The Most Plentiful Metal

Martin Wilkerson was questioned for a few more minutes until he had all the information he need. He raised his revolver and faced the man again.

"I don't want you to follow me any longer, and I don't like individuals like you. I apologize, but that's the way things work out. You lose. The man was then shot in the head by Martin Wilkerson.

Even though the phone number was unlisted, it could still be traced. Almost anything might be discovered if you had enough money or the correct contacts at a phone provider. Although Martin Wilkerson had no industry friends, he was able to raise money, primarily from the second murderer's flat.

Those with little money and no morals responded well to bribes. Such a man was discovered by Martin Wilkerson, who took advantage of the situation. Regretfully, the man was only able to pinpoint the number's origin within a ten-block radius, which is not the most convenient search area.

Martin Wilkerson had a strong will. Although the police were perplexed by the man's death, they didn't follow it up for very long because of his dubious past, and his parents would undoubtedly find out about the disappearance of their second assassin.

At a nearby café and coffee shop, Martin Wilkerson set up an observation post with outside tables along the storefront. It was a long, apparently pointless wait. He didn't see his parents for two weeks. Then he hit the jackpot.

They both entered the café. Watching them eat a leisurely meal, Martin Wilkerson ducked behind a newspaper and leaned back against the wall. He got up carefully and started to follow them as they got up to go, making sure no one followed him. His parents could continue trying for the rest of their life because there were enough murderers in the world.

He watched them enter their house, staying a block behind them the entire way. To make sure it wasn't a hoax, he staked out the residence. No, they didn't come out. It was Martin Wilkerson who had located them. He could now murder them before they made another attempt. He would give them an opportunity instead of killing them outright, though.

He came up with a plan and carried it out perfectly. He started by turning off the house's phone and electricity, leaving his parents in the dark and unable to call for assistance. Then he came in.

He entered after smashing through the front door. It would be difficult to find his parents—unless they discovered him first—because the house was much bigger than he had expected.

They were hiding as he went from room to room. He would need to entice them out. He started phase two in anticipation of this.

He made a racket by firing shots from his pistol at costly objects as he moved through the house. He hoped they would be forced to step in because of their attachment to worldly prosperity. He was correct.

Another gun went off, and his father came out from behind and tackled him. Martin Wilkerson let go of the gun, which skidded across the floor. With his leg still weak from the kick at the mental hospital weeks before, Timothy Wilton got up and hobbled up to it.

As Timothy Wilton grabbed the revolver and fired three rounds at the spot where Martin Wilkerson had been standing minutes earlier, Martin Wilkerson sprung to his feet and lunged after his father, falling to the ground.

Martin Wilkerson slid behind a big couch, took a knife out of his pocket, and flipped the blade open. He wished he had counted his ammunition as he heard the faint spitting of the silenced weapon. He realized he couldn't remain put and hoped the couch would protect him long enough. In order to exhaust the gun, he chose to risk sliding out and draw the remaining fire. He pushed off with his knees braced on a coffee table, sliding over the wooden floor as bullets ripped it apart all around him. Then the click of safety reached his ears.

As he stood up, Martin Wilkerson remained vigilant while his father threw away the empty revolver. Wilton, Timothy, dug into his coat. Martin Wilkerson charged, but before he could get near, another gun appeared. Martin Wilkerson leaped to his right, taking a bullet in his left arm as he rolled next to his father as it clicked into the chamber. Timothy Wilton swung the weapon around and it spit bullets. Just as a bullet hit his father's chest, Martin Wilkerson swung his leg out and made contact with his leg.

Timothy Wilton collapsed to the floor without getting up. Martin Wilkerson made an effort to stop the blood from pouring out of his chest. He killed his father by driving his knife into his heart in a last, agonized move. It was done. The danger had been removed. Why, then, did Martin Wilkerson feel so guilty?

His wound was still gushing blood, and he realized he needed to move quickly. He took off his shirt and one sock, putting the sock against the bullet hole to absorb the flow and wrapped the shirt around his chest.

Before the temporary bandage broke and he bled out, he needed a doctor to treat the wound. He needed to get to the emergency department. Immediately.

Hoping to get to a hospital, Martin Wilkerson got into his car. He didn't. As the dizziness set in, he noticed the first hospital sign. There had been too much bloodshed. He found it difficult to concentrate on the road as his vision became blurry. Blood loss made it difficult for him to focus, but he needed to slow down and halt. He hit the accelerator instead.

The vehicle swerved out of its lane and surged. Martin Wilkerson came to rest with his airbags deployed and his chest bleeding after crashing through a railing and down a short, steep hill. Then he lost consciousness.

Behind him, a driver saw the collision. Quickly, she hung up with a buddy and called for an ambulance.

The scene was covered in blood when paramedics arrived. They had to try, even though they didn't think anyone could live. They removed the injured man by prying off the car's roof. They realized that this was more than simply a careless driver when they saw the bullet wound. They hurried him to the closest hospital while working feverishly to stop the bleeding from his chest. If he were to live, a transfusion and a lot of blood would be required.