The slug missed it’s mark as I knew it would, but it also had the desired effect of making the Someone leave his feet. I fired the next couple rounds where I thought he’d be, but each slug merely bounced off his body armor.

“It’s going to take a lot more than that, Mr. Mortimer,” he said, now levitating. Then he extended his hand, redirecting the slugs at me. I dodged them, making for the wall.

Up the wall, I kicked off and flew straight at my enemy, the element of surprise giving me the slightest of advantages.

I struck him in the face with the butt of my shotgun, knocking him to the ground, where I fired two more slugs.

The first slug missed it’s mark, just left.

The second slug was another story altogether. It went straight through the center of his forehead, a stream of red gurgling out of the circular hole.

A small victory.

No time to celebrate.

“There’s no accounting for luck, Mr. Mortimer,” a second Someone said, “But you have to ask yourself a question: has the well finally run dry?”