THREE YEARS ON FROM THE EXPLOSION...
I'm down to my last straw. Either I find this bastard now, or I put an end to myself for failing to redeem myself after that horrendous day three years ago. That is the deal, and I am willing to finish Tapman for the carnage he caused. He will be finished.
My last place of search was in an old abandoned house, nearby the site of the bomb. In the course of the last three years, I had searched everywhere possible, yet Dr. Tapman had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. He was so untraceable that I was resorting to the GPS on his iPhone that I had saved from the blast, alongside my crossbow and an M1911, with only one magazine on me. Seven bullets for Tapman, one for each lost soul.
I arrived at the old abandoned house, and stood in amazement in its state. Lumps of moss adorned the creaky walls, and the windows were covered in a light layer of dust. I couldn't believe that three years had led me to this. This place looked like civilisation had left it for dead decades ago. Yet it stood that if he was anywhere, he was most probably here.
I kicked down the door and rooted through the dusty furniture. In the corner lay a deceased TV, with the screen shattered. Next to it was an old phone, with the phone line cut and the reciever long gone. Whoever was here obviously didn't enjoy contact from the outside world.
I ventured into what used to be the kitchen, and saw even more decrepit rubbish from the olden days. A truly massive stove and refrigorator sat hand-in-hand, with an also humourously-sized micro(!)wave laying dormant on the table top. So, the occupant of this house also obviously eat a lot. This was beginning to seem like the Tapman from that creepy dream I had back at the school.
I decided to head upstairs, and try the bedrooms. The sheets were gathering dust, but the drawer wasn't for some reason. I looked into it and saw a Berreta 92FS lying at the back of a compartment. Then I saw the dead squirrel bodies lying in the fields outside, and recognised that he or she was also a gun fanatic.
Desperate for a discovery of sorts, I headed into the second bedroom with my M1911 drawed, and found Tapman sitting on the bed with a sly grin on his face. Next to him lay a Magnum .44 revolver. I gulped and said in a quivering voice:
"You, sir, are an utter dog for what you did three years ago, and I am going to end you."
He didn't seem to be ruffled by this. He merely stood up, Magnum in hand, and started to deliver a speech.
"Ah. You are bad company indeed. I see I was... unsuccessful in getting rid of you lot the first time around. I'm very disappointed, and you should know. You may not be dead, but I see I have wounded you."
He pointed at my bloodstained trousers, which had permenantly stained from the cut I sustained in the blast. He returned to his speech:
"But wounding you is not enough," he said, his face turning to an angered scowl, "as you need to be removed from this land. You destroyed my experiment, and that bomb was my method of making sure you didn't continue. Now, your time has come."
I tried to pull my pistol up, but he kicked my chest, sending me tumbling down the stairs. My pistol landed next to me, just within my grasp. He slowly trotted down the stairs, loading his Magnum, still droning on:
"I was hoping you would be good and just be hasty in getting out of my way, but it seems you disobeyed, and now you will pay the ultimate price."
"You may be a brilliant scientist, Tapman..." I retorted, confidence restored, "but you certainly aren't a good fighter."
I delivered a swift kick to the testes, and he dropped to his knees. I kicked his Magnum away, and picked my M1911 back up. He groaned in pain, obviously in shock that he had been beaten fair and square. He delivered his final words in a honourable manner:
"Indeed, I may be a brilliant scientist... but science can't save me now."
I picked him up and hauled him to the mddle of the floor. I fired a round into him and he screamed in agony, blood spurting form the wound. I fired and fired until the magazine was one away from empty and his body was riddled with bullet holes. He coughed up blood and moaned weakly. I fired the last round and his skull cracked open, cranial pieces scattered on the bare wooden floor. I picked up the spent rounds and put them in my pocket, a memorial to the dead.
My job was finally done. Redemption had been delivered.