The Storm: Part One: The Man who Sowed the Wind

"We know you're in there, Carne!"


"Oh, soon as we get this door down, juuuuuuust you wait!"


"You'll get what's coming to you and then some, you Irish fuck!"


Eventually the door was going to give and a flood of bullets were going pour into the grubby motel room. Either Archie would find himself staring up at the white, mold covered ceiling with nothing but raspy breaths passing his bloodied lips or he'd stand amongst the dead; the bloody gladiator ready to collect his spoils. For now though, Archie just sat on the edge of his bed, as calm as could be. He was smoking: finishing off the final crumpled cigarette that had sat in his suit coat. To the left of him he had his battered silver M1911. It had been stripped, each intricate part cleaned, oiled and he'd even fitted it with a silencer so it'd be ready for the oncoming bloodbath. To his right sat his knife. He had spent a few hours turning the six inches of dulled edge into something that would gain a samurai's approval. He wasn't afraid though. The sickness, the pain in his stomach that he had felt from his rampage was gone. His mind was at peace with his actions and it was slowly settling itself in for what was to come.

It took them long enough to find him though. It had been maybe a few days since Archie's little rampage at the bar and it hadn't taken long for the Irishman to hear his name being whispered in the alleys. It wasn't because people were seeing him as some kind of Robin Hood type, someone fighting back against the spreading cancer that was Old Town's corruption. His name was being thrown around in an attempt to bait the Irishman out. These gangsters weren't exactly smart but their attempt to lure Archie into the streets was a smart little play.

Too bad the Irishman knew better. He had made small plans in the days it had taken the gangsters to get him. Escape plans were made, traps were set and he had gone through a good few packs of cigarettes in his planning. If it would pay off depended on all the pieces falling in their correct positions.


The door was giving in now. Archie could see a slight indentation forming on the dull, poorly painted crimson door. Bang. There went the door again. The centre cracking and exposing a thin slither of the world outside as well as a large boot; the source of the incessant banging noise that had been flooding Archie's ears for the last ten minutes. He couldn't see who was behind the door but he could hear the constant shuffling of feet. The jangling and rattling of ill-fitting cheap chains filled his ears, along with that familiar little click of a pistol slider. Well this was going to be interesting. Archie thought to himself with a small grin.

There was another kick to the door and it finally gave in, near enough bending in two due to the force of the kicks. The sickly olive green carpet was showered in numerous splinters and wedges of wood while the top half of the door just hung loosely from it's rusted hinges before giving in and falling to the floor with a clatter. Archie didn't move. He sat there with that grin still on his face while his hands simply shifted to settle on both his knife and his pistol. It was going to start now, he could feel it, a rising tension in the air as the first gangster stepped into the room.

The gangster looked like an idiot with his a broken nose, his bloodshot blue eyes, thin cracked lips, slicked back blonde hair and frail frame. He was a cliche too; cloned by what the mainstream media thought was imposing and equally trendy. The man wore a black windbreaker atop a grey wife-beater with the jacket's sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jeans seemed to be looser than most, making them look like they were on the verge of just falling to his ankles seeing as he wore not belt. Finishing off his almost movie -like look were a pair of fresh 'Nike' trainers, a cheap colour scheme of red,blue and white with the clear knock off look being that the Nike brand tick was upside down. 

"You know why me and my boys are here?" The gangster asked in a rough yet equally whiny tone as he stood in the door frame, clutching what Archie could only guess was a knock off Glock in his right hand. It looked cheap, tacky and more fitting to being found in the bottom of a box of cereal.

Silence from the Irishman.

"Not a talker, eh? Well, I know you know why we're here. You've got a bar tab to settle." A sly grin dragged itself across the gangster's scrawny features as he brought his hand up to just stifle what could only be some form of childish snigger, which came out more as the man clearing his throat as he slowly closed the space between himself and the Irishman.

Now that the scrawny 'alpha' of the gang casually took a few more steps into the room, Archie managed to see the little posse that was lurking by the ruined door. Wife beaters, baseball jerseys, sweat pants, tracksuit bottoms and cheap, knock off brand trainers. Five outside, a nervous rabble of gunmen. He could see one with a shotgun; a Mossberg sawn off. Another held a cosy little Mac-10; a compact yet over used sub machine gun that was used mainly for drive by shootings, made famous thanks to games like Grand Theft Auto. The other three seemed to wield the cheap knock off Glocks that the man in the room had. Interesting. Archie wasn't sure how he would feel if he found himself bleeding out thanks to cheap Glocks and the most cliche of gangsters. Never the less, he didn't look the the leader as if he were weak. No, no, no. The hunter didn't underestimate his prey. He could see some level of craftiness in the man's bloodshot eyes and it was honestly interesting to the Irishman.

The scrawny leader of the group slowly continued to move closer and closer. Slowly closing the gap between himself and Archie in such a cautious fashion that was similar to that of a leopard stalks a gazelle; slow but calculated movements that would hopefully intend on a killing blow. Even though Archie sat with his defence near enough down, he was poised, ready; his own killing blow prepared, planned and sitting on the verge of being executed. He just needed his opening.

The gangster continued moving forward, still trying to keep the act of being the one in control as he slowly move closer and closer. The gap was closed now so that the two could near enough smell one another. Despite the shit eating grin on his features and the look with intent to kill, Archie knew that the man was near enough pissing his pants. He knew that the gangster was completely new to performing executions. He was a grunt, fodder, nothing no one would miss him.

The gangster reached out with his right arm to try and grab Archie's shoulder, hoping to pull the Irishman to his knees for some cliche, action movie execution. It didn't happen. Before the hand even graced the Irishman's shoulder, there came a sound that was similar to a dry clap and a bullet burrowed deep into the gangster's right arm, just by the elbow. The reach was the one thing that Archie had been looking for. It had been his opening for his own killing blow; something that had allowed him to bring up his pistol in a matter of seconds and drive a bullet home. The gangster screamed out in pain and attempted to pull his arm back to just recover from the shock but the Irishman just reached forward; grabbing the now bleeding arm and pulling the man closer whilst pushing himself up off the bed, knife and pistol in hand.

He drove his knife into the other man's stomach and twisted the blade violently, forcing the man to scream out and jerk violently against the Irishman before falling limp due to the shock. Check. Now that he had himself a human shield, Archie used his element of 'slight' surprise to raise his M1911 and fire three shots into the shadowy motel door frame whilst slowly pushing forward. He couldn't see who was out there, not clearly at least but he knew that the little posse of five weren't prepared as he could clear the faint murmurings of panic followed by the frantic scuffling of shoes as they tried to compose themselves.

Bullets flew at him but he was like a knight with his shield; allowing the body of the now dead gangster to act as the bullet sponge. There were numerous little thumping noises as pistol rounds, sub machine gun rounds and a spread of buckshot pummelled the corpse. If he wasn't dead before, he was now. More bullets thumped and whizzed past Archie. Some just nicked the side of his shoulder, others wound up missing the Irishman and merely buried themselves into the beige motel walls, apparently startling the occupant of the next room due to the shrill shriek and muffled fumbling noises. He needed to end this quick. He pushed forward, enduring the hail of bullets from the door frame. it was heavy wall of bullets and he could feel his once meaty shield turning into nothing but gristle, scraps and sinews. Thankfully the room was small; nothing but a ruined bed, some bed stands and a broom closet that acted as a wardrobe. It took no more than a minute for Archie to have closed the gap and stand in the doorway, allowing him to finally drop the bullet riddled corpse of a shield. 

Luckily now, the Irishman had the wall beside the door frame to block the barrage of bullets. He hadn't been counting the bullets from outside. There were far too many different guns to take into account, all the different modifiers but he did know that the men outside were going to run out of ammo soon. They hadn't come prepared. This was meant to be a quick execution but the lack of co-ordination meant the men were not nothing more than easy pickings for Archie, he just had to ensure that everything fell into place.

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Comment by Elizabeth Windsor on July 7, 2017 at 9:10pm

Beautiful, love.

Comment by Ragnor the Barbarian on July 7, 2017 at 9:11am

wow love it!

Comment by Birdie Conrad on June 30, 2017 at 11:06pm

Part two, please.

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