Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

Joseph’s face reminded me of our talk in my car before he knew Shane was dead, when the thunder was splitting the sky and making him quake in fear. I remembered how he was about to tell me something, something important, but then the lightning flashed and the moment was lost. I remembered him having that same look when we were in his room and I told him about Shane’s death. There was the grief, the loss, the guilt, but there was something else too.

It hit me. I understood. Doors wasn’t lying. His story about his corporate spies was true. Only he blamed the wrong brother. “It was you.”

Joseph looked up at me, his lips trembling. He nodded.

“You went to the other companies for bids on WTP. Shane had nothing to do with it.”

Racking sobs broke from deep in his chest. “He wanted to destroy it. All that work, all that money, and he wanted to throw it all away just because he thought God wanted him to.” He shook his head. “I knew Hepperman would try and cheat us again anyway and once Shane broke the fake flash drive I thought I would be clear to sell the game to one of the other companies. Then later I would give him his half. I wasn’t going to cheat him, not like them. I just wanted what was coming to me. That’s all, I swear.” He pushed the gun in. “AND YOU KILLED HIM FOR IT!”

Doors screamed back at him this time. “No, you killed him. If I hadn’t thought he was cheating me none of this would have happened. You killed your brother. It was your fault, not mine, yours!”

“Shut up, Doors, or I’ll break your neck myself,” I said, praying I wasn’t too late but knowing I was.

Joseph jerked the gun away from Doors’ head and jammed the muzzle beneath his own chin, his thumb switching to the trigger. “You’re right. I did kill my brother.” He looked up to the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m so sorry.”

There was no time — no way I could get over Doors’ to stop Joseph — nothing I could say that would slow the pressure I saw him exerting on the trigger of the gun.

I kicked Doors as hard as I could in the center of his chest. He went straight back, chair and all, hitting into the shotgun and Joseph at the same time. The gun exploded with an ear-splitting roar and I saw blood spray from Joseph’s face. I was on him in an instant, catching him before he could fall to the ground. His face was painted in red, torn flesh flapping along his jaw.

Doors screamed incoherently. The hot stench of blood and sulfur hung in a gray cloud that filled the room. My ears reverberated with a high pitched whine that made me sick.

“Please, Lord, no, please,” I cried as I wiped away the blood trying to assess the slug’s trajectory and lethality. I felt for a pulse at his carotid, my scarlet gloved fingers shaking uncontrollably. Panic. I wasn’t acting like a professional. All I could think of was the Franklins; first Shane, then Amber, and now Joseph. I had failed them, failed them all. Failed them just as I had failed my own family. My slick fingers felt nothing and the blood kept pouring like water from a blown pipe.

Think.

If the blood was still pumping he wasn’t dead — not yet. I wiped away the blood again, forcing myself to slow down. I saw a jagged tear along the bottom of the left side of his jaw. Splinters of bone were visible in the wound, but the gash itself was no deeper than an inch, and only a little wider. I pushed the heel of my hand against his jaw and clamped down, direct pressure being the best way to stop the bleeding.

I looked up to the ceiling and saw a neat hole rimmed in red mist. The top edge of the chair would have hit the shotgun mid-way down the stock of the weapon, forcing it out and away from under Joseph’s chin. The slug must have barely grazed his jaw, the concussion and expanding gasses accounting for the shredded skin. His jaw looked to be broken and he might loose a few teeth, but he would live.

I closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing — slower — slower. I felt my heart matching the pace. The blood continued to slip past my palm and through my fingers but it too was slowing.

With my free hand, I reached over, grabbed a handful of Roger Doors’ green, short sleeve shirt and ripped down and out. The material stretched, reached its limit and tore in a long strip that stretched from the shoulder to his waist. I gave it another yank and the strip came free. I pressed it against Joseph’s jaw and tied it around the top of his head. I knotted it tightly, the green material going dark and dripping. But it was barely a trickle now, and there was still work to be done before Spock showed up.

I righted Doors in his chair, ignoring his orders to let him go. His nose had long since stopped bleeding, but dried blood caked his lip and chin, looking grizzly.

I pointed a finger at him. “One more word and I’ll use your under-shorts for a gag.” That shut him up. It wasn’t the kind of line Iron Man would have used, but it worked.

My fingers had just closed around the strap of my bulletproof vest when the front door crashed in, showering glass into the room. Spock was there, holding Amber around the chest in one arm. The other arm was extended toward me, the hand holding a gun pointed at my chest.

I hesitated, he didn’t. The first bullet caught me in the right peck, just above the nipple. It felt like the Hulk had hit me with a fist the size of a tank. And