"I'M GOING TO! KILL YOU!" Chris was practically tearing his own hair out from the wave of emotion crashing over him.
But as Jessica had once said, the Irish mob was not your average shop robbers. They had not just experience, but the corresponding skill. And stupid villains only lived and thrived in movies.
So Chris, who was pouring the lion's share of his focus into a single enemy, simply couldn't react in time to what the Irish gang leader was doing.
Because the man, who had until that moment been retreating in small steps like someone backing away from a predator, in one instant broke toward the single object he believed could save his life.
The short-barreled shotgun that the late Johnny had left on the shelf by the entrance.
"BASTARD!" Chris roared even louder and tensed his entire body for a lunge. A pair of dirty sneakers left noticeable prints in the old linoleum, and the leap itself nearly caved in the floor, but...
The gang leader had managed to grab the shotgun, aim it directly at Chris's charging figure, and pull the trigger.
BOOM!
Chris flew in the opposite direction like an artillery shell.
In movies and the various fantasies of screenwriters and directors, a shotgun blast sends an unprotected person flying in the direction of the shot. Supposedly this is meant to emphasize the power and nature of the weapon, which is considered extraordinarily dangerous at close range.
But in this situation, his rapidly growing durability worked against Chris himself. The buckshot launched him with incredible force and slammed him into the wall, from which he immediately slid down to the floor. The sight was so unnatural that the Irishman had the impression he'd just fired at a solid metal mannequin.
On average, buckshot exceeds a pistol bullet by five or ten times in raw kinetic force. Meaning that while a bullet will generally pass clean through a body, buckshot generally won't have that "passing through" problem. At close range — and the gang leader and Chris were at most two meters apart — a shotgun will always punch through its target. And the "spread" effect of buckshot will turn the victim into a colander.
Except Chris had gained significantly in durability. He'd been able to withstand a point-blank pistol shot, which had barely left the beginnings of a hole. Though, as already noted earlier...
A shotgun is far, far more powerful than a pistol.
"Son of a bitch," the Irishman muttered and bolted outside, immediately yelling at his subordinates. "Grab the biggest caliber weapons you've got, you idiots! We've got a freaking mutant in here!"
"Boss, where's Johnny?"
"Six feet under, damn it! That thing smashed his head in with one hit! Now grab your guns and get in front of the shop! And the moment anything moves in there, fire without mercy!"
But the Irish gang leader's fears turned out to be premature. Because Chris had absolutely no intention of getting up and stayed there groaning on the floor. A pool of blood spread out from beneath his body, and his gaze immediately lost all focus.
Yeah.
In this situation, his increased "durability" had played a cruel trick on him.
He was durable enough that the buckshot didn't punch straight through him.
But not durable enough to withstand the destructive effect.
One shotgun blast had turned the inside of his torso into an anatomical horror.
"God, it..." Chris whimpered, barely breathing. "Hurts..."
He had never felt anything like it. As if real mercury had been poured into his body, which had then hardened and turned into daggers trying to claw their way out. Chris simply couldn't come up with any other analogy — a more painful one.
But...
Turning his head somehow, Chris saw Mr. Kramer's body again.
"Killed in cold blood in his own shop..." If the pain hadn't been consuming every corner of his consciousness, Chris would certainly have wept. "Wrapped in garbage bags, probably to be dumped in the bay..." It seemed like the grief over the fate of the first person to have ever helped Chris selflessly was beginning to drown out the all-consuming pain.
"I'm going to..." Chris, forcing himself through sheer will and barely holding his insides in, pushed himself up against the wall. "Kill them all..."
SYNCHRONIZATION: 15%
Of course, the many wounds had left barely a trace of the fury choking his mind in his voice, but his eyes... Oh, those eyes held nothing but a thirst for killing.
Moving his legs slowly and letting drops of his own blood fall to the ground, Chris made his way to the wide-open doors of the shop. Where he was already awaited, guns at the ready.
Several dozen men froze in stunned silence when they saw the pitiful, near-corpse state of Chris. A bloody hand pressed firmly to his stomach, serving as a plug to keep his organs from spilling out. A blood trail stretched behind Chris, and the hole in his forehead said far, far too much.
"What are you frozen for, idiots?!" The boss screamed at his subordinates. "Fire! FIRE, DAMN YOU! Empty every magazine you've got! Don't stop even if he dies! I want every bullet in our stockpile inside this bastard's body!"
And in the next second...
The entire street erupted in unceasing automatic gunfire. And every shot from several dozen rifles was directed at one single target incapable of fighting back.
Hand of God: Twelve Great Labors [8/12]
A ranch.
Chris had always dreamed that if he ever had a family, they would have a ranch. Spacious, covered in green grass.
A peaceful place, free from the noise of the city. The complete opposite of New York, beyond whose borders he had never once ventured in his life.
Chris imagined himself settling onto a solitary bench and savoring the silence.
"You're in a pretty tough spot, aren't you?" An elderly but trim man settled down beside him. Even at sixty, covered in wrinkles, he gave no impression of being worn out. More like a real farmer or cowboy with a very, very long career behind him.
"Father," Chris murmured barely audibly.
"Right now your body is being stitched through by about sixty bullets per second," the "father" continued impassively, as if discussing something as trivial as the weather. "Are you going to fight back?"
"What difference does it make?"
"Is that a yes or a no?" The "father" didn't take the bait.
"You're not real," Chris continued. "You're just my mind's reaction to stress and isolation."
"You don't even believe that yourself anymore, Christopher," the elderly man smiled. In the next second he pointed up at the sky. "Is that not real either?"
Hand of God: Twelve Great Labors [6/12]
"I died two more times," Chris murmured, reading the enormous inscription across the sky.
"Half your lives, gone for nothing," the man shook his head in disapproval. "Through your own foolishness..."
"Did you do this?" Chris pointed at the sky. "Are you the source of my... abilities?"
"You could say that," the "father" nodded.
"So you ARE real?! Or are you just a product of my imagination?!" Chris began to get irritated.
A second of silence, and...
"What difference does it make?" The "father" laughed.
Hand of God: Twelve Great Labors [6/12]
"Ha..." Chris breathed deeply, trying to stabilize his hallucination-filled consciousness. "Ha..."
The unceasing series of automatic rifle fire was slowing with each passing second. The general frenzy that had lasted several minutes and several thousand rounds gave way to bewilderment hanging in the air, and the first seeds of fear taking root.
"What the hell?" The Irish leader muttered and began cautiously backing up. There were so many empty shell casings that every step he took rang out with an echoing clatter.
"Bullets don't work on me," Chris smiled slightly, looking down at his intact body — with numerous scratches, but intact. Looking at the Irishmen frozen in horror, Chris bared his teeth in a promising grin. "You're all dead."
"DIE!" One of the gangsters' nerves gave out and he pulled the trigger again. But...
The bullets barely slowed Chris down, leaving no visible marks. Even the occasional shotgun blast made him recoil and grunt, but no longer knocked him back.
In the next second, under unceasing gunfire, Chris closed the distance to one of the gangsters. One punch invisible to the human eye later, and—
BOOM!
A broken, lifeless body crashed thunderously into an SUV door. The windows bursting from the impact and the deep dent left in the metal spoke volumes about the force of the blow.
"RUN!" The Irish gang began scattering in every direction and piling into their vehicles. "GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"
"I didn't say you could leave," Chris's eyes hardened. "Mad Surge!"
Phantasm [Rank: C]: Mad Surge
An exclusive berserker skill that allows them to raise base parameters in exchange for sanity.
Activates in two cases:
In response to multiple physical and psychological traumas, or by the will of the Chosen.
Warning:
The added strength coefficient depends on the degree of sanity lost. Be careful, Chosen!
"NOW WE'RE GOING TO HAVE SOME FUN!"
SYNCHRONIZATION: 33%