The Ballad of Nick Delain

The silver bell chimed atop the wooden shop door, and before its jingling melody stopped Nick knew he was in trouble. A faint sulfurous smell lingered in the air tinged with copper. Two smells that in his line of work always added up to gunpowder and blood. He glanced up casually at the clerk and gave him a polite nod, only to notice more bad news. The grimy man standing behind the counter was wearing a sheepish grin so big it looked like he was trying to eat his own face. Nick turned striding down the first isle he came to acting blissfully unaware of the alarms ringing in his skull.
He looked through the dusty glass window of the small store, and across the weedy dirt lot to the motel where his car was parked. Beside it was parked a 43 Ford Coupe, the glossy black paint glistened in the light of a late October moon. He had stepped into this grungy little pump station to get away from the men driving that car. It now seemed he had kept from the frying pan, and into the fire.
His hands grabbed the first few items his eyes happened to cross; some assorted candy, a tin of hair cream, and a box of cigars. Turning slowly and carefully he made his way back to the counter and deposited his small collection upon it. The clerk began to slowly hunt and peck out the numbers on an old brass register. Apparently determined to keep up the charade no matter how long it took him to work the battered keys. Nick looked down at his shoes and saw a small pool of blood had seeped out along the dusty floorboards from underneath the counter, he was ready for this to end.
To confirm his suspicions he leaned forward feigning interest in the assorted bottles on the back wall and looked into a tilted mirror hanging there. His own reflection stared back at him with casual disinterest, showing none of the tension he was feeling. Below him on the floor beneath the counter he could see the body of the former clerk lying in a pool of congealing blood. The man behind the register looked up with a triumphant grin and said "that'll be a buck 47 mister." Nick reached in his jacket, not for his wallet, but for the grip of his nickel plated .38. He grinned inwardly at the similarity in the sound of loose shells and the clink-rattle of change in his pocket. He had just gripped the pistol when a small door to the right of the service garage popped open behind him, and a blood splattered gangly man strode out speaking to the room.
"Ok Ricky, its your turn. Don't reckon she’ll be breathing much longer, but she's still warm." The mans idiotic chuckle died in his throat as his eyes caught Nick. For an instant the three men stood frozen, actors caught between scenes of a play, then Nick pulled the trigger. He didn't have time to draw, opting instead to blow a smoking hole through his jacket pocket. The shot went high and right of its target, but still made a satisfying thwack as it collided with Ricky's head. It peeled his scalp and part of his skull back in a ragged flap, thus ending his short lived career as a late night store clerk. Nick leapt over the counter planting his knees in the dying mans chest, and riding him to the ground like a hell bound sled. He crouched bracing his back against the counter as several bullets ripped through the space he was occupying moments before.
There were a growing number of voices coming from the small garage and Nick heard the distinct sound of a shotgun breach slamming shut. Glancing up into the mirror he saw 3 more men enter the room and begin firing wildly towards his position. Glass bottles exploded above his head, and the dusty old register gave off a dying cha-ching before being blown to pieces; as hemorrhaging change and torn bills flew in every direction.
A battered old shotgun with a barrel sawed dangerously short was dislodged from under one of the counter’s shelves and landed at Nick’s feet. He grinned. Rolling onto his side he grabbed the gun more commonly known as a kneecapper. Due to the fact that any man shot with it from a dozen paces would disappear from the kneecaps up. Peering under the old store counter Nick prepared to do just the opposite. He leveled the barrel to the shins of the closest man and braced the butt against the floor. The shotgun issued a roar like that of an angry god; and the man's legs vanished in a spray of blood and bone, reducing him from six feet to a mere four.
The remaining three men scattered, ducking behind various displays along the aisles for cover. Releasing the shotgun and drawing his 38 with reflexive speed Nick glanced into the mirror above him just waiting for an opening. As two of the remaining three men begin reloading Nick leapt up like a jack in the box, fired three shots then slammed his body back to the ground. The closest man to him sprung three leaks, one on his chest, neck, and head, before toppling over a shoddy chip display. The remaining two decided to take cover behind a zippy cola cooler. "Got a big thirst? Quench it fast, with zippy Cola." Proclaimed the bright picture of a small boy in a spacesuit.
Nick glanced around his surroundings, looking for something to dislodge the remaining two pricks from there steel barricade. His eyes flashed when they lit upon a damaged goods crate stored behind the counter. Amid the cracked soda bottles and stale candy bars he found what he was looking for. Grabbing some loose shells from the floor he reloaded the kneecapper and grabbed his salvaged prize. By this time the two idiots behind the cola machine had finished reloading and had started firing wildly at the disintegrating counter. Nick fired three shots into the cooler, glass shattered and cola sprayed into the air causing both men to duck. Spinning on his heels, shotgun in one hand, torn bag of flour in the other, he lobbed the makeshift grenade towards the cooler. The bag arced gracefully through the air, small streamers of flour leaking out like smoke trails on a wounded fighter plane. Nick tracked the bags decent with the shotgun and pulled in a long breath. Just before the small sack disappeared behind the smiling face of Zippy-Boy he pulled the trigger. The effect was instantaneous and perfect. An enormous white cloud exploded in mid air startling both men causing them to inhale deeply, eyes wide with surprise. Three pounds of flour caked to their bodies, sticking in their eyes and clogging their lungs. They rose gasping and coughing for air.
Nick dropped the empty shotgun palming his 38 and pulling the trigger before the old gun even hit the ground. Both rounds he fired hit their mark and the affect was ghastly. The two men now ghostly white rose like specters from the grave. The bullet holes Nick put in their chests bloomed like a crimson rose against the purest snow. They fell back onto the floor returning to their apparent graves for good. Nick glanced at his watch as he bent down, only 4 minutes had gone by, perhaps he still had time. He grabbed the sawed shotgun and any loose shells he could find lying around. Crossing the counter in one swift movement he strode down the back isle towards the open garage door. He glanced at the grimy store window the very moment before it shattered. Two men dressed in black overcoats and tilted fedoras opened fire from the dirt parking lot, bullets sprayed wildly through the storefront.
Again Nicks body reacted before his mind and he slammed to the ground with enough force to knock the breath out from his lungs. The air was filled with a swarm of deadly buzzing lead hornets. The bullets chewed away at the shelves releasing a bouquet of exotic smells. Candy, creams, motor oil, lamp oil, all mixed together with the swelling scent of gunpowder and blood. The submachine guns roared into the small space causing his ears to thud with every shot. A bullet whined past him, and another tore at the hem of his coat. He rolled onto his back reloading his pistol, and looked up at the ceiling.
One by one he shot out the dimly glowing bulbs in the water stained ceiling, and waited, hoped, for a lull in the fire. The second gunman tried to delay firing to provide cover for a reload but their timing was slightly off. The complete silence that followed the dry click of the Thompsons empty drum was as oppressive as the reports themselves. Nick flipped forward onto his feet and slipped on the wet floor, firing his two remaining rounds at the black outlines in the fill stations parking lot. He missed. One round went high and wild, the other knocked the handle off the faded wesco gas pump. He tumbled down the dark isle sliding on broken glass and various fluids, and coming to rest against the heavily scarred zippy cola machine. He glanced at the two white corpses beside him and chuckled to himself. “Too bad I don't have anymore flour.”
Out of curiosity his eyes swiveled around the shelves and fixed on a small cluster of tins on the back wall. Several small sterno cans lay cluttered about the dusty shelf. He grabbed a handful popping the lids open, and reached into his pocket for his lighter. Lighting the tops of the little jars he started lobbing them over the isle and out the window. He felt a searing pain race up his right bicep as one of the men opened up on him. The first jar bounced off the ceiling and landed inside, the second and third sailed through the window. The two men instinctively changed their aim to intercept the small blue balls of flame sailing at them. One tin was struck and it exploded peppering the men with burning flecks of merry hell. The one on the right dropped his gun and began beating out the flaming spots on his jacket. The other held his ground barely flinching as the third can whizzed past his head and bounced off the pump beside him. The pump! The thought jerked his head around and he saw that the flaming goo was now littered on and around the gas pump. He opened his mouth to call out a warning to his partner, but was cut off by Nicks .38 firing three solid shots into the pumps glass bowl. Flames erupted from the shattered glass bowl atop the pump and coated the two men in liquid fire. They dropped their weapons and started ripping off their overcoats when Nicks final shot hit the center of the old pump. There was an ominous hissing sound from the pump, and for a split second a violet jet flame could be seen through the small bullet hole in its front, then it exploded vaporizing the two men.
Nick was slammed back against the wall of the station striking the back of his head on a shelf hard enough to make the world go dim. The rusty old pump and tin roof above it were gone. A large ball of flame quickly engulfed the store front. Time to go. He climbed shakily to his feet, body aching from dozens of cuts and bruises. Right arm dripping steadily, and the back of his head wet with blood. The front half of the store was a flaming inferno, leaving the small garage door as his only exit. He limped quickly to the grease stained doorway and once inside, slammed it shut. The room was almost completely dark except for a dimly lit bulb, and a square of flickering firelight coming through the doors cracked window. The room had a hellish red glow, shadows danced along the walls, and when Nick saw the little girl his breath left him in a painful rush. His eyes went wide, and his head spun. Before him sat a small child, perhaps 7 years old. Strawberry blonde hair, face tinged a ghostly color through the hazy red light. Nick knew she was dead, knew it, and had dreamt it every night for the past two months. He had been the one to kill her.
Two months ago to the day he had been sent on a job. Normally Nick didn't mind his work pitched against other thugs with guns. He didn’t see this as a particularly moral thing, but an ok thing. Most of the people he had to kill were trying to kill him, or were the kind of people the world was better off without. Granted he had to rough up the occasional store clerk; though he normally tried to do only superficial damage to both shop and owner. Not to say Nick was a thug with a conscience. He knew killing was wrong, but he also knew he enjoyed the thrill of the fight, the smell of gunpowder, and the cries of his enemies. He did however have his own moral code. He never laid a hand on a woman if he could help it. There had been the occasional crazy broad with a bat or butcher knife, and he didn't hesitate to defend himself, with minimal force of course. He never forced himself upon a woman. Never took more than he had to from the poorer shops in town, and he never harmed children. Never, until that day.
The job had been simple, plant a couple sticks of TNT under a crooked politicians car. Jobs like this always had a cold and impersonal feel to nick, who always preferred the face to face method. The official had taken several kickbacks and had used them to get into office, but when he got there he decided not to "play ball". So nick was sent out to place a little friendly reminder under his seat. When the guy blew up it would remind everyone else who had taken bribes from Nicks boss the outcome if they decided not to play their inning. Everything started smoothly enough.
Nick and a couple of cronies had made it to Senator Bixby's house, planted the package, and sat under cover by the edge of the grounds. Bixby routinely came out of his house at 7pm to head back to the office for some paperwork. In reality he slipped off to bang his secretary for a couple of hours on top of his desk. She had been paid to call him a half hour earlier to make sure everything would go down smoothly. What no one counted on was a fed up housewife who confronted here husband about his late night work. Who after a mildly violent fight, came storming out the front door behind him with an overnight bag in one hand, and leading her young daughter by the other.
Nick watched confused by what he saw, thinking maybe she was following him out to continue to make a fuss. As she opened the driver side door it clicked home and nick jumped to his feet. "Shit we gotta stop her." He started to run out from small group of trees they used as cover and onto the long green yard. Two pairs of hands tried to grab him but he tore free. As she climbed into the seat he began running, and when the door closed he started screaming. Neither Bixby nor his wife heard him, to busy screaming at each other, but the little girl did. She looked right into his eyes, and as the car exploded she seemed to glow with the force of the blast. Her strawberry blonde hair swirled around her face in the brilliant light, first lighting every strand, then engulfing it. Screaming loud enough to rupture his vocal cords Nick watched her die. Then thankfully the image was gone, visible for less than a second, but burned into his mind for an eternity. The blossom of flame engulfed the exploding car and mercifully obscured his vision.
He was knocked flat by the force of the blast, momentarily losing consciousness until a searing hot piece of metal landed on his face. It scorched its way into his flesh. Nicks scream was barely more than a whisper as he clawed at his face, peeling away a small silver chain and the top layer of skin. He stared at it in a state of shock as it smoked in his gloved hand. Nick was hoisted unceremoniously to his feet. One of the punks accompanying him was yelling something, but the words were blocked out by the ringing in his ears. The hand holding him pulled frantically towards the car parked on the other side of the small grove of trees. As he looked back towards the wreckage of the mangled car he saw something more horrifying than the burning chunks of flesh and twisted metal surrounding him. 30 feet from the wreckage was a small stuffed bear, stained black and smoldering slowly.
Nick would have probably went on reliving this nightmare over and over if not for another small explosion from the shop. A shower of bolts, tools, and car parts were dislodge from the shelves around him, and that's when the child moved. She turned her head slowly, eyes rolling in their sockets to meet his. Despite the heat of the flames at his back when those eyes fell upon him, he felt his blood run cold. She looked into him, through him as if he wasn't there, gaze sliding up towards the underside of the table she sat under. Nicked followed her stare and a fresh chill ran up his spine. Laying on it was the naked body of a young woman, she had been beaten, mutilated, and probably worse.
Things began to slide into place in Nicks mind and reality slowly returned to focus. He noticed the blank expression on the little girls face, and the way her hands were bound to her feet with a short length of rope. She was in shock, he didn't know how much of the terrible acts the child had witnessed. Based on the disconnected expression on her face and the drowning look in her eyes, it had been enough. It was easy enough to see what happened here. The four men had came in, gunned down the store clerk, and before robbing the place decided to have a little fun with the woman. God only knows what would have happened to the child if nick hadn't shown up. This last thought goaded his flagging muscles into action and he kneed before her pulling his boot knife. She cringed at the sight of it and the look of fear that crossed her eyes made him wish he could murder the bastards again...slowly. He gingerly cut her bonds and sheathed the knife. His voice was too shaky to raise above a whisper. "Come with me now honey. I promise I won't let anything happen to you… again." She sat there like a stone until he wrapped an arm around her and her tiny body came alive, clutching him with the grip of a drowning man. He rose, her small frame a barely noticeable weight against his chest. Mind focused he strode with a purpose towards a steel exit door at the back of the garage. He kicked it hard enough to tear it halfway off its hinges. Her small form clutched tight to him under his long black coat as he burst into the crisp night, lungs joyfully sucking in clean air.
He glanced around reflexively and noted that all was quiet. From the time he entered the store 9 minutes had passed according to his watch. His aching body claimed it was more like 3 years. A handful of onlookers had come out of the seedy motel across the street where his car was parked. Most stayed inside concerned more with their own dark secrets than with the sound of gunfire. Nicks boots crunched across the grit and gravel of the blazing stations empty lot. He limped across the endless highway as it split the barren desert from horizon to horizon. Though the first hint of a siren pierced the night like a sliver of glass, the road was empty for as far as the eye could see.
He managed to make it up the small paved walk in front of his motel room. The door had been kicked in and leaned over drunkly on one hinge. His meager possessions strewn carelessly about the room. He grabbed what few items he needed with one arm, clutched a snoring bundle in the other and headed for his car. He fired up the Fords engine but not the lights. Slowly pulling around the back of the motel and down a service road, navigating by moonlight alone. Nick parked beside the road behind an abandoned billboard advertising War Bonds. When the patrol car blew past him sirens wailing the man behind the wheel never looked his way. Easing the Ford out onto the black ribbon of road Nick drove onward toward the distended moon hanging low in the night sky. In the seat beside him the little girl slept on. Would she be his salvation or his damnation. Only the moon seemed to know for sure, and only time would tell.