First Blood

I have a confession: I didn't just up and decide to write this for no reason. The department's shrink recommended I keep a blog of some kind to help me get my thoughts straight. You see, a couple days ago, I killed a man.

It was around noon. We got the call that there was some kind of shootout going on. Two gangs crossed each other. One of course was the Timberwolves. The other was a group of nobodies calling themselves the Barrels. By the time we got there, the Barrels were pretty much wiped out. That just left our cultist friends.

They saw our squad car, and they opened fire.

We had back-up, we managed to subdue them. A few surrendered, some ran, a couple went down.

There was this one guy. His face was... it was badly scarred. Bright red along the side, his hair in clumps, boils and pus coming out of his cheeks. He was running right me with his gun raised, firing wildly.

I shot him right in the chest. He kept running. Bullets don't work like they do in movies. It's not one shot, and the person's down. Adrenaline can do some crazy shit, and this guy didn't even seem to notice his wound.

I fired six more times before he reached me. He stumbled and fell. My last shot had hit him dead center in the neck.

He grabbed my leg, and there was desperation on his face as his life faded away. He tried to say something, I don't know what. It just came out as three indistinct gurgles. And then he stopped moving.

I felt sick. I'd never seen a man die before, much less killed one. I threw up, right then and there. Of course, they made me see the psych guy, and made me take a few days off to cool down. That's when I started doing research, learning more about the Timberwolves. That's when I stumbled upon the Archangel.

I go back to work tomorrow. I just hope I can make it. I've felt sick since that day.