"It has to be somewhere!"
He hears the door jam of the front door giving way under the pressure. Whatever is trying to get in would; soon.
He pulls out each drawer of his dresser and dumps them. As the pile of boxers, socks and t-shirts grow the gun remains missing.
"What the FUCK!?!", he screams.
He hears the cracking downstairs. He has to find the gun before the non-model extra-cost upgrade door gives up. Kicking the pile of clothes he sets his head on a swivel. He imagines lasers shooting from his eyes scanning the room like Superman with X-ray vision.
Under the bed? No. Lamp table? No. Behind the books?
It sounds like breaking bones as the wood around the door splinters into a shower of toothpicks and wooden shrapnel.
He smells its breath from upstairs.
It has be behind the books.
It has to be.