, Swanson? Can I get your word on that?”

Swanson thinks he nods. Or maybe he just imagines he nods. Either way, he feels himself being dragged. To the truck. To doctors. To safety.

He closes his eyes, hopes that Jen is there in the hospital when he wakes up.

Pain forces Swanson’s eyes back open. He feels like there’s an airplane parked on his chest.

It’s Munchel. He’s standing on Swanson’s rib cage.

“Can’t use a bullet,” he says. “Pessolano might hear.”

Swanson can’t draw a breath to answer. He tries to push away Munchel’s legs, but he has no strength left.

Death doesn’t come quick or easy. It’s takes close to five minutes.

Swanson feels every second.