The Pilot (4)

The Pilot

Chapter Four:

Pistol Pete’s snarl ripped the two apart, “Well well well, look who finally came back to work. Didn’t even notice you were gone for the first few months, for all the work you do for me. But now that you’re back, there's about five articles I’ll need you to complete for me by tomorrow morning. Hans, you feeling alright? You’ve got worse eyebags than me after staying up all night correcting your mistakes.” He swankily stepped inside with a hearty cackle. 

Clancy and George were pulled into the office shrubbery by Hans. After the two vented their immense Pistol Pete related frustrations, he explained his spy-on-boss plot. George and Hans were introduced with a few quick speed-dating-type questions, and George’s rogue hand in the enormous, world-changing wormhole cover-up was touched upon. They would have discussed this wondrous, magical revelation further, but the light had gone on in Pistol Pete’s office. They watched through the window like foxes at night.

Pistol Pete walked into his office and hung up his bowler on a plastic hanger that had ingratiated itself to/worn a few holes in the floor. The crew outside could hear a fair humming from him before nascent rain drowned it out. He sat behind his desk, Han’s beaten camera in hammy hand. What proceeded would have knocked Hans of his branch, had he not already been so stunningly disturbed. 

A deft hand imperceptibly pressed a button on the underside of a desk, and Pistol Pete got up and descended below his desk. He had been on the ground floor. To Hans and Clancy’s knowledge, there was no basement. Clancy got up to follow him, to the consternation of Hans. George followed Clancy out of greater loyalty to him, and Hans was regrettably forced to follow by majority rules, leaving his stealth behind him. He had reneged on his espionage as soon as Clancy entered his vision.

Stainless steel halls straight out of a Jetsons episode greeted them in the tunnel below Pistol Pete’s desk. They crept up slowly on their boss’ trail, following the scent of cigar smoke that permeated their senses. After what felt like ages of winding through the labyrinth, they saw their target. Quickly ducking behind the nearest corner, they all hopelessly mouthed stratagems and plans to one another. 

Pistol Pete coughed, then spoke, “Turn back the way you came, dipshits. I don’t know what the pilot’s telling you. It's phoney. Actually, leave him to me, I’ll write about whatever wacky story he’s got. It's probably above your paygrade.” Clancy and Hans wondered how he knew George was a pilot, before noticing that he still had his uniform on.

Just then, a fox scurried back from the hall opposing the crew. Though indoors, the wind picked up. Something in George’s pocket rang. Pistol Pete swore loudly, and ran in line of sight of our trio. He slammed into a button on the wall, and alarms started blaring. The hallway was painted with an oscillating crimson glow. 

He slowly turned to face Hans, George, and Clancy, drawing his Magnum revolver from the back of his waistband. He was in the process of pointing it at his employees when a whoosh of wind and a flurry of foxes leapt at him from nowhere, one nicking his cheek in her fall. 

Pistol Pete cried out, his normally rosy cheek quite literally blood-red. That was all the opportunity his near-victims needed. They ran, and were almost immediately sucked into a wormhole that had appeared behind them. In a dogpile, they found themselves on the one side of a rapidly-closing metal door, close to the tunnel’s entrance. 

They groaned, they were on the wrong side of the door. A gunshot echoed through the halls. They wouldn’t be able to escape. Pistol Pete emerged from blank space, revolver smoking, facing away. He turned, and his eyes lit up at the now-standing trio before him. Not having the foxy luxury of a distraction, they immediately ran down a side path. They needed to find a way out. Pistol Pete stepped up to the door where they had just been. 

He aimed his gun, arm locked straight. Another wormhole opened in front of the trio, and they jumped into it as the pistol’s position finalised. They found themselves at the other end of the door. They could see their assailant through its small reinforced glass window. Pistol Pete must have felt their eyes on him, and quickly turned his head to face them. 

His eyes were bloodshot, as if he was the one holding onto life, not them. A smile crept vine-like up his chin, and he kept his arm raised. He fired twice, into the wormhole. One bullet whizzed inches from Hans’ neck. The other didn’t make it through the vacuous entity. It must have closed in time. 

Or, another one must have opened up. The second bullet hit Pistol Pete square in the chest, its overachieving power blasting him a few feet in the direction he had just fired. He slumped. Pistol Pete didn’t get back up. 

A fox eyed the scene in at the far end of the hallway, straight beyond where Pistol Pete had been standing. All three of Hans, Clancy, and George gulped as it ran off. They fled back up through the sub-desk hole. Hans spotted his camera, and his eyes teared up. Clancy grabbed it and the three ran out into the dead of night.