Immortal

Ryan could feel the bullet ripping through his chest as the bang from the revolver shook his ears. The shot had pierced straight through his heart and out his back. He only had an instant of recognition, of unbelievable pain, of the abrupt but undeniable understanding that this was death, his death, he was dying, he was dead. His body collapsed to the ground in a heap. A small pool of blood began to form under his back. His eyes were still wide open, now glazed over. He was unmistakably dead. 

Marcus popped the empty shell out of his revolver and put the gun back in its holster. "Good riddance," he muttered under his breath. The man had been much easier to kill than his employer had made him out to be. "Highly dangerous my ass. At least I'm getting paid well tonight." He turned his back on the body and started to walk away when he heard the sound of shuffling feet skidding along the ground. He looked back, hoping it was a raccoon or something and not another body to get out of the way. 

Ryan was lifting himself off of the ground, shakily, one hand over his heart where he had been shot. Marcus couldn't believe his eyes. This wasn't happening. There was no way this worthless piece of trash was standing up after having been shot in the heart. It just was not physically possible. His eyes strayed down, and he saw the sizable pool of blood that had formed under his back. Someone might survive that much blood loss, but only barely. Not well enough to be standing up on there own. 

Ryan let his hand drop to reveal a hole in his shirt over unscathed skin. He looked a little pale, but not nearly as much as he should have. "So," he asked, "Who sent you? I can't imagine it was anyone particularly smart. Sending a hitman after someone like me. What's even the point?" Marcus stared at the man in stunned silence, unable to even comprehend what was happening. "I'm guessing you weren't given the full details," Ryan continued. "They never are. Probably wouldn't take the job if they were."

Without thinking, Marcus drew the gun once more and fired. The second bullet hit between the freak's eyes. He didn't try to move. Didn't try anything to stop it. Some of his brains flew out the back of his head along with the bullet. He dropped dead once more, but this time Marcus didn't sheath his gun or turn away. He kept his eyes glued to the corpse laying before him, and on the gaping wound in its head. 

After a moment, like some kind of demon possessed, magic-ridden puppet, the body lurched back to life. The muscles and tissue began to bubble, crawling over themselves to regrow what was now missing, repairing the body so it could function once more. Marcus watched in terror, feeling as though he had somehow managed to find himself in a sick and twosted horror movie. 

Once more, Ryan slowly got back up to his feet. By the time he was fully standing, the wound had been healed, and if it weren't for the blood and guts both on him and on the ground before him, you would have never know anything had happened. 

"What in hell are you?" Marcus demanded. 

Ryan shrugged. "Good question," he responded. "Maybe you can ask for me when you get there." He pulled his own gun from the waistline of his pants and fired twice, mimicing the killing shots he had recieved. Marcus was too afraid to stop him.