THE LAST SHOT: by

by Matayo, Amy

  I reach for a water bottle and drain it at once just to have something to do.

  All I wanted to do was perform tonight, answer whatever texts had come through from Dillon, then climb on the tour bus, crack open a beer, and watch whatever was left of the Predators game on television. I bristle at my naivety. This job may have cost me everything—my safety, my freedom, quite possibly my life and the lives of a whole lot of innocent people. No wonder my mother hates it.

  Like I said, straight to freaking hell.

  I release a sigh and settle in next to G.I. Jane—it’s my secret nickname for her—needing to feel the warmth of her body next to me. Needing an escape from the darkness. Needing to feel something other than terror. Maybe I’ve been too forward in keeping my hand on her shoulder, or my leg against her leg, but knowing I’m not alone makes this situation a bit more bearable. Even at this moment, it’s all I can do to keep myself from reaching for her hand.

  “We’re going to make it out of here, Jane. The police are here and they’re going to rescue us.” I look at her even though I can’t make out her features. I imagine no-nonsense, mousy brown hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, muscular arms and legs—maybe too muscular—and a tough-to-crack veneer despite the earlier tears. I may have the picture all wrong, but the only thing I remember seeing before she dragged me in here was a flash of her neck when she shoved me inside. The rest is fabricated from an old Demi Moore movie I remember seeing as a kid; the one where she shaved her head and wore thin, white tank tops. Is Jane wearing camo pants? Is her hair buzzed around the ears? I can’t remember that, either. “Thank you for dragging me in here. I’m not sure where I would be if you hadn’t pulled me from the crane.” I stop talking, stuck on remembering how helpless I felt suspended in the air.

  “I’m not scared of much,” she surprises me by saying. “Not heights. Not spiders. Not confined spaces. Not strangers. Not guns. But tonight, I discovered that I’m terrified of being hunted. I know that sounds stupid since it’s my job to protect people. I always imagined that would involve throwing myself in front of a crazed fan or even taking a bullet to the chest if necessary. I never fathomed it would involve hiding in a closet while a crazed lunatic shot into the crowd on purpose. What is wrong with people? Of course, I’ve seen this sort of thing on the news, but this is something I never thought would happen to me. It was hard not to just take off running.”

  I wait for her to gather her thoughts. Some people speak eloquently—in long drawn out speeches accented with flowery words and forceful persuasions. Others speak the way they think—in starts and stops and sudden rewinds. Jane is the latter. It’s interesting. More than that, it’s sincere. Most unplanned, off-the-cuff things are, especially when delivered in words.

  “What kind of person would I be if I hadn’t pulled you off that crane? I know it was—and still is—my job to protect you, but I wish I could have done more. Grabbed another person or two. Yelled for others to follow me.”

  I don’t know what to say, how to assuage the unnecessary guilt she’s feeling. It’s understandable, but I say the only thing I can think of. “Who knows, maybe before this is all over, we’ll have the chance. And now that the police are here, hopefully this will be over soon.”

  I lean my head against the wall and blink up at blackness. From the moment we heard the first siren, I’ve been praying for this to end.

  Chapter Five

  Jane

  A typical episode of Law and Order goes like this: the show opens, and life for the main character is normal and routine. Maybe he’s a nine to five banker. Maybe she’s a stay-at-home mom who works part-time at the local library. Ten minutes later, the first hint of danger appears in the form of gloomy theme music. Da-dum. Da-dum. At the half-hour mark, the banker slash librarian is dead, and cops are closing in on the bad guys. Twenty minutes later, all is well and viewers are engrossed in the happily ever after, while at the same time watching in silent victory as justice is served.

  A trial commences.

  The bad guys go to jail.

  Detectives celebrate over a few rounds of beer at the local bar.

  Screen fades.

  Show over.

  In real life, we’ve been sitting here for minutes, and nothing at all has happened. The sirens indicated hope, but that was it for our rescue. No front door has crashed open, no shouting has commenced as the cops take down the bad guy. No cheers of gratitude have gone up from the hostages. No one has walked back here to tell us we can come out of hiding and head home.

  With every second that goes by, my spirits sink a little lower and my mood grows a little darker. But that isn’t the worst of it. Not even close.

  The shooter has gone silent. My mind screams. With every second of not knowing, my imagination grows. I expect the door to fly open and bullets to rain down on us, both of us wounded or dead by morning. I don’t like to imagine myself dying. An overactive thought process doesn’t pair well with tight and tense limbs. My head hurts from all the thinking. My neck aches from all the straining. My jaw hurts from all the clenching. But nothing hurts as bad as my heart. A mental image of splayed and dead bodies—those outside and my own in here— haunts me like I’ve never been haunted before. With every breath, Teddy squeezes my hand tighter. Where are the police? How long will it take them to make a move? Worse still, will he hurt anyone else before they finally take him down? How many more people will have to die?

  It’s brought me face-to-face with my own mortality, and I don’t much like the view.

  I haven’t been on the best terms with God in the last few years, not since my parents divorced. My dad—the stricter parent who made sure my butt was in a Methodist pew every Sunday I spent at his house—remarried and moved to Idaho. Regret runs deep on a few private issues, and currently, mine is that I should have rectified my God situation before today.

  Unlike me, I’m sure my father’s seven-year-old son has a direct line to heaven by now. I bet he’ll never find himself shut inside a six by seven space with a stranger wondering if today will be the last day he lives. Even if he does, he’ll probably know exactly where he’s going for eternity, and my dad will be right by his side the entire time.

  I’ll probably go straight from here to a two by eight box buried six feet under. The prospect is frightening, to say the least.

  “Teddy?”

  He rolls his head to the side, and I can feel his eyes on me through the blackness. This must be how the visually impaired experience life, and now I get it. They say when your vision is compromised, all your senses are heightened: sense of smell and hearing and taste and fear. I can feel everything Teddy does, even though I can’t see any of it.

  “What?” he whispers.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Stop it.” The firmness of his words surprises me. “We’re not going to die. I won’t let it happen.”

  “I think you’ve got it wrong. I’m supposed to be the one protecting you, not the other way around. But do you? Believe in Him, I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. But you’re the one who has it wrong. You might have been hired to be my bodyguard, but I’ll be damned if I go down without taking care of you. My momma didn’t raise a coward. I have bodyguards for when I’m out in public to keep crazy people from attacking me. They’ve tried a few times. But bodyguards aren’t for taking the fall when we’re locked inside a closet together. We’re on a level playing field now, sweetheart. Get used to it.”

  I should be offended by his term of endearment, especially considering I’m a woman and am quite certain he wouldn’t say that to a man. But I’m not offended, I’m touched. Teddy Hayes doesn’t consider himself more important than anyone else, no matter what the tabloids might want you to believe.

  “Alright. As long as you remember that it’s my gun in the corner, and I’ll use it if I have to.”

  He squeezes my fingers. “Be my guest. Just remember to warn me before you shoot, so I’ll have time to duck.”

  I
don’t respond, too sick at the thought. The only way I’ll need my gun is if the shooter discovers us in here. If that happens, warning Teddy will be the last thing on my mind. Killing the shooter will be the first. But despite my certainty, it does make me wonder.

  If I die today, where will I wind up?

  “Jane?” Teddy whispers.

  “What?”

  “Yes, I believe in God. And just so you know, I’ve been praying this whole time that He’ll take care of us.”

  I think about that, then relent. “Okay, I’ll start doing it too.”

  And I do, even though I’m not quite sure what to say or if anyone is even listening. All I know for sure is this: There are high points in life, and there are low ones.

  This is one of the lowest points I’ve ever experienced. We need all the help we can get.

  * * *

  Teddy

  The problem with the kind of praying we’re doing is that it’s the silent kind. Worthwhile, but lonely. And way too quiet. I know Jane is mostly a stranger, but the only sound on the other side of this wall is a low buzz of movement I can’t decipher—there’s no yelling, no threats, even the sirens have gone silent, I’m assuming because police cars are now in the parking lot. The gunfire has ceased for the time being, every one of my muscles is on alert and wound tight, and if I don’t have someone to talk to now, my mind might snap. Turns out hostage situations are better when faced with companionship and some semblance of sanity. It’s a lesson I never wanted or needed, but am still unfortunately faced with.

  “Are you okay? You haven’t said anything in the last few minutes.”

  “I’m praying like you told me to.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “To God?”

  “Yes.” Normally I would crack a joke—“No, to Bruce Willis”—but my sense of humor is currently nonfunctioning.

  She sighs. “Pretty much ‘please please please,’ and then multiply that times a thousand. I’m not sure how many pleases it takes for God to finally hear me.”

  I grin a little. Even to my wound-up brain, the image of G.I. Jane begging anyone, is cute. “I think the right answer is four hundred and seventy-two. I hope it works.”

  “Me too.”

  She nudges my knee with her own. It’s the first time she’s initiated contact even remotely, and it sends a little thud into my stomach. Apparently, parts of me still function just fine. Unlike oil and water, positive emotion and terror don’t separate when mixed; turns out you can’t survive one without searching for the other. Welcoming it, even.

  “How long do you think it’s been now?”

  She’s an authority in this situation, but she’s also afraid. For every minute that passes, the fear becomes more prominent, like irrational stage fright just before a performance even with an Grammy sitting on the mantle at home.

  “Six years. But in reality, I’m betting ten or fifteen minutes at most.”

  She shifts in place. I can hear her scratching her leg, picking at a fingernail, pulling at the strands of her hair. Fidgeting all over. I can’t say I blame her. Her breathing grows more prominent, and she sniffs. Crying? Probably. My nerves rattle around, bouncing across my chest, across the floor, looking for a place to land. Finally, they settle on the top of her head.

  She lowers her head to my shoulder without asking, without hesitation, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Maybe we have. Nothing about it is romantic, but everything about it is familiar. For a long time, we sit that way in silence.

  “Thank you for holding my hand.”

  It’s simple, but my chest catches. I never cry, but my eyes begin to sting anyway.

  “I won’t let go.” Do not give up. You have to survive this, is what I don’t say.

  “Please don’t.”

  I weigh it before I do it. And then I just give in because time isn’t guaranteed and who cares about propriety anyway? I rest my chin on her head and turn just a bit, so it feels an awful lot like we’re holding each other. The only thing I’m really holding is her hand, but that changes when she snakes an arm around my waist and rests it above the waistband of my jeans. The guard and the guarded; what a picture we would make if the door opened now. People magazine would have a fit with this, considering last month I informed them I rarely date.

  Of course, this isn’t a date—if it were it would be the worst date in the history of dates—

  but it sure as hell would look intimate in a photo. Let the paparazzi speculate. Jane has sacrificed her life to protect me, the least I can do is stay still and give her what she needs. What I need. Like it or not, this is helping. I keep my hand in hers and just let it be, her head on my shoulder and my chin on her head. Two people resting against a wall and taking companionship where they can get it. And right now, God knows we need it.

  I’ve heard this sort of thing happens; it happened when Dillon and Liam were stranded on that island together. When faced with a possible end, all pretense strips away, and humans reach out for one another. It’s when nothing matters but basic need, and isn’t that what it comes down to? People spend all their lives chasing possessions and money and status, but in the end, what they desire most is to be seen. To matter. In the end, basic need is all anyone wants.

  Maybe He hears prayers after all.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the need to lighten the moment to keep myself from doing something stupid, like kissing her. Or opening the door and taking the shooter down myself. I keep glancing at it, wondering what might happen if I flung it open and tried to end this once and for all.

  “As long as we’re in here, maybe we should play a game,” I say, dragging my gaze away from the thin sliver of light under the door. “You know, do something to pass the time. I’m going crazy wondering what’s happening out there, and I’d like to keep myself from making a big mistake.”

  “I’ll play, but do not get any weird, heroic ideas.” Her warning is wrapped in relief at the distraction.

  “I’m full of weird ideas, but right now, I’ll refrain. Ever played Say It?” I breathe in, out, silently commanding my heart rate to calm down.

  “No?” She asks it like a cautious question. “How do you play?”

  I keep my head on hers, her hand in mine, and talk into the blackness. “We ask each other questions, and the first person to refuse an answer loses.”

  She shrugs. “Okay, you go first.”

  “I need to think of one. Give me a second.”

  “This is your game. You should have had one ready.” Footsteps skitter outside the door, and she squeezes my hand tighter, burying her face into my neck. I hate this hate this hate this. “Hurry up before the breakdown I’m about to have takes over,” she whispers. I can feel her heart pounding into my arm, her hand shaking inside my own, so I think fast. Too fast.

  “Bottom or top?” I blurt, immediately regretting it. I slam my eyes closed and bang my head against the wall a couple of times.

  The room goes tense; it’s offended on her behalf.

  “I’m not answering that. Think of a different question or this game is over.” She keeps her head on my shoulder, so I take that is a positive sign.

  “Sorry, it was all I could think of under pressure.”

  Fear does odd things to your brain, occasionally demanding your mouth take part of the blame. Why on earth did I ask that question? For a long moment, Jane says nothing at all, likely thinking of ways to physically torture me without tipping anyone off to our whereabouts.

  “Honestly, Teddy,” she finally says, lifting her head to look at me. I feel her breath on my face. “You say you want to play a game to ease your anxiety, and then you go and ask a question like that. Is your anxiety eased, at least?”

  “Nope. I’m afraid it’s doubled now.”

  This makes her laugh quietly, but it sounds half-desperate as the absurdity of this evening rolls over her like a Mack truck. Soon I join her, even though nothing is funny. Clearly, our minds have cracked.


  “Why are we laughing?” she asks. It’s a valid question, one with an easy answer.

  “Because the alternative is worse.”

  The laughter drains out of both of us almost instantly, and she sighs. She sits up a little, but her hand stays put. I wouldn’t be able to let go if she tried. Her hand is the security blanket I gave up on my seventh birthday, reincarnated in female form.

  “Okay, I’ll try again. Rock music or country?”

  She scoffs. “Rock for sure, though I’m not a big fan of either.”

  My head snaps back. Not a big fan? “So…you just hate talented musicians, or you have no taste?”

  “I have taste. I just prefer classical music.. And maybe Elton John.”

  “Most eighty-year-old men prefer that too.”

  “I’ll ignore that comment,” she says. “Okay, my turn. Jennifer or Angelina?”

  “Both at the same time.”

  “You’re the worst.”

  I might think she was annoyed, but her head finds my shoulder again, and she still hasn’t let go of my hand. There’s light radiating from Jane, but I might be the only one who can see it in the darkness. It’s solid, comforting.

  I find it and don’t look away.

  Chapter Six

  Jane

  Can women really have it all?

  It was an easy question, but he still hasn’t answered. We’ve been playing this game for a few minutes now, and every question has been easy. And he was right, it’s made me feel a bit better. Less anxious, despite the constant fear and tension hovering like a third person in the room with us. For some reason, this question has stumped him. I need him to answer; too much silence might usher in unwelcome thoughts.

  “Teddy, you’re supposed to answer without thinking. It’s your rule.”

  He emits a low growl and bumps his head against the wall. It’s a light tap, so the sound doesn’t make me nervous.