The Wormhole Killers is a piece of fiction by Grady VanWright. The author has created a video of a reading of the short work. Click on the red arrow to view the video. The text of the piece is shown below the YouTube Window. In addition, below the text is a presentation of a podcast produced by the Washington Square Review in which VanWright discusses this piece and other interesting aspects of his lifelong love of writing. Click on the white arrow in that segment of this post to listen to the podcast.
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I. The Spoken Word of The Wormhole Killers
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II. The Text of The Wormhole Killers
Dallas shimmered in the November breeze, the pavement restless under the weight of a city waiting. The air smelled of gasoline, sweat, cigarette smoke. The sky stretched vast and blue, careless of the history about to unfold. The people didn’t know. They never did.
Then the air split open.
A silent burst of violet-blue energy bent the space between two buildings. A man stepped out of nothing, his body flickering before settling. Boots hit pavement. His breath came hard, lungs raw from the jump. The taste of metal and static coated his tongue.
Across the street, another hole burned into reality.
The second man stepped through, his arrival just as violent, just as unnatural.
They saw each other.
One was here to kill Oswald.
The other was here to stop him.
They moved.
The Chase
The assassin cut through the crowd, moving like a shadow, body tight with purpose. His breath was even, controlled. Every step was calculated. A man who had done this before.
The hunter followed, weaving between onlookers, past men with rolled-up newspapers, past children waving tiny flags, past the murmurs of excitement.
His pulse was steady. His fingers brushed the cool metal of his weapon, a curved, sleek piece of future war tech, humming beneath his coat.
He saw the assassin ahead, saw the way he moved—too fast, too precise. The man was built for this.
Then came the first shot.
A beam of red light cut through the air, burning through a brick wall where the hunter had been. The crowd did not hear it—cheers swallowed the sound.
The hunter ducked, heart slamming, rolled to the side, returned fire.
A sharp pulse of blue energy cracked the air. It missed.
The assassin was already moving.
The Fight
They met in a side street behind the Book Depository, where the pavement smelled of oil and old rain.
The hunter hit the assassin low, fast, brutal. They crashed to the ground. The world narrowed to muscle, breath, and blood.
The assassin twisted, his body fluid, his movements precise. The hunter felt a sharp elbow drive into his ribs—pain burst hot inside him, something cracked.
The assassin rolled free, grabbing for his weapon. The hunter lashed out, catching his wrist, twisting it. The weapon clattered to the pavement.
Fingers scraped against skin. Hands clenched into fists.
The assassin drove a knee into the hunter’s stomach. The world went white for a second.
A fist slammed into the assassin’s jaw. Cartilage crunched. His head snapped sideways, blood spitting from his mouth.
The assassin stumbled but recovered fast. He was trained—his movements sharp, merciless. He grappled, twisted, forced the hunter against the alley wall.
Pain flared in the hunter’s shoulder as it slammed against brick. He barely had time to react before the assassin’s fist came again—hard, direct, no wasted motion.
Another strike. Then another.
The hunter’s vision blurred. The pain became part of him.
But pain was an old friend.
He ducked the next punch and drove his head forward—skull against skull. The impact sent a sick crack through the alley.
The assassin staggered back.
The hunter pushed through the haze in his mind, launched forward.
They hit the ground again, rolling, grappling in the dirt. The assassin fought like an animal, a man with nothing left but the mission. The hunter fought with something deeper.
The world spun. Boots scraped against pavement.
Then the hunter’s fingers closed around his weapon.
He hesitated. Just a breath, just a second.
He had chased men before. Killed them before. It was always clean. Always easy.
Not this time.
His hand was steady, but something inside him cracked, like a fracture in glass too small to see but deep enough to spread.
The assassin saw.
Too late.
The shot flashed violet-white.
The assassin twisted, glowed—then was gone.
Erased.
There was no body. No blood. Just a stain of heat on the ground where he had been.
The hunter stayed on his knees, chest rising, falling. The world around him felt too quiet.
But the mission was over.
The Final Moment
The motorcade turned the corner. Cheers filled the air.
The hunter stood. His ribs ached, blood ran from his lip, his hands shook—but the job was done.
The air behind him shimmered. The wormhole flickered open.
He stepped toward it.
Then—the shots rang out.
One. Two. Three.
Sharp. Loud. Final.
Screams cut through the cheers.
The hunter did not turn around.
He stepped into the light.
The air rippled around him, bending for a second, then snapped shut.
History stayed on course. The world would survive.
Even if he would never forgive himself.
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III. The Podcast From The Washington Square Review About The Wormhole Killers
