Foxvalley Prologue & Chapter 1 re-edited

FOXVALLEY
Jacob Bird

May 21, 11:56pm
The Johnson farm, between Foxvalley and Guffey, Colorado

Henry Johnson heard the stories. The nearby mountain town of Foxvalley, he grew up in, might as well, have been cursed. He’d knew that over the last century Foxvalley has had more disappearances than any other small American town. Though he doubt all the disappearances had to do with the drainage of cattle he’s suffered from the last three days. He began with 43. Wednesday he awoke with 30. Thursday he found 21, yesterday he found only 11. This morning only 3 remained. Something happened, and it wasn’t quite right. The occasional missing cattle is one thing, they may have been picked off by a coyote, but 40 in only 3 days gave him a good reason to worry.

Johnson splashed the cool water all over his face in front of the light green sink of the upstairs bathroom, hoping it would bring rest to the stress of being a hardworking farmer. He glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. His red hairy beard was dotted by water droplets. He reached over to a towel rack beside the mirror, above a green toilet. Thunder roared from outside, startling him. Bright purple flashed from a small window in the wall, standing high above the bathtub. Johnson just shrugged it off, and dried the water from his face with the towel.

When he had finished he tossed the towel to the side of the sink. Johnson looked himself back in the mirror, and sighed. His neatly trimmed hair showed off the color of red, with eyes of dark brown. Sweat drenched his green plaid shirt from working on the farm all day. A rising hatred glowed inside of him. Something's been stealing cattle, his cattle, the cattle he lives off of.

Johnson reached down beside the sink, and picked up his Remington rifle. He bursted through the bathroom door into a long hallway of green walls and scarlet carpets. Lined against the green walls hung portrait after portrait of photographs of family members. He stepped down a staircase into the living room at the end of the hallway. Light flashed into the room through the windows from the storm outside. Johnson's son, a tall, skinny, red haired young man, in his twenties or so, impatiently sat on a long blue couch in front of the window. It seemed like something was egging him. "No need to worry, we'll get what ever's stealin' our cattle," he mentioned in efforts to cheer him up, but all it seemed to do is make matters worse. "C'mon Mark, if there's anything out there we'll get it. I know we will."

A skinny, blonde haired women stormed out of the kitchen into the living room in black high heels. "Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Is that all you two ever think about is what animal you're going to kill next?" She complained.

"Hey those guns help us raise our cattle, and without cattle we'd be broke living in a box under a bridge. My cattle is what makes sure we have food on our table," Johnson argued.

"We might as well live in a box, our money's constantly disappearing anyways. Do you want to know why?" She asked.

Johnson pointed at her shoes, and shouted in frustration, "Because I'm constantly buying you new Goddamn shoes!"

"No, because your always buying new guns. If we need one as bad as you say just keep one, and sell the rest?" she asked.

"The only reason why YOU want more money is to by things YOU want, so why can't I get something I want?" Johnson retorted.

The women scoffed, and snatched the keys from the wooden key hanger beside the door. She flung open the front door, and made a dead stop in the door way. "Ya know, I'll be in heaven once I get those divorce papers," she remarked, slamming the front door on her way out.

"Dad, are you and Mom really going to get a divorce?" Mark asked.

"Mark, Charlene and I have both been greatly affected by the disappearances of our cattle. The only thing is that she expresses it in a very different way than I do. Well at least you drove all the way here from Colorado city to help your old dad," Johnson explained. "Ok then, there's that, now lets go find what's been stealing our cattle. You stay up here, I'll go down into the basement to get you a gun."

Johnson stepped through a archway into the kitchen. In one of the corners of the room was a light green refrigerator was there. Next to it laid a row of blue topped counters and a pure white oven stove at the end in another corner of the room. On the opposite side of the kitchen was a single brown wooden door. Johnson opened one of the the counter drawers, and pulled a couple black flashlights out of it. He shoved the drawer shut, and advanced toward the door behind him, leading into the basement. Mark decided that he was just going to sit on the couch, and wait for his father to get back with a gun for him. Johnson twisted the door handle. The door unlatched, and slowly opened.

Johnson pushed the door open. A dark staircase stretched to the basement behind the open doorway into an eerie darkness. He flipped two switches beside the staircase. A lightbulb hanging from the ceiling above the stairs flickered on, as well as the basement ceiling lamp. Johnson stepped down the stairs, soon his boots made contact with the hard, grey cement floor of the basement. The room was a bit bland, damp and grey walls and floors, made of cement, surrounded the small cellar room.

Junk filled half of the basement, while the other was more neat and organized. The neat side, which happened to be the left side, had a second amendment gun safe in the center, and a workshop on the far side. Johnson stepped up to the safe door, he spun the heavy metal three pronged spindler on the safe door. It clicked, and he pulled the large metal open to a whole collection of guns. Guns of every size and shape, rifles, shots, pistols, even an assault gun. Johnson reached into a pistol pocket on the door, and pulled out a 10mm pistol. A clean colored barrel protruded from the, also black, handle.

Johnson reached into another pocket of the door. This time he pulled out two boxes of ammunition, one with shotgun shells, and the other with 10mm bullets. When he had finished he decided to leave the safe door open, it was most likely that it wouldn't take them too long. All they had to do is step out onto the porch and shoot the first thing they hear or see. Johnson climbed back up the staircase. He left the basement light on and the door open as he stepped by into the kitchen.

He continued through the archway into the living room with Mark, who tapped on his Samsung smart phone. Johnson handed him the pistol along with the ammunition for it. "Thank you," Mark told him, as he cocked the pistol. He stood up off the couch, shoving the ammunition into his front pant pocket. "So, are we ready then?"

"Yep, lets go kill us a cattle-napper," Johnson answered. He pulled open the front door, and held it for Mark.

"Thanks, again," he said, as stepped through the open doorway onto the deck outside. Rain plastered onto the roof above them, producing a sound of pitter patter. Johnson slammed the door shut behind him as he took a step onto the porch. Rain splattered across the dirt outside the porch, leaving brown muddy puddles of rainwater. Besides the rain, lighting, and thunder it was still a beautiful night. The crickets, for such a night, chirped as loud as can be. "I say we start off checking the cattle pen, see how they're doing," Mark suggested pointing in the direction of a nearby long silver silo.

"Good idea," Johnson agreed. They both stepped down from the deck into the mud soaked dirt. The two of them patrolled down a gravel road leading to the silo. Lighting jumped from cloud to cloud high above their heads, as if it had no idea where to strike next. A nearby bush in a dark, dense forest beside the road rustled as if something occupied it. Johnson made a immediate halt. He grabbed a hold on Mark's shoulder, and pulled him back. "What the hell was that?" Johnson asked, a bit paranoid. His eyes bulged, filled with such paranoia. He pointed his rifle at the bush waiting for another move, sound, or something to arise out of it; but nothing did, the bush had grown strangely calm. "Hmm, must've just been my imagination. C'mon, let's go," Johnson ordered. A bright flashed blinded them with a loud sound of thunder shortly thereafter.

The two of them hiked up to a tall, dark silver silo. Beside it stood three animal pens, a pig pen, cattle pen, and horse pen. As they stepped up to the pins they realized something wasn't right, yet they did not know what. Maybe, because everything was so still, or maybe too quiet, yet both of these factors made things strange. All three animals during a thunder storm would normally be panicking, running over each other, making loud obnoxious noises, and trying to escape their pens, but instead it was as if there was nothing there. "It's too quiet, something isn't right," Johnson observed, rushing up to the pig pen. He bent over the fence, and searched, but no pig squealed in sight. The mud in the bottom of the pen was tinted a strange color. Of course there was the usual brown, but this mud looked as if it contained a crimson tint in its color. Mark stepped up to the fence. He kneeled down, and picked up a handful of the reddish-brownish mud.

"Uh dad, I think this is blood," Mark guessed. Johnson too grabbed a handful of mud, he lifted it up to his nose, and sniffed it. He spilled the mud out of his hands.

"Oh, no..." Johnson said, shaking his head. He spun around, and hurried over to the cattle pin. "What the Hell?" He asked, panicky. Crimson blood smeared across the fences of the pens, and the muddied dirt floor laid drenched in gore. Shreds of meat too covered the grass, animal entrails laid out over the muddied dirt.

"What in the world?" Mark asked, he pointed behind him, not taking his eyes off from the carnage. "I'm going to go check the chicken pin."

Johnson nodded, confused. "Uh yeah, you go do that. I'm going to check the horses. I can't see anything taking them down, but their pen is awfully quiet for a thunderstorm," He agreed. Mark nodded and speed off into the dark distance. Johnson stepped up to the horse pin. He peered over the fence, not a horse stood present, not even one. He noticed long streaks of blood in the grass, and a lump in the distance. What in the world is that? He wondered. More lightening struck the ground, shortly followed by the familiar sound of thunder. Johnson hurdled over the fence into the pen. He felt the slush of an object under his boots. Looking down he saw a intestine laying out across the ground under his boots. Blood poured out of a rip in the organ's muscle, flooding up in a small puddle. The sight made Johnson sick to his stomach. Beside the storm everything still remained silent. The hair on the back of his neck began to raise, as Johnson kept glancing behind him. He could feel a pair of eyes staring him down like prey. He took a second glance behind him, but he saw nothing.

Johnson took a step toward the lump a few hundred feet ahead of him. He stopped to take another look behind him. Something out there watched him, he could feel it stalking him. He flashed his flashlight into the forest. "All right, games over, who's there?" He shouted into the forest. He raised his shotgun at the forest, aiming through the trees. Though no reply was heard, he could still feel the presence of something. It felt as if something or someone in the woods hunted him, ready to pounce and leave nothing but pieces of flesh and organs scattered around the pen with the horses.

Johnson continued toward the lump in the grass up ahead. A horrid scent filled his nostrils, like the smell of a skunk, or a dead animal. At ten feet away, he knew what it was, terror turned his blood to ice. Laying in the grass before him was the limb of one of his horses. Blood from the poor horse blanketed the limb lying in the mud directly in front of him. Johnson took a closer look a the edge of the limb, to him it looked like it had somehow, in someway had been sliced off. A horse about the size of a man had the rest of it body sliced off, by something sharp. Shaper than anything he'd seen before.

"Hey Dad!" He heard Mark shout from the outside of the pen. "What's that?" He asked. Johnson stood up and stepped away from the limb that lied in the blood soaked dirt. He treaded through the grass up to the wooden fence, about to hurl. He hurdled back over it onto the other side with his son. "So what's that in there?" Mark asked again.

"Uh, nothing really. How's the chickens?" Johnson asked, changing the subject. He knew what hid in the darkness out there in the grass would only strengthen the freight they had already conceived. They had to remain calm, if there was something out there beyond their power it doesn't mean panicking will make things any better.

Mark shrugged and said, "I don't know, it's a mystery. It appears they were all in the hen house when something landed on top of it. The building’s leveled, and only five of the chickens are dead inside. The others disappeared just as everything else did," he explained, "What the Hell could've done something like this?"

"I don't know, c'mon we should get back. Maybe call the Police to see what they might be able to do about it," Johnson told them as they hiked slowly along the forest edge, on the gravel road they used to get there. Another sound arose from the dark forest. Johnson pointed his rifle through the trees. He started to take a few steps closer before he tripped into a two-foot-deep hole. "Whoa!" Johnson cried as he slipped on the mud and tumbled down, face planting into the base of the hole. Mark stood from above looking down at him.

"Dad, are you alright?" He asked. Johnson stood back up, mud covering his overalls. He glanced back up at Mark and nodded. He glanced around the hole, it had a depth of about two feet deep and a length of about five feet in diameter.

"How long has this hole been here? I don't remember even seeing it this morning," He asked. Mark knelt down, and held out his hand to help him up. Johnson grabbed onto it as Mark hurled him up out of him the hold. He almost fell back, trying to catch his breath. He glanced back down into the mysterious hole. He'd never seen anything like it. Johnson caught his footing, and stood up off the ground. He examined around the hole. Then he noticed something, something peculiar. At least a foot ahead of the hole rested four smaller holes, and the giant hole was shaped like an upside down U. "This isn't no normal hole," Johnson explained. Mark glanced up at him, confused.

"What do you mean?" Mark asked.

"I don't even understand it, but to me it looks like someone's tryin' to pull a prank on us. This hole is shaped as if it’s supposed to resemble some sort of footprint of an animal, like a dog or cat more likely," Johnson explained. Mark glance up from the massive hole, and noticed his father was right. He was still quite skeptical.

"Okay then there's five holes, what do you think it was? A over grown pussy cat or the big bad wolf?" He asked. Johnson started to get a bit offended. He never said it was anything, only that it look like a massive paw print. There was a bright flash followed by the growl of thunder. The ground shifted from under them. Mark grabbed ahold of a nearby tree. Johnson slipped on another mud puddle tumbling back down into the hole. Mark let go of the tree. That lightning must've been close of it shook the ground. He hurled Johnson back up again. "That could've hit us, I think we should..." Mark was interrupted by the shake of the earth under his feet. This time was no lightning nor thunder, a tree must've tumbled over or something. They both felt a feeling pour over them, like something was stalking them. They both glanced into the forest."Okay... yeah, we should go," Mark insisted. Johnson didn't hesitate, dashing for a silver
Chevy truck behind them. He stumbled into the front seat, slamming the door closed shortly thereafter. Mark leaped over the ledge of the truck's back bin.

Johnson shoved the car key into the ignition, and the engine turned over, rumbling loud. He shoved his foot on the gas pedal, slamming it against the floor of the truck. The Chevy drove it over a jack, popping the tire. "Damnit!" He shouted in frustration. Mark knocked on the back window. Johnson slipped it to the side. "What is it?" He asked. The ground shook again, the only lightning was at least three miles away. A tree from the forest made loud snaps, only to soon tumble over onto the gravel road.

"What the heck's going on?" Mark asked.

"Huh, you expect me to know. The only thing I know is that you'd better hold on," He ordered. Shifting the truck in drive, and slamming on the gas pedal again. The truck sped off leaving a mist of dust behind. Johnson dodged around the tree lying on the road, and made in the nick off time as another tree tumbled to the ground just inches from the back bumper of the truck. Just ahead of Johnson through the windshield he could see the house. He pressed down the brakes, and noticed why a jack was under it in the first place.

"The brakes are too worn! We're gonna to have to do this another way, hang on to something back there. Brace yourself!" He warned. Johnson ran the truck right through the wall of the house. Wooden shards, glass, and furniture was flying everywhere. Mark was sent flying across the room, and slammed into the couch, tipping it over. He rolled off the back cushions of the couch, and rolled into a wooden end table behind him. The truck tipped over and came to a stop. Mark touched an aching pain on his forehead. He felt a warm wet sticky liquid. A strip of scarlet red rolled down his forehead. It must've been hit by a shard of glass.

"Dad are you alright?" Mark asked, taking a step toward the truck. He heard the sound of class crumbling under his Nike shoes. He looked through the back window of the truck to see Johnson holding his rifle.

"Stand back," he ordered. Mark took a step back. Johnson began smashing through the back windows with the butt of his rifle, one of which smashed on impact. He crawl out, a cut on his forehead was leaking red crimson blood. He had a larger nastier cut in his knee. Johnson held onto it as he limbed, he sat down an the green, glass-covered armchair. His pant leg was slit and pumping out blood, streaks of crimson slid down his leg. Johnson held onto it turning his hand dark red. "Aargh... go up stairs... and get the First aid kit," He ordered. Mark nodded, and sprinted up the flight of stairs into a small upstairs bathroom. He opened a covered under the sink. The ground made another terrifying jolt from under him. The light embedded in the ceiling above him blinked a couple times. Mark stumbled back for moment. He snatched the first aid kit from under the sink, and took off back downstairs.

Johnson still sat on the armchair, blood pouring onto the armchair cushions. Mark handed his father the kit. The ground shook from under them again. A ceiling lamp hanging in the kitchen from the ceiling shook. It was getting worse with each time the earth shook. Mark had to find out what it was. "I'm going out to see what's going on," he informed. Johnson glanced up at him while strapping a bandage around his knee.

"Now wait a minute. I'm going, you stay here," John grabbed onto the end table. He struggled standing up, legs wobbling out from under him. He bent back down to pick up his rifle. "You stay here..." he ordered, snatching up the rifle. "I’ll go out, if I'm not back in fifteen minutes call the police department. Got it?" He asked, Mark nodded. "Good, I'll be back or should be anyways," he said, limping toward the front door. Mark opened the door for him. "Thanks."

"Are you sure?" Mark asked.

Johnson nodded, and said, "It's my farm not yours," he limped out of the door, and Mark slid it shut behind him. He glanced through the hole in the wall at Johnson. He limped up to the forest edge, and peered inside. Johnson glanced back at the house. He saw Mark standing near the hole, and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he continued back toward the deep forest. Mark watched him through the hole as he disappeared into the dense trees. Something told him that would be the last time he’d see his father.

Everything drew peaceful. Not even a cricket made a single chirp. The pattering rain had appeared to have ceased . Everything was so still. No wind, no sound, no life. Mark trudged through at the splinters and glass. It crunched from under his shoes. Mark trudge up to the couch, and tipped it back over the right way. He plopped down on the couch, sighed, and yanked out his phone, ready to call the police if needed. A long crack shredded through the screen of the phone. He pressed down on a long button on the side, and the letters, "Samsung" appeared on the screen.

Panic began to dawn on him as soon as he noticed his phone had no cell reception, nor did he have any bars at all. The kitchen light hanging from the ceiling flickered as the Earth shook again. Mark felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. The sound of gunshot broke through the silence, there was another, and another. He thought he heard shouting in the distance. It could have been his father, what if there really is something out there? What if it killed his father? What would he do? Just sit and wait for him to get back, call the police, or go out and find out if he was still alive out there.

Mark stood up off of the couch. He darted to the telephone hanging from the kitchen wall. The phone had fallen out of place, and hung from a wire. Panicked, he dialed in 9-1-1. "This is Foxvalley police, please state the nature of your emergency," a female operator on the opposite end ordered politely.

"Uh, there's something outside. I think I may have just killed my father. Um, Henry Johnson. Please, I don't think I'm safe. Please send someone right away!" He panicked.

"Well, sir please calm down. Sorry about your father, but right now we need to worry about your life. Got it?" She asked. Mark calmed down, but didn't say anything. "Okay good, now do you know where you are?"

"Uh yeah, highway 9 between Foxvalley and Guffey, the Johnson farm," he answered.

"Okay, just stay put. We will send someone there to help you in a moment," she explained. There was click as she hung up the phone. Mark hung the phone back up on the wall. He stared at the phone, wide eyed. That was something he could never find himself saying. The kitchen ceiling lamp snapped, and shattered all across the floor of the room. Mark stumbled out of the room while the lamp made its way to the tiled floor. Glass scattered across the floor on impact. The lights flickered again as the Earth made another violent shake. Mark bolted upstairs. He flung open the second door on the left in the hallway leading into his father’s bedroom. He sped up to a window directly across the door on the opposite wall, he pushed the curtains out of the way. Mark opened the window, and peered out. A cool breeze leaked into the room around him.

The sound of police sirens approached in the distance. Magnificent red and blue light flashed through the trees along State Road 9 up ahead. Through the dense trees the police patrol SUV appeared. It made a right turn at an intersection ignoring the stop sign, coming to Mark's rescue. The SUV was a 2009 Ford Escape. A thick long blue line stretched across both sides of the car. In the center of the line in bold white italic letters it read, "Foxvalley Police," Above it in smaller back bold letters it read, "To protect and serve." The car pulled over in front of the farm house with a hole in the wall. It’s headlight lit the gravel driveway that led deeper into towards the devastated animal pens. The bar lights above the car still flashed as the drivers side door flipped open. A deputy in a light brown uniform stood up out of his seat. He pulled a black flashlight from his belt. He flashed it on, and glanced around.

Mark was up in the upstairs window watching him. The lights in the house began flickering and went dead. The deputy flashed his flashlight up at a telephone pole. Telephone wires hung down from the pole. Something had snapped them. The deputy heard rustling coming from the forest. He pointed the flashlight toward the sound, placing his hand over his pistol holster. A coyote rustled out of the dense woods. It glanced at the deputy, the glare of the flashlight reflected in its eyes. Then it fled off down the gravel road. The coyote began yelping loud. The deputy flashed the flashlight in the direction of the yelping. On the gravel road before him was a trail of red blood leading into the forest. Terrified the deputy yanked out his pistol.

Mark stared out of the window at the man as he took a step into the woods. Then the deputy backed out of the forest. The flashlight Mark held onto rolled out of his hand, smacking down on the ground. The sound of a gun blasted from outside. He bent over to pick up his fallen flashlight, when he stood back up he directed it back out the window no one was there.

The beam of light illuminating from the flashlight flickered, and died out. Mark squinted back out the window, then he saw the stain of blood where the deputy once stood. Terrified, Mark dropped the flashlight again. This time he didn't even think about picking it up. He just sped off, out of the room down the stairs, into the basement. Mark rushed up to his deceased fathers gun safe. There he found a lantern of plenty fuel. He lit it, and it gave off just enough light he could see the guns in front of him. He grabbed a old Winchester rifle along with a some ammunition, and another flashlight he found.

Mark stepped back into the living room with the rifle in hands, but still managing to carry his flashlight. How do I do this? He asked himself. The power's out, no cell reception, how am I going to make contact? An idea began to sprout in his head, the car radio, yes that's it the car radio MUST work!

He snuck outside, waving his rifle around. Ready to blast the head off of anything that moved. A puddle of blood is all that remained of the deputy he had seen only a minute earlier, his pistol rested in the gravel beside it. Blood dotted the handle of the Glock, a single bullet was missing from the pistol. Mark spent no more time, he charged into the car. He flopped in on the driver’s seat, forgetting to close the door behind him.

He snatched the walkie-talkie from the radio, and began flipping through the varies channels. "Hello is anyone there?" Flip, "Uh this is Mark Johnson from the Johnson farm, I need help. An officer out here is..." A piercing pain shot through his leg, as if something sharp had sliced into it like a knife. He was dragged out of the car. The walkie-talkie slipped from his hand, and dangled from the SUV radio. A cop on the other side heard him, and was trying to contact him.

"Hello, Mark, just stay calm. Someone will..." Before he could finish the sound of Mark screaming interrupted him. Then it grew silent. The sound of the wind in the trees resumed, and the crickets started their chirping once again... "Mark, Mark, hello Mark pick up..."

CHAPTER 1- SHOTS FIRED

May 17, 1:36 P.M.
New York City, New York

Something occupied the three story abandoned factory on the sea side of Manhattan. On most occasion it was a relatively quiet place. Hardly a single voice was heard, nor vehicle. The only sound was the soothing sound of the vibrant blue ocean waves splashing up onto the coast behind the great red brick factory. Walls two stories up had large clusters of smaller squared window panes. Dozens of holes and deep cracks embedded into the windows. Some of the windows is were even completely shattered leaving only sharp glass fragments sticking out of the wall, waiting to sink through the flesh of curious birds. A black SUV made a quiet stop, along with a black S.W.A.T. truck behind it. The motor ran softly.

The passenger side door of the black SUV swung open. A man stood up out the car, he was a little over six feet tall. He started down in his appearance in the door rear-view mirror. He He brushed his hand through his silky dark brown hair. His dark-green eyes stared, piercingly from the mirror towards the decade old abandon factory. He straitened the black tie that stretched around him neck between an open space in his black overcoat. He let it rest down on his white button-up shirt. The black of his overcoat matched the color of his dress pants. A man with similar apparel sat in the car. He leaned towards the open door. "Are you sure this is the place Higgins? I mean it looks like no ones been here in a thousand years, yet alone a master criminal," The man outside the car asked to the one sitting in the SUV.

"According to our tracking systems this is the place," Higgins answered. "Even if he is in here, make sure you don't kill him, Budsworth. Where all ready in enough trouble from you shooting the last one in the face."

The man standing outside the SUV, Budsworth, shrugged, “He’s the one who pointed the gun at me.”

“You shot him even after I grabbed his gun.”

“He had another one on him. It was self defense!” Budsworth argued, annoyance growing inside him.

“That was a empty. You know what, just don’t kill him, got it?” Higgins asked. Budsworth nodded and let out a sigh. How could’ve he had known at the time it was out of ammunition. It was in his pocket and he was going for it. He stepped up to the S.W.A.T. Truck behind them.

The window of the passenger side door rolled down. A S.W.A.T team member sitting in the front side, tilted his head out the window, watching Budsworth. "Is this the place, agent Budsworth?" He asked. Budsworth nodded, again. The door of both sides of the carpool swung open. Both of the S.W.A.T. team members rushed to the back of the truck. They opened the back trailer door, and a flood of other S.W.A.T. members busted out. All carried assault rifles longer that the length of their entire arm span. Black helmets laid atop their heads. A bullet proof vest that labeled, “S.W.A.T,” on the back in bold white letters covered each of their chests. All the S.W.A.T. team members hustled up to the front door of the factory. Two carried a hundred pound battering ram to the door. "Three, two, one, go!" One of them shouted, counting down from three to one with their black gloved hand. The two with the battering ram slammed the circular front end of the ram into the door. The lock busted, and the door bursted open!

They all flooded the building in multiple directions, aiming their assault rifles at everything in the building, they marched through the first floor searching every part of it. Budsworth looked around for clues leading to where the man could be. Dirt markings covered the concrete floor in the shape of a foot print. Budsworth followed them to a metal staircase leading up to the second floor.

Budsworth opened his holster, and drew out his black Glock pistol. He quietly shuffled up the staircase. Taking it one, slow cautious step at a time. He climbed up onto the second floor, aiming his pistol out in front of him. The floor corroded under each step from old age.

Budsworth stood up, his back against the wall. Beside him was the entrance to a room of sorts. He peaked out from behind the wall. He couldn't see anyone inside. In the dead center of the room wall sat a window. Light casted in as a single golden beam hitting the corroded wooden floor. He twirled out from the safety of the wall. Aimed his gun around the room... still nothing.

Budsworth continued swiftly down the hall towards the next doorway into another room. He peeked into the room. The criminal wasn't in here, but someone else was. “Oh my God,” his pistol lower. The sight he had seen in there was much worse. There stood a woman chained to a brick wall behind her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She quietly sobbed. Budsworth hurried up towards her. She Glanced up at him, "Please, please help me," she sobbed. Black streaks of makeup stretch down her face. The sight made Budsworth stomach tighten. Who the hell would do this? No one could ever deserve such a think

"It’s okay, it's alright. We'll get you out of here," Budsworth explained. Then he heard the sound of a creaking floor board erode from behind him.

"She's not going anywhere," A deep voice growled behind him. Budsworth spun around, aiming his pistol at the man. The man shot off a shotgun, making a deafening booming sound. The bullets tore through Budsworth's leg. Shredding his muscles, slicing through his blood veins. He toppled to the ground in pain. Budsworth held his hand over the bullet wounds in his leg. Blood was gushing out, filling up in a scarlet puddle under his leg. The woman, dropped to her knees crying. The man stepped up to her. He grabbed her hair and yanked it up. "Listen women, you put this on yourself. Your the one who didn't love me enough," He scowled. He let go of her hair, and her head dropped. Budsworth, despite the painful stinging escalating through his leg, crawled towards his pistol he had dropped to the ground when he had been shot.

The man saw him crawling across the floor, painting the wooden floor red behind him. "HEY!" He shouted. He stomped over, and slammed his foot into Budsworth's chest. All the air rushed out of his lungs, and he rolled over, coughing blood out of his mouth. The man pointed down at Budsworth. "Did I tell you to move!" He shouted. The man glanced down at a object beside his his leather boots.

“Well, well, well,” He said as he picked it up. It was Budsworth's pistol. “So, your tryin’ to be a hero, is that it?” The man asked, as he cocked Budsworth's pistol. He aimed it down at Budsworth's head. “If you ask me, there's no room left in this world fo’ heroes.”

“You not going to get away with this bastard,” Budsworth rasped.

“Oh, I already have,” The man said, with a wicked grin stretching across his face. Then they both heard the bumping of someone racing down the hall. Higgins bursted into the room, pointing his pistol at the man. In surprise the man dropped Budsworth's pistol onto the concrete floor.

“Darrel,” He growled, narrowing his eyes at him. They both aimed their guns at each other. Budsworth reached out across the wooden floor toward his pistol, using his other hand to drag him self towards it. He left a streak of dark red blood on the floor behind him. Finally he got his hand on the pistol, and picked it up in the palm of his blood drenched right hand. Trying to be as steady as he can, Budsworth aimed up at the back of the man's head. He inhaled. He could feel his own heart slowly beating in his chest. It felt as if time had stopped or at least slowed down. The voices of the man and Higgins drowned away. The only sound was the loud beat of his own beating heart. Budsworth stared down the pistol's sights, aiming at the back of the man's head. Then he saw a bright orange flash. A shotgun shell tumbled to the wooden floor board.

Higgins toppled to the ground, blood pouring out of his chest. “No! You son of a bitch!” Budsworth pulled the trigger of his pistol. Bright flames flashed out of the barrel of the pistol, as a copper bullet slipped out of the barrel of the pistol. It bashed into the back of the man's head, tearing through his skin into the back of his throat, out his screaming mouth. The man's body thudded onto the ground. The bullet nailed into the wall, covered in blood. Budsworth saw the various beams of light from the S.W.A.T. team's flashlights down the hall.

They all stumbled in. One of them, a blonde-haired women kneeled down on Higgins limp body. She held their fingers on his neck to determine his pulse. She looked up at another team member, frowned and shook her head, and she gently closed Higgins eyelids. Another team member busted open the woman’s handcuffs.

Another S.W.A.T. team member stepped up to Budsworth. He placed two fingers over Budsworth's pulse in his neck. The S.W.A.T. team member shouted something to the others, two more team members rushed to Budsworth's side, one of them being the blonde-haired women. They all picked him up, and carried him out of the room. Budsworth's eyes slowly slid closed. Everything went black…

~ ~ ~

May 22, 3:38 P.M.
New York Memorial Hospital

It felt like a drum was beating in his head, yet even through the pain David Budsworth could tell he was in good hands. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to tell that the rhythmic beeping protruded from heart machine beside him, recording his heartbeat. The scent of the cleanness of a hospital room traveled into his nose. The thumping of the shoes down the hall told him his doctor visitation would’ve been likely to occur very soon. Budsworth finally opened his eyes to the bright lights of the hospital room in the New York Memorial Hospital. It felt as if the light fried his eyes, but somehow he knew everything was okay.

He heard the door into his room open. A tall man in a clean white doctor’s suit stepped into the room. He had a head of bald that reflected the lights embedded into the ceiling. Hanging from his coat was a identification card that showed off his name, “Doctor Gregory Dreamer.” The Doctor flipped open a clipboard he held in his hand. Budsworth’s gaze drifted from up to the white ceiling. “Let me guess,” he grunted, “I was shot in the leg, I’m lucky to be alive, and to take it easy next time.” Budsworth couldn’t count all the times he had been put in the hospital by a simple gunshot wound. He’s been through this process so many times he knew what that doctor would say the moment he’d lift his head from his clipboard.

“Are you finally coming to your senses? That you’re getting in the hospital so much that you know what I’m going to say next?” Dreamer asked, a smirk stretched across his face. Budsworth shook his head.

“Nah, it’s more like the doctor bills running me dry every week.” He let out a small laugh. “Besides that the stitches in my leg make it obvious. So doc,” Budsworth rested his back up against his pillow. “What’re you going to do, tell me not to pursue dangerous criminals?” Ha asked.

“Well, first off, take a break. At least work on a case you won’t be shot at. What I’m saying is just try to be less like...” Dreamer searched for what word to say, but all that came out was a, “yourself.” They both turned to the door into the room, immediately, as they heard the approaching foot steps down the hall.

A taller man in a black suit, similar to the one Budsworth wore, stepped in through the open door. He stood in the doorway. He had neatly trimmed hair without any facial hair. His eyes was blocked by the eyeglasses he wore. Hanging from the right side of his suit was a access card with a picture of his face. Under it read, "FBI" in large blue letters. The man stepped up beside the bed, he had a Manila folder in his right hand. "Budsworth, you're one lucky SOB, you know that?" He joked.

"As so I've heard," Budsworth answered, looking at Dr. Dreamer. "Now please don't tell me you came here to give me another assignment right after my last one nearly killed me."

"Well I won't force it on you if you don't what to do it," The man told him, “you’ve been through a lot, so if you want a break I can give you that as well. I just thought I’d give you a case you’re better at. It’s a missing persons case.”

Budsworth shook his head, "Naw it's fine. Don’t take pity on me. Just let me see the file," He said. The man handed him the Manila folder.

"Just about three nights ago a father and his son disappeared. The Police in the nearby town of Foxvalley had gotten a call by the son, 21-year-old Mark Johnson, currently a college student in Colorado Springs. The neighbors, not too far down the road, heard gunshots that night. The mother was out for the night, so they were by themselves. The Foxvalley Police Force sent one of their deputies to that location, and he had also disappeared in the same night. A police officer from Canon City supposedly heard Mike on the radio before his disappearance, stating that the deputy was dead, and so was his father. Not one of them have been found yet. The Sheriff was so stumped he called us for help. I thought it would be more of your kind of case."

Budsworth nodded, "I'll get to it when I'm feeling better. Oh, and what about agent Higgins?"

The man sighed, "His burial is at noon tomorrow. NewLand Cemetery, if you want to come. We hope you'll be there, being that he was your partner and all."

"Oh yeah, I'll be there. Don't worry about that. What about Darrel Kimball?"

"Dead, his family swears they had now idea, and now plan to cremate him. He was shot by you before you passed out from a loss of blood. You was carried out by the S.W.A.T. An ambulance took you to the hospital immediately."

"How long have I been out."

"About five days."

"Five days, Jesus," Budsworth said. The man's phone rang, he reached
into the pocket of his suit, and pulled out his cell phone.

"Hello?" He asked as soon as he answered his cell. An confused expression crossed his face. "Okay, yeah, I’ll be there." The man hung up his cell and shoved it back into his suit."That was director Howard. I guess there was some sort of mauling on the A.T.. He's sending me out there to make sure that's what it really is, there’s been a lot of talk of a serial killer on the trail. See you tomorrow," The man explained. He spun around and rushed out through the open door of Budsworth's room. Doctor Dreamer was still standing in the corner. Holding the clipboard in his hands, flipping through the pages. He tossed it aside onto a white counter, and stepped up beside Budsworth.

"So how do you feel?" The dreamer asked.

"Not the best, but the not the worst either."

"Do you feel any pain?"

"It's not too bad."

Dreamer hovered his hand over Budsworth's leg, and pressed down on where the bullet had entered through. Budsworth felt a sharp pain in his leg. He bit down on his teeth the best he could as he almost yelled out in pain. He bit onto his lip so hard that his slit his teeth through his bottom lip. He could feel warm sticky liquid seep out from under his teeth. "Does that hurt?" Dreamer asked.

"Yeah," Budsworth rasped. Dreamer quickly release the pressure. "Do you think I'll be able to walk?"

Dreamer nodded and answered, "Oh yeah, just give it maybe two to three days. All we had to do it is tear it open to retrieve the bullet, then we just stitched it back closed. I also have some prescription pain killers for you too. You may need to use crutches." Dreamer stepped up to a pair of crutches beside the door, and handed them to him. "These should do."

Budsworth grabbed ahold of them. He lifted himself up on the bed. Doctor Dreamer took a couple steps back. Budsworth jabbed the rubber feet of the crutches onto the ground, and pushed up on them in effort to stand himself up. He had a cast wrapped on his leg. Pink dried blood painted the cast.. Along with long pink streaks traveling down along his skin. "So, how does it feel?" Dreamer asked.

"I've been better. How long will I have to use these Doc?" Budsworth asked.

"Well I'm going to give you a test. If you are able to travel the whole ICU area with the crutches within an hour you'll be ready to leave. Then I’ll take you on a second test to travel the whole ICU area again without the crutches. If you can walk it without crutches, then you'll return home crutches free. If you can't walk without falling you'll be heading home with the
crutches. Got it?" Doctor Dreamer asked. Budsworth nodded an agreement. "Alright, let’s get started then."

They both took a step out in the hallway. Above them a black digital clock box read, "4:17" in bold red illuminated numbers. The light coming from outside the hospital windows darkened the sky as dark clouds flooded the atmosphere. Casting shadows upon the earth Budsworth heard the pitter patter of rain tinkling on the roof. The windows where almost immediately washed down as a wave of rainwater rolled down the windows within twinkling streams. A loud crash of thunder erupted from outside. A bright blinding flash ejected through the window.

Budsworth returned to his stroll, stared down at the white tiled floor. He would sometimes have terrifying flashbacks of the factory. Blood oozing across the floor as he spent his last few breaths to shoot the killer with his pistol. A smile edged across his face would he thought of his nemesis who had shot him, tumbling to the floor crying in agony. At least he thought the man cried in agony. He wanted the man to feel the pain he'd put upon those women. Within another twenty minutes, he had returned to the doorway of his room. The doctor was almost impressed. He took the crunches from Budsworth's hands. "Okay now we will try to walk without the crunches," He explained, pulling the crutches out from under both of his arms and the cast covering his leg. Pain stabbed through Budsworth's leg. His hand shot out and slammed into the wall to hold himself up off the floor.

Dr. Dreamer held onto to his shoulder in efforts to keep him balanced up on his two legs. "You good?" He asked. The only answer Budsworth gave him a quick nod. Budsworth put on his weight on his feet, and held him self off from the floor.

Budsworth glanced over at the doctor to his side. He gave him a brief nod, and said, "Okay, I'm ready. It’s just been five days since I’ve walked. Gotta get used to it, you know?"

Dreamer nodded, "Good, I'll be right here if you fall. You need to take baby steps. It'll help you get used to walking, since you haven't done it for about a whole week," he explained. Budsworth took his advice and made one small step after another down the hall. Dreamer stood directly behind him to catch him in case he ever fell back. Budsworth limped around a corner of an intersection of three hallways of white walls and white sky blue tiled floors. He limped up to an open door. Inside stood a medical cot. Blood stretched down over the sides of the bed down to the floor. On top of the bed a blue thin tarp covered what appeared to be a body. In the chest area of the blanket the fabric was sinking through red blood. Is that Higgins? He wondered. Budsworth limped into the room.

Dreamer gave him a strange look from behind. Budsworth’s gaze glued to the bloody dead body on the medical cot in the room. "Is that David Higgins?" He asked, taking a step up to the occupied medical cot. Dreamer took a step in behind him. Looking down at the bed as well. "Well?" Budsworth asked, his eyes clouded in sorrow as well as rage and hatred.

Dreamer's eyes lifted from the tarp covered body to him. He gave a little slight nod. Budsworth took a few steps closer to the end of the bed. He reached down and picked up a clipboard hanging from the end rail of the bed. It read:

Patient: David Avery Higgins
Age: 32
Occupation: special agent
Injuries: bullet wound to the heart.
Notes: tried to revive, but patient died only moments after surgery started. Bullet wound in the heart resulted in death.

Budsworth leaned against the end of the bed. Tears swelled out of his eyes, and rolled down his cheek. "That stupid piece of shit!" he rammed his curled fist into a try of tools and flipped it over. Surgical tool flew across the room, landing with a clatter. Dr. Dreamer grabbed ahold of his shoulders.

"David calm down! Get a hold of yourself," He ordered. Budsworth took a step back, and took a deep breath. "Listen, the funeral is tomorrow. Go there, and pay your respects. It's all you can do for him anymore."

"Okay," Budsworth sighed, glancing at his friend's dead body.