Trigger

As officer Brian Nichols and his partner, Dylan Piper, proceeded down the dark hallway of the old saw mill, Brian began to wonder if they were really in the lair of the Smiley-Face Marksman, the iron-like smell cleared the doubt from his mind. Dylan paused and looked at Brian, the ginger-haired young man's face immediately told Brian that Dylan had just smelt the blood. Brian nodded his head, unholstered his .22 revolver and took point, Dylan cautiously did the same.

From deep within the darkness, a gunshot could be heard, it was followed by six others.

"Two for the eyes, five for the mouth," Dylan whispered from behind Brian, accidentally letting a hint of Irish accent slip out.

"He'll get his," Brian quietly replied in his sleazy sounding voice.

Brian was able to make out a wooden door at the end of the unlit hallway; blood coated it. Dylan let out a soft groan, indicating that he had seen the blood covered door as well. Brian turned back to Dylan and brought his left index finger up to his face, shushing him, turned back around and began to push the door open very slowly in the hopes of it not making noise. Bright light flooded Brian's eyes which had become adjusted to the dark; blinded. His eyes soon readjusted, if only to convey the horrors of the room. Of Immediate interest were: the dead blond teenage girl with bullet holes in each eye and five curving up her mouth to give off the illusion of a bullet smiley face, the bullet casings on the ground, the closed door that lay dead ahead of him, the pink blood-stained cellphone and the surveillance equipment, particularly the surveillance equipment. The woods around the saw mill had cameras set up giving a full view of the mill and a decent chunk of the forest, there was no way that the madman had not seen their approach.

"He knows we're here," Brian whispered to Dylan as he stepped his wide-framed body into the room.

"Damn him, he's always a step a head of us. We should go call for backup, Brian"

"Not this time, all the exits are back past us. Pull your balls out of your purse and put them back in your pants. If we get this guy alone, we'll be heroes."

Although Dylan was afraid and wanted nothing more than to leave his dark-haired, greasy-faced, sleazebag of a partner and to call for backup, he simply nodded and followed. Brian inhaled deeply and stood in front of the closed mystery door; hesitating. If he knew they were coming then why didn't he run? Did the girl truly free herself or was she allowed to call for help? Brian briefly wrestled with those thoughts before pushing them away for the sake of glory and recognition. He carefully examined the door in front of him, it was mahogany. As he stared at the door a realization hit him, no light was coming in from underneath the door, therefore whoever was on the other side was standing in the dark. Brian smiled as a genius idea struck him.

Brian kicked the mahogany door with all his might.

"Time to bring you into the light, you son of a bitch," Brian quipped as the door flew open and light shone into the room.

A loud noise caused Brian's ears to pop, it took Brian a moment to realize that it was gunshot and it took him a moment longer to hit the floor and come to the realization that he'd been shot. Brian dropped his .22 revolver and it skittered across the floor to the other side of the room. He writhed in pain as he brought up his hand and pressed it onto the gunshot wound in his gut.

Dylan watched as the Smiley-Face Marksman, nothing more than a grey-haired man in sunglasses and cameo clothing with a taste for murder, stood up from a metal fold-up chair with his pistol leveled at him. The two men were at a standoff.

"All I want is to kill Brian. You can attack me and we all die, or you can turn around and leave. If you live then you'd be the first to have seen my face and that'll be enough for you to become famous, you'd be the man who helped identify the Smiley-Face Marksman," rasped the well-aged man.

"How do you know him?" Dylan blurted as he examined the room for a way to help his partner.

Nothing but machinery, a gas can, and the metal fold-up chair.

"It is only natural for me to take an interest in those that hunt me, Dylan. Now make a choice, before I make it for all of us."

After the adversary of the police department finished his sentence, a sloshing sound and a thud could be heard. Brian had accidentally knocked over the gas can while crawling for the revolver; the liquid seeped out and onto Brian's face and torso. The Smiley-Face Marksman promptly responded by slowly walking forward and stomping on the man's right hand, while never taking his gun off of Dylan. Brain cried out in pain as Dylan mulled over the decision that lie before him.

"You win. That sleazeball isn't worth my life," Dylan stated coldly as he slowly backed out of the doorway and sight.

As soon as he was sure Dylan was gone, the fiend reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, lit it and gave it a few puffs as he glanced down at the soaked and defeated policeman.

"Before I forget..." the man muttered to himself as he removed the magazine from his Colt 45 to add bullets to it.

Dylan risked a peek and saw that the man was reloading, presumably to put seven bullets in Brian's face, Dylan jumped out of cover and fired.

A loud popping sound rung throughout Brian's ears and then a thud. Brian looked up at his soon-to-be-killer and saw that he had fallen to his knees as blood slowly dripped from his upper torso. Brian ignored his revolver and began to crawl back to the door, he'd have Dylan retrieve his .22 for him. Another bang shook the air, and then another, and another, and another, and another, and another. Dylan's .22 could be heard clicking, he stood with a blank face repeatedly squeezing the trigger. Another sound overtook the clicking, it sounded as if a grill had been lit and then turned to crackling. Brian turned his head out of curiosity and saw that the serial killer was on the ground covered in flames; his lit cigarette must have fell out of his mouth when he was shot and ignited the spilled gasoline.