Shooter

John's heart was pounding hard as he reached the empty looking house in the back corner of the court. It was the middle of the day, so most people were out at work, but his head whipped back and forth, looking for any sign of life. He couldn't afford to keep running, but he couldn't afford to be seen, either. The police had moved much faster than he had anticipated, setting up a barricade in the three mile area around where the incident had gone down before he could grab his supplies and leave. In the back of his mind, he berated himself for thinking he would have the time to do anything but get the hell out of the city, but he had more important things to worry about now. He had to hide.

He ran to the front door of the least suspicious house he could find - it was an older one, probably belonging to an older couple. It had no garage, so the fact that there was no car out in front suggested that the owners were out shopping or something of that nature. But he had to be sure, so he knocked three times on the door and waited, listening. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he did his best to focus on any sounds of footsteps, tvs, or radios that might be coming from inside. No dogs or parrots. The house was silent. So after only a few moments of waiting and listening, John stepped back, pulled the gun he had shot the officers with out from the band of his pants, and shot the lock off of the door.

He was in the house as quick as he could move, grabbing a nearby table and throwing it against the front door to hold it shut, tossing anything on top of it to the ground without a second thought. He was too deep to be concerned about any of the belongings of whoever lived here. It was his house now, as far as he was concerned.

Windows closed. Doors locked. Anything that could be moved to barricade any possible entrance into the house was. John had no idea how long it would be until the police came around, searching for him, but he had to make sure that when they did come, they weren't getting in. As soon as the work was done, he collapsed on a couch in the living room, exhausted. How long would he have to wait it out? How long before they decided he had escaped, and that he could go home?

A number of hours passed. He decided as long as he was there, he would enjoy the house's kitchen. If he was going to go out, he wasn't going to go out hungry. He ate like a king, unconcerned about cost or supply. He didn't dare turn on a tv, though. He would not give himself away. The inevitable knock on the door came while he was on the toilet, and the sound scared what was left out of him. He could hear the sound of the police shouting for him. He didn't even dare flush.

An hour passed, during which John couldn't even tell if the police had left or not, when the phone rang. He should have cut the wire. He stared at it, unsure, but grabbed it just before the final ring.

"We know you're in there." It was the same police officer as the one who had been shouting through the door. "If you come out now, you won't be hurt." He slammed the phone down without a word.

They called out to him a number of times, but John would not respond. They were bluffing. If he called it, they would leave. They'd have to.

The night passed by, and they did not leave. In the early morning, the police called that they would gas him. Another bluff. It had to be. Then the windows were shattering, and canisters were flying in around him. John bolted for one of the back bedrooms he had noticed earlier to not have windows. He could hear the gas releasing behind him, chasing him down. He rushed into a closet, slamming the door open and closed behind him, hearing a crash following him. He didn't know what it was. He didn't care.

Until, a few moments later, he heard the sound of sparks taking hold, and a small fire beginning to burn. He must have knocked over something electrical and broken it. It only took a few moments after the sound began for the gas to reach the flame, fueling it, spreading it. It was just a matter of time before the house was engulfed in flame. John was trapped with nowhere to go. The police would put out the flames, right? They couldn't just let him die. Right?

The fire burned for a long time. The metal door of the closet kept the fire out, but he was sweating hard, and he could feel the heat. His oxygen wouldn't last much longer. He looked down at the gun still in his hand, his knuckles white as he gripped it.

Which would hurt less? The fire? Or the bullet?