Part 8: Laughter

November 20th 2008

To Whom It May Concern:

It's been a full week since the last installment of Silhouette. That's because I wanted the new changes to have time to sink in with the audience. Last notes comments were pretty funny. For the record drunk commenting is allowed but it is frowned upon lol but thank you Loves. Shout out to Kylie P. who I promised would have a shout out in this note lol. Um yeah so we're at an interesting place in our story, we are following Det George Thomas and his Cowboy-esque partner. I've recently been given a lot of creative inspiration from the new 88 keys album the death of Adam, to the new James Bond: Quantum Solace (thanks box) to some interesting conversations that people have been engaging me in. I hope that people are able to follow on, and I appreciate those who are not afraid to hold my writing to a high standard of expectancy and quality, and ultimately entertainment.


So without any further ado I present Silhouette:

The street they turn onto to head back toward the fire is dark accept from the light from the burning building. They drive slow. Empty cars line the street. The firelight blinds the moon and glares off of the buildings around.The road seems more like an alley than a street but is still two way.They eye a man and a woman walking fast and looking back frequently.

"Look at this," Detective Thomas motions to the jogging couple in the formal attire track suits.

"Haha hot date..."

The small burst of light in front of them draws their attention. Three shots rang out flying passed the car from the dark toward the couple. The two detectives jump ducking lower than the dashboard. George lets out a high pitched yelp.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Shots fire from all direction.

"What the Hell!" Detective Thomas yells, as he watches his partner hops out the car instinctively.

"Just like the old days!" he yells as he ducks behind the door for cover. George stays in the car but reluctantly puts it in park.

"Not like the old days..." he whispers to him from across the front seat. They can hear the sirens low hum in the background as fire trucks start to come calm the blazing skyscraper. The fire spreads onto other floors. For a moment it seems as if they're alone.

"Nathan ...stay in the car! Wait...fuck...", George looks up as more shots lodge into the windshield above him. He tries to watch where Nathan is going.

Nathan posts up behind one of the park cars along the passenger's side of the road. He peeks up and sees the gunman, he is about a half a block away. He shoots.

"Shit, this motherfucker is shooting at us! Back me up!" Nathan yells. He moves down toward the gunman. No wonder that couple was running, he thinks as he creeps along side the road. He looks around for others. He peaks into side mirrors of the car to check behind him. He looks up into the windows of the high rises around him. First a fire, in the middle of the city, and now a gunman shooting in public, I don't know what to expect, he thinks.

"Hahahaha," a hearty sound comes from the other side of the parked cars.

"Nathan," he tries to shout and whisper,"get back in the car lets call for back up." He fiddles with the radio for the dispatcher. His hands shake like a man with Parkinson. Get a hold of yourself old man, he coaxes himself.

Footsteps and gun shots fill the sky. George hears Nathan yell "Chicago PD!". He peaks up and catches a glimpse of the man with the white leather gloves. The gloves shine brightly in contrast with the mans full black attire.

George hops out of the car. He feels the old familiar ache in his lower back. His door is so close to the other side of the road he can't squeeze passed the door. He opts not to close and uses it for cover. He looks around. He can see Nathan but he can't see the shooter. I need a better angle, crosses his mind as the pain in his back screams. He crouches again, gasping in pain.

Four gun shots rang out. They find their rest in brick walls and shattered glass store fronts.

"Nathan!" he yells to his partner.

His life is at 100 mph. He hunches low against the door to the back seat of the four door impala. He inches toward the trunk. The street is so tight, the parked cars create a small metal hallway. He pops up above the trunk, gun drawn.

Bang Bang Bang! He hears the sound of the holes forming in the truck. The thud sounds like small hammers against piping and smell of smoke and burning metal. He feels the cold sweat falling down his face. It's cold enough to see your breath.

He ducks down again. His heart pounding. Deep breath, he thinks, deep breath. He peeks around the side of the trunk.

Bang!

This time the bullet whizzes by him as he pulls back a fraction of a second in time. He sees the tire on the Honda Civic parked next to him slowly deflate. The hissing sound fills the night air. He fumbles for his radio.

"Hahahahaha!"

He hears laughter. It's deep and full. A sinister laugh that you hear in the movies, but more comfortable than a dirty uncle at a Thanksgiving table. The shooter was laughing at him! He feels the anger filling in his chest.

"Nathan!" he tries to say louder this time. It is so dark.

The laughter stops, and then the street is an echo of footsteps. The Footsteps turn into a run. He looks up and sees their assailant heading toward the corner in a full sprint. He fires at the space between the flashing white gloves, as the man runs away. He starts to take off down the street.

"George," he hears his name gasped. He turns and sees the sparkle of the crimson field dripping under neath the parked cars like spilled oil. In the midst his partner lays slumped his head rested against the front tire. His legs bent and crooked under the car adjacent him. He convulses and spits. His movements are sharp breaths and rolling eyes.

"Oh shit, Nathan! Jesus fucking Christ!" He rushes back towards the car and slides into a kneel beside his wounded partner. He looks at the cowboy who lost the draw. Just another day in the wild west?

"Some fire...?" he coughs blood as he thrashes about.

"We got to get you to the hospital, you're going into shock." Detective Thomas fumbles in his pocket to find his radio:10-108...10-108! Officer down!...Officer down! Suspect is a white male in a trench coat with white leather gloves, no facial ID, I repeat no facial ID! Suspect is armed and dangerous!"

No response.

"Take my hand...." Nathan, the cowboy detective, reaches feebly.

Shots can be heard coming from around the corner where the white gloved man just ran. George tries not to be distracted but the sound makes his hair stand on end.

"Sshh! Don't talk, save your energy buddy, it's going to be alright. Stupid!" he fumbles with his coat to try to press it against his chest to stop the bleeding. He adjusts his legs a bit." Why did you get out the car, I told you to stay in the car!" he tries to look anywhere but in Nathan's eyes. His world slows as the kiss of death hovers above.

More shots come from around the corner.

"I told you....I...had....a ...a...hunch..ssshhh," Detective Nathan Ramone gasps out his final breath of air, he looks out to the world, eyes glazed, as his head falls limply into George's lap; lifeless. George clutches his buddies head to his stomach. He presses the right button on the radio to speak, he presses the plastic to his lips. His breaths come in short bursts.

"Nathan!" tears well up in his eyes, "Nathan," he shakes his partners bloody body violently. He pounds at his chest splashing with each strike. A snarls forms on his face. He looks up at the corner he had recently fired at. Instinctively he reloads his gun.

He stands slowly then turns toward the corner. He starts off slowly but then takes off in a trot. He jogs with his gun raised toward the man in the white gloves, covered in his best friends blood.