by Stanley Gray
“El Paso is an interesting town. How long have you been here?” the man asked.
“What was your name again?” Tom blurted, trying to take some control over the situation.
“Mike. Mike Davenport. And you are?” Mike Davenport asked.
“Tom. Uh, Tom Martinez. I work for the Gazette. I’m the new arts reporter.” he said. After an awkward pause, he felt aware of the weight of his arm hanging limply by his side. Jerking it up, he thrust it at Mike.
Mike looked down, smiling, and shook Tom’s hand. He didn’t try to linger or make the touch anything more than the formal greeting it was.
Tom relaxed a little. “That painting…” he said. He allowed the sentence to trail off partly because of his inability to form words. The painting was ineffable. He could stare at it for hours and still divine new secrets every moment. “Why the bird?” Tom asked.
Mike moved a few paces to the left and looked at the painting, tilting his head a little as he studied it. “I honestly don’t remember. It seems very…fatalistic? Is fatalistic the right word?” Mike said. He chuckled. “I’m not very good with words. I tried poetry once. I’m a high school drop-out. Gay kid in El Paso, you know? It’s not always easy.” he said.
A shiver of panic moved through Tom. He tensed. He looked away. He bit his cheek so hard, he thought he might draw blood. Forming a fist, he dug his fingernails into the delicate flesh of his palm. Memories. Fragmented recollections filled the air with their tyrannical buzzing, and his heart sounded the air raid siren. The flashback strafed him, shooting holes in his ability to reason. Tom froze. He felt immersed in the moment when he had been forced. Forced into doing something so completely contrary to his nature.
He wanted to vomit.
Trying to calm himself, suddenly feeling hot and closed-in, Tom walked away. He didn’t mean to be rude. He just needed a moment to collect himself. Tom wondered if he would spend the rest of his life trying to escape the horror of that moment. He walked to the bar. There, offering the sanctuary of her smile, was the beautiful ebony bartender.
“Another Jack and Coke?” she asked.
“Could you make that two, please?” he asked.
She nodded and was moving away before he could even say thank you. The bar crowd had slackened quite a bit, and he had no trouble finding a seat this time. He half-sat on a stool while he waited, allowing his gaze to meander upwards towards the televisions above. News. Tom tore his gaze away. He didn’t want to watch the news. He already have enough negativity to deal with in his life, without having to internalize all that hateful doggerel.
The cable news crowd. They threatened continually to sour his views on what Tom otherwise still thought of as a noble calling. He knew what they were and what they stood for. Because they’d been a big part of what he’d been investigating before…before he ended up here. In El Paso.
The lovely bartender with southern drawl returned, handing him two glasses. He took them and thanked her, then walked back towards the painting. It struck Tom that still, no one was taking a real interest in it.
“Sorry I, uh, just split like that. May I offer you a drink to make up for it?” Tom asked. He pushed the beverage towards the painter, not waiting for him to say yes. The other man took it and they toasted, clinking their glasses together.
And then someone screamed.
Chapter 7
Someone screamed.
Tom took a sip from his drink. He looked around. He felt a little confused. Why would someone be screaming, here? People began walking rapidly towards the front exit, and his first thought was to guard the painting. He looked to Mike, who also seemed a bit perplexed.
“Thanks for the drink.” Mike said. They both collapsed into their own thoughts.
Tom began to draw out his piece for the event. He would do an interview with Mike, to spotlight a local artist. Because the man had actually seemed impressed with the fact that he worked for the shitty little newspaper in town, Tom pondered the possibility that he might be able to use this. He still really wanted that painting. He wanted to unlock its many mysteries. But he also desired to avoid paying everything he had for it, if he could.
As Tom sought discounts silently in his head, gunfire broke out.
The sound blasted through the quiet of the place. Coming in loud, violent bursts, the noise ricocheted off the walls. People began to scream. Bllllap, blap, blap. Three sharp, staccato bursts. The crowd moving towards the exits became a wave.
Tom and Mike looked at each other. Fear shone in the other man’s eyes.
Body hot, pulse buzzing and flying laps like an angry dragonfly, Tom tried to figure out what to do. Where were the shots coming from?
Bang, bang, bang!
Looking towards the thrashing crowd, seeing a few people that had fallen as they were pushed over by the more vigorous and healthy, Tom realized he would not be a match. Whoever it was that was firing into the crowd probably wanted this. He would be just one more target if he were to join the mob.
“Hey, Mike. Mke! C’mon.” Tom said. He motioned with one hand, and began moving towards the bar.
From above, he felt a whizz of air. His ears were ringing. Tom looked up, and he caught a glimpse of a ski mask. Not bothering to wait, he hurried up his pace. He ducked.
Whoever it was that was shooting was directly above, at the mezzanine level, and they were firing down into the crowd. Shards of debris flew everywhere. Dust created a thick and angry cloud. Tom found it hard to breathe.
He rushed to the bar, and then jumped over. Once behind cover, he peeked out, and saw Mike bumbling forward. Tom stood, and began motioning the painter, trying to silently encourage him with his hands.
Mike fell. He sat there for several moments, looking towards the upper level, something like pain and horror in his eyes.
Tom didn’t see her at first.
The beautiful bartender rushed towards Mike, a shotgun in her hands. She placed it on the ground. Kneeling, she reached out with one hand, and took his in her own. She pulled him forward just as another volley pierced the air.
A marble statue practically exploded. The dust formed a white cloud. People were trampling each other. A man walked past, hand to a wound on his head that gushed blood.
Somewhere in the distance, Tom imagined that he heard sirens. He pulled out his cell phone, and swiped to unlock it. Unable to figure out how to work his phone, his fingers leaden in that moment, he hit the button at the bottom to make an emergency call.
And he got a busy signal.
Throwing his phone to the ground, he shouted. He couldn’t hear the sound of his own agonized yell over the ringing in his ears and the chaos surrounding him. He yelled louder, pushing the full weight of his inner turmoil into the gesture.
It made him feel better.
As he knelt back down, hiding behind the bar, the sound of gunshots still flowing through the heavy air, he saw the bartender turn a corner, with Mike safely in tow.
Tom again took a moment to peek back out. He saw that the painting was still there.
Something told him to go for it.
Tom hesitated. He stared. He couldn’t quite believe what he was about to do. But, even though the thought didn’t fully form itself into a coherent whole in that moment of chaos. He understood one of the profound truths of life, then. It came to him almost as an epiphany. If we can’t protect the beautiful things in life, is life even worth living?
In that moment, all he knew was that this painting had taken on new nuances and levels of meaning. It became a metaphor for the hope that resided deep inside of him.
Tom jumped up onto the bar. He crouched down. He began skittering forward. Someone groaned nearby him. Tom turned. A short woman with gray hair caked with blood. One of her glasses lenses had broken, and her leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Tom looked from the woman to the painting, then back to her. He directed his gaze upwards. Not seeing any sign of the shooter, the gunshots seemingly far away, Tom
pushed the woman back so that at least she wouldn’t be in the direct line of fire from any psychos above.
Then he resumed his march forward. He felt determined.
Grabbing the painting, he shifted it back and forth until he finally got it loose from the wooden easel. As soon as he had it, he began to run.
He rushed behind the bar. He sat the painting against it, and then began searching for the bartender and Mike. They were both in a small closet, hidden behind a tall row of liquor bottles. The bartender watched the entrance with lupine awareness in her brown eyes. She gripped the shotgun so hard he thought she might break her wrist.
They remained silent, save the sound of their frantic breathing.
The gunshots seemed to be more sporadic now. It didn’t seem like the police were there, yet, but at least the gunfire had slackened.
“Are you okay?” Tom whispered, moving closer to the bartender. Her perfume lingered underneath the sweat and stench of fear. Something exotic, with a hint of cinnamon.
She nodded. Her eyes looked tired. She looked at Tom. Her mascara had run, leaving sludgy black trail down her face, as if she were having some sort of goth-emo crisis that needed immediate expression. She pushed the shotgun towards him. It made a slight screeching sound as it slid across the stone ground. Everyone tensed, looking towards the entry way.
Tom smiled. He chuckled, though he restrained himself from allowing the mirth to launch itself into full-on laughter. He tried to reflect on the irony. This woman, whom he didn’t even have a name for, was handing him, a lifelong newspaper writer, a gun. Perhaps it was the Jack and Coke, Tom thought wryly.
Tom possessed not even the slightest clue as to how to use a gun. He’d grown up under the tutelage of big-city liberals. He wasn’t ashamed of that fact, per se. But it sure would help him impress this woman right now if he knew how to use a firearm. But he wasn’t going to admit his ignorance. He took the gun and cradled it in his lap.
Unfortunately, he cradled it with the barrel pointing towards his own chest.
She reached over, a gentle smile creasing her cherubic mien, and reclaimed the large object of death and mayhem.
“You never told me your name.” Tom said.
She blinked. A sad smirk turned up the corners of her lips. “You never asked.” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.
“Well, what is your name?” Tom inquired.
“Hey, guys. Don’t let the gay guy bother you. I’m used to having art galleries and public events get shot up. Go back to flirting. Thanks.” Mike said.
They both looked at him. He sat there, knees to his chin, a panicked ball of manic energy that was only barely contained by the fear of whatever it was that lay out there, lurking.
Another gun shot went off. A solitary blast, but enough to send a shiver of fear down their spines. They all fell back into their previous state of hushed attentiveness, the bartender holding the gun.
Tom looked for his phone. He groaned, raising his hands to his face to stifle the sound. He turned red. He waved the other two away as he dismissed their angry glares. Getting up, he collapsed back down. His back hit the wall, and he screeched. His legs had gone numb after sitting there for so long. He reached down and massaged them, flexing his toes and trying to get some feeling back into his extremities.
After a few moments, he felt confident enough to risk standing. This time, it was a success. Crouching, he crab walked to the wall, where he gingerly peeked around the corner. Not seeing anything that would ring any alarm bells, he moved towards his phone. It sat on the floor just behind the bar. He snatched it up and scurried back to their alcove.
The silence of the building struck him. It seemed like they might be the only living, non-wounded people there, besides the shooter. Or shooters. This fact proved worrisome to Tom.
Moving close to the bartender, her whispered in her ear. He tried to ignore the alluring scent she put off. “Is there an exit nearby? We may be the only ones left alive in here.” he said.
She closed her eyes. Tom assumed she was thinking. He allowed her the time.
He felt helpless. He looked at his phone. He unlocked it, tracing a pattern of dots to do so. He tried again to make an emergency call.
At least this time he didn’t get a busy signal.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the female operator asked.
“I’m at the Mayhew Gallery, the art gallery. There’s been a shooting.” Tom said. Four eyes were glued to him as he spoke.
“Yes, sir. Police are on their way. Are you hurt? Are you safe?” the woman dispatcher asked.
“Yeah. I guess. We’re…inside the building.” he said.
Something strong, a deep and persistent intuition overrode his reason and screamed in all caps in his brain not to tell the operator where they were.
“Where at in the building, sir?”
Tom looked around. His palms were sweating. He felt his chest growing tighter. His neck started to ache. He decided to indulge his hunch. “On the bottom floor, by the restrooms.” he said.
“Okay, sir. Help is on the way. Just stay where you are, and remain calm.” Then the operator disconnected.
“Why did you tell them we’re somewhere we’re not.” The bartender said, the words coming out in almost a hiss.
He ignored the sibilant anger that resided in that accusatory statement.
“You still didn’t tell me your name.” he said.
She actually smiled. “Delilah. Delilah Sampson.” she said.
They all waited, immersed in the anxious silence. Mike rocked back and forth, humming. Tom fiddled with his pants leg and tried to avoid staring at the woman next to him. Delilah had her eyes closed.
Each of them jumped when the shots busted through the quiet.
A shiver of panic coursed through Tom’s veins, like some angry corsair sailing the high seas. He felt his poor heart begin the now-familiar process of speeding up rapidly without warning. Looking around, Tom started to get up. He took it a little slower this time, having learned a lesson the last time. He crept around the corner towards the bar. As he went, he grabbed the shotgun. Delilah looked at him. At first, she refused to relinquish her hold on the large firearm, but then she simply surrendered it. The energy to resist seemed to be leaving her.
Peeking over the bar, he saw a masked figure over by the bathrooms. A small, lithe person, something about the physical structure of the shooter screamed femininity. Tom stared. A black balaclava-style ski mask covered her facial profile. But he noted the curves, the diminutive stature, the subtle outline of breasts poking against the black turtleneck sweater. The obsidian cargo pants offered no additional clues; the boots the presumed woman wore appeared relatively clean.
He slowly lowered himself. He allowed himself to breathe. For some reason, in that moment of calm and euphoria, he felt the sudden urge to laugh. Why would anyone wear a turtleneck sweater in Texas? he wondered. Once again, he raised a hand to his mouth to stifle any unnecessary noises.
The fact that this was a woman captured his attention. Not just because that seemed to be an anomaly- most active shooters were male, from his own research on the topic. A memory flashed before his eyes. A van. A white van. Stationed outside of his home.
The driver had been a woman.
As he turned to head back to the alcove where his two companions hid, he saw the painting he’d risked life and limb to go retrieve. He smiled dolefully. Tom decided he wasn’t going to leave here alive without it. He grabbed it. He had to reach his arms out wide to carry it. The canvas covered his entire upper body, and made it a bit difficult to see around. He knocked into a corner as he tried to navigate his way back.
Setting the art piece down in front of the alcove, he remembered the shotgun and rushed back in a crouch to retrieve it.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Delilah asked, her whisper fierce and tenacious as she stared at him with an angry glare hot enough to melt plastic. She slapped Tom on the head so hard it stung, then
plucked the gun from his hands. “Give me that.” she said.
“We need to leave.” Tom said.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Delilah said.
“We need to leave now.” Tom said.
“Aren’t we waiting,”
“No.” Tom interrupted. “Call me crazy later, if you want.” Tom looked down. “If you still talk to me.” he said, his voice wounded and lowered. Even in the face of death, the idea that Delilah would no longer want to talk to him after they were removed from harm’s way hurt. He cleared his throat. “Look, I think the… shooter, I think they may have been sent here to get me. Or something. I don’t know. But those gunshots…”
“They were at the bathroom?” Delilah wondered aloud.
“Yeah.” Tom said.
Delilah put a hand on her chin and her eyes became suddenly distant. “There is an exit nearby. The one we use to take the trash out. It might sound an alarm if we go out right now, though.” She paused. A look of fear flitted through her eyes. “We’d have to go out into the hallway.” she said.
Tom bent down so that he could be eye-level with Mike. “You think you can make a run for it with us?” he asked.
Mike shook his head weakly. He muttered something. He was still rocking back and forth. His eyes seemed focused on something far away.
Reaching out, he put a hand on the man’s leg. He squeezed. Not too tight, just enough to get the man’s attention. “I need you to be strong. Just for a minute, okay? We need to go. We need to get out of here, okay? Can you just follow Delilah and me?” he asked.
Finally, Mike nodded. “Okay.” Tom said. He stood up. He looked for several moments at the painting. He wanted to take it.
“No.” Delilah said.
“What? It’s beautiful.” Tom said.
“If it’s still here after, we can come back and get it. No.” she said, repeated her orders again.
“Alright. Lead the way.” Tom said. They still spoke in hushed tones.
“You’re going to have to take this. Just point and shoot. It’ll probably…” Delilah turned to conceal the smile that spread across her face. “It’ll probably knock you back a bit, if you have to shoot it. So, I guess try to think o’ that. I mean, it’s not really a precision weapon, so you only need it if they’re close enough, anyway. But, it’s better than nothin’.” she said.