Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance

by Michael Paul Gonzalez

  Shooting three in a row. It feels cowardly. I know, the end results are all that matter, but killing at a distance doesn’t really feel like killing at all. Part of me hungers to feel it, feel the breath leave someone’s body, see the spark fade. It scares me, but I have to know. I have to know because it will open doors. And part of me knows it’s another line to cross, another forward step that can never be retraced.

  I want to get my hands dirty. I won’t love it, but I’ll need to get used to it. The next chunk of the list will be far more up close and personal. In the meantime, I need a new rifle. Progress is progress, no matter how you look at it.

  Across the room, the clock strikes ten. I’ll have to get copies of some of these maps to study later. That means talking to Frances again. A woman’s got to do what she’s got to do.

  A flicker. A little bolt at the corner of my vision. I look out the window: nothing. This being City Hall, there are a lot of vermin here, both the literal and figurative kind. But whatever just moved across my sight was no mouse. No bug. Too bright and red. I wait for my pulse to slow down and go back to my studies. Every hair on my body is standing up, even the phantom hairs on my legs. If this is what I think it is, sudden movement probably won’t help.

  The drawback of the City Central is that the large government buildings are surrounded by the even more monstrous buildings of the downtown business strip and the Gothic Promenade Mall, like this grand old structure is ground zero of the population explosion. Good old urban sprawl. A shooter’s best friend and worst enemy.

  It’s when I look down at the map that they make it obvious. A bright red dot, smack in the center of my paper. It moves, slowly, across the table and over my hands before climbing my chest and circling there for a while.

  Somebody’s got me sitting dead red.

  You live by the sword, you die by the sword. If they were going to shoot, they would have pulled the trigger years ago. This is more of the same intimidation shit. They want me to know they know. So, a quick deduction tells me that it could be one of two things:

  I have something or know something that they need.

  Or…

  They don’t mind who I kill, as long as I don’t get close to their boss.

  I take my time rolling up the maps and laying them across my lap. I leave the books spread out, alongside Frances’s extra efforts.

  Now, here’s a dilemma. Do I try to look tough and wheel my way to the elevator, turning my back on them? Or, do I back up, keep my eye on them and show them that I acknowledge their presence?

  Either way, they’re getting the finger before I leave.

  I should be scared but I’m not. I don’t feel much anymore. I’m not psychotic. This much I know. What I am doing is not a cry for help. What I am doing is not self-destruction. God knows I’ve had enough of that. I want to live. For at least another two weeks. It’s about all I’ll need. Then we’ll see. I cherish my life. It is because I cherish my life that I’m doing any of this.

  I have eight people left to live for, and I’m going to lose them all. They’ve taken half of me, and they’ll have to fight for the rest. And I don’t care how much it hurts or even if it kills me. I’ve lost any sense of hesitation I may have once had. And the thrill that comes with that, with riding the crest between life and death at any moment, it’s delicious. It’s better than sex or chocolate, and Lord knows those were my two legal vices in my other life. Now I only have one.

  I am bringing justice.

  God, that sounds pathetic, I know. I’m just angry. Just an angry woman looking to solve her problems. The truth is always far from poetic and never too exciting. But the stuff about the chocolate stands.

  As much as I’ve tried to ignore it and keep working, the sniper is still waiting. Professional courtesy. I’ve glanced around enough to know this isn’t a distraction. The only person trying to sneak up on me here is the size of a water buffalo and in love with me.

  I could wait this out. I fell asleep here in the library once. The drawback, of course, is Frances. Last time, I woke up to his roundness towering above me, just folding his hands and staring. Staring at where my legs used to be. I’m a notoriously heavy sleeper. Could sleep through an earthquake. I actually did once. So who knows what else Frances might have done while I dozed? Who knows why he was folding his hands, why he was staring?

  He probably wanted to touch them. So many people want to touch them, run their hands over the smoothness of each dome, feel the scars, the hard protrusion of what’s left of my femur. It’s not that some perversity might have taken place that bothers me. I’ve had enough indignity in my life that I can’t be bothered with such things. It’s the objectification.

  Some handicapped people choose to call themselves “differently-abled.” “Handi-capable.” What a load. Only someone not permanently bound to a chair for life would think of something like this. Or someone fresh in the seat, trying to convince the world and themselves that nothing’s changed, they just have to try harder now. They have nothing but time.

  I make sure not to have that luxury. We’re different all right. We get a very special gift. We get to be the center of attention everywhere we go. People either cater to our every whim, or they stare at us like we’re going to explode or fall apart or hurt somebody.

  Apparently, I’m not reacting enough for the shooter. The light on my chest starts to blink. They’re picking spots. Hand. Chest. Hand. Neck. Re-sighting while the laser is off, turning the laser back on only to prove how accurate they are without it. Very nice. I fight hard to suppress my smile. They think I’ve forgotten about them. I have a little bit of an upper hand now.

  The elevator’s coming again. I still haven’t moved from the table, so Frances must have found something even niftier to bring me. I wonder if he’ll see the light on my chest.

  “Here’s an extra map I found.”

  Jesus, he’s breathing like a boiling teapot.

  “It looks like there have been some changes to three of the north-side parks in the last four years, and plenty more changes on the way. There are four-dozen imported oaks near the soccer fields. They rolled them in here fully grown, huge right out of the forest. Our tax dollars at work. Geez, with all the crime here, you’d think they had better things to spend money on—”

  I hold out my hand and Frances places the map there reverently, a page giving the queen her scepter. I use the map to point at some of the photos across the way, and of course, Frances pounces like a big eight-hundred-pound blob of a jungle cat. Perfect.

  He moves in between the window and the elevator, and for once, I’m quite pleased with his appearance. I may have to buy him a gift certificate for more burgers.

  Frances is my shield. My final proof the sniper was not out to kill me. Unless he was packing some kind of single-shot bolt action rifle, he could have taken Frances down and followed with a fast shot to my head.

  I look out the window, but the sniper has already capped his laser. He’s not giving anything away.

  I wheel back to the elevators quickly, motioning to Frances. I wave my copy card at him. He lumbers to the elevator, still taking up the whole aisle, probably with a red light dancing across the rolling hills of his back. Not that the sniper would shoot. Sometimes, just the idea that with a motion of your finger you could change a life, is enough.

  Frances squeezes into the elevator. The smell is horrid. All grease and old Bakelite and unwashed crevices of flesh. I can hear his breathing over the machinery. It seems like even standing in an elevator is something of an effort for Frances.

  As we begin to lower, I look towards the window and flip the bird. The red light dances across my middle finger and down to my heart. Somebody out there has a sharp eye. I’m below the floor before I can get a good look out the window.

  Frances notices my finger and starts to laugh.

  “Yeah, I hate research too. I had a hard paper to finish once, you know, before I decided to stop college…”

  And on
and on and wheeze and on and sweat and on and on…

  By the time I get my copies and escape Frances, I almost hope the sniper is waiting outside to put one through my heart.

  Chapter Six

  Let’s go for a walk.

  Why not?

  I’ve got legs again, and damned if I’m not going to use them. Why shouldn’t I cartwheel? Why shouldn’t I wear the shortest shorts I can find? These dreams are always so strange. I’m coated in makeup, choking through the smoke in a red room.

  Not red.

  The light is red.

  The room is filthy…swarming with people. Everyone drinking…

  It’s a bar.

  Okay. What am I doing in here?

  Getting a lot of looks, that’s one thing. People are aghast, if I may use such a word. The room rocks slightly, shifting as I walk. Like the floor is made of rubber, or maybe I’ve been drinking.

  Everyone rushes towards me, a few of them holding towels, napkins, anything. Reaching for my face.

  Everything in the room is either red light or shadow. I thought maybe my legs were dirty, but they’re splotchy. Dark black splotches barely visible in the dimness. Maybe these aren’t cutoffs I’m wearing. Maybe my pants were torn. I’m bleeding. I’m hurt.

  But look at my legs! No cuts…where did the blood come from? How could I ever have taken these things for granted? God, I would spend all night rubbing them and squeezing the flesh, but this crowd gathering around me is already giving me strange looks. Every time I turn my head, there’s a shower of droplets.

  I push some of the people away. Blood and anger, do not touch me. There’s a voice bellowing at the entrance to the room, I think it was saying my name, but I couldn’t make it out. The others back off instantly. I should get out of here. I should sit down. But then again, I could bleed to death. Maybe I’m good to leave. Maybe I’m just wobbly drunk, okay enough to drive to the hospital.

  What can I do?

  The center of the room clears out. I’d say it was happening quickly, but nothing is fast for me right now. There’s a scuffle. People tangled up in the middle of the floor. A man pushing his way free from a mob. He was fighting someone, and that someone is down and bleeding worse than me. When that voice at the door calls out again, he bolts, heading for the exit. He looks at me, and his eyes say a lot. There’s anger there. Love, anger, release.

  Something taps my foot. A bottle, the bottom half of a broken bottle, rolling on the floor. Someone in here got sliced. Or maybe it was me.

  The whole room goes jumpy, shaking and tumbling and watching and waiting. The man finally reaches the exit, flying out the door with a herd of angry people in tow.

  Might as well go and see what’s happening.

  I sway through the door. The night air in the city is horrible when it’s just finished raining. All humidity and odor. The whole haze of pollution is dragged down by the water to the street, where it evaporates, never soaking in. Rain brings the filth of the skies down to our level. And it’s too damn humid; it’s like trying to breathe tomato soup. I feel like I’m choking on the air. My whole face is wet. My jaw feels like it’s out of place.

  I take the steps one at a time, crumbling concrete lifting me slowly back to the alley. Underground bar…is this the kind of place I would have let my legs take me? I want to leave, but there’s something happening out here that I have to see. Somebody is calling my name. Calling for help. Screaming.

  Now there are other voices, orders, the man from the bar sounds like he’s been pinned down.

  I’m walking down a corridor of trash bags and dumpsters, homeless people and club kids waiting to get into the basement I just pushed out of…Kids, so young they shouldn’t be here, not this late, not in this part of town. If any of them have noticed any of this, they’re doing a good job of hiding it. Or rather, they know better than to notice what’s happening.

  At the end of the alley, a mound of people pulls away from a man, he’s down. Someone’s shaking something over him, a little tin box. The smell of gasoline.

  Thunder rips the sky and it starts to rain. Washing me, making me pure. It’s cold enough to make my face go numb, and now my lips are buzzing and the water is cascading strangely off my chin and I don’t know why. It burns. It makes my chin feel like rubber. I touch my jaw and even with all of this rain, my fingers come back coated in my blood. Something is stuck near my chin. At first I think it might be my necklace tangled up, but it’s too big. Too round. And it hurts when I tug at it, whatever it is. But like any annoying scab, I have to pick at it. Grab it and pull. Like ripping out a Band-Aid.

  Only it’s not a Band-Aid. Even when the lightning flashes, making it clear that what I’m holding is the top half of a broken bottle, still perfectly round, I can’t believe it. Bits of my flesh stuck in some of the cracks, my blood soaking the label, and I’m worried that the last thing I’ll smell is the hops and barley of this cheap swill.

  Someone grabs me from behind and spins me and I fall. At the edge of the alley, I see the man creep around the corner on all fours. I watch him retreat and my chest fills with air. The pelting of the rain swallows my scream. I gasp to scream again, and the rainwater is like acid on my tongue.

  I hit the ground, and across the way I see a big white SUV, the rear door open, the faint silhouette of a girl there, green-skinned and rings around her eyes.

  Pinkish water sluices down my front and my legs and I’m like a newborn. Covered in blood and screaming incomprehensibly at the world. My legs are clean. White, clean, shivering. New, so new. This is worth it. A new beginning. This is what I’ve waited all my life for.

  The sky above me is blotted out with silhouettes. My eyes swim and the men towering above me look just like the downtown skyline from the balcony of the library. Tall, featureless, angry architecture. A blinding flash explodes at the far end of the alley. It’s not lightning. Too orange, blue, red. Too small. Swirling like a tornado in the night wind. They’re letting me watch this, they want me to see it. The pain in my jaw, my body, it’s nothing compared to the implosion in my chest. My heart is breaking. I feel it tearing, beating, losing something that I can do nothing about.

  Him.

  And her.

  A siren rips through the alley and they scatter.

  I tip my head back and scream some more, just to hear my own voice, I’m in control of this, this flashback, just a flashback, just a dream of something that happened a long time ago in a life far, far away and now I only have one recourse, one road to walk, one thing to do. Dreams are useless, flashbacks are nothing. What matters is primal.

  Animal needs.

  Territory.

  Revenge.

  What’s mine is mine and my honor is mine and why won’t the sky ever close over this city?

  Is there so much dirt here?

  The rain never stops, it never stops, never stops…

  Chapter Seven

  I wake up screaming. Sucking breath, slapping at the walls, unsure of anything: where I am, who I am, what happened? Seconds turn into minutes, and nothing resolves. My left hand feels numb, fingers still loosely curled around the shiny bottle. It’s a little emptier now. As best as I can, I loosen the tubing with my right hand.

  Looks like I backslid a little.

  Another night in my van. One of these times, it’s all going to catch up to me. Cops, creeps, someone is going to bust into this van and finish me. But at least it’s not raining. The sky is overcast, full of clouds, a gray lumpy mass that looks like my mouth feels. I roll down my window and dangle the bottle by my fingertips. It would be so easy to let it drop.

  You need me.

  Do not.

  You’re going to get hurt.

  I can handle it.

  Go ahead and toss me.

  I lift up my hand and let the bottle drop. Even still, my hand swoops down and tries to catch the bottle. It bounces once on the concrete, chipping but not breaking, and I still hear it.

  You still have ei
ght bottles left in your bag. You’re not fooling anybody.

  I’m fooling myself, and that’s good enough. I still feel invincible. How many things could have happened to me while I was in a stupor here? I’m lucky I’m not working near the shady part of town.

  I once spent an entire night in a drainage ditch. That was the night I had to leave the Baldacci scene. Lord, was that one messy. Some nights, what’s left of my jaw still gives me trouble from where I fell down and cracked it on the sidewalk. I have an eight-inch scar on the stump of my right thigh from having to “run” without my legs. That night felt like forever.

  I learn as I go.

  Personally, I think I’ve gotten pretty good. I might botch the small details, but I get the desired result. The world is a happier place. So why am I so unhappy? Dealers, wife beaters, vandals. They shouldn’t get news time. They should be the 8-point print in the police blotter, somewhere in the back of the paper where few dare to read. Their messy endings should be printed between foreclosure auctions and speeding tickets, name changes and domestic disturbances. But they’re front page news. Just like me, and I plan to stay there. You only have to do one of two things: keep killing or get caught. I plan for the former.

  I’m driving towards the heart of the city, listening to the water hissing underneath my car, like one long ripping strip of newsprint. I’m a little giddy, and it’s not the drugs. It’s the same rush of adrenaline that used to come at age eight on the way to the toy store. I need legs, so, a meeting with my supplier is in order. I know he’ll be a little disappointed in my performance, but he’s got a soft spot for me. He’ll get me what I need. Back on my feet again in no time.

  If there is anyone left in the world I can call a friend, it’s Joe. To the buying public, he’s Joseph Colton Beckmann, owner of Surplus Military Warehouse. G.I. Joe to his friends. Joe is a disgruntled veteran who sells surplus military field supplies to the public, and military material of a more interesting manner to the people in the shadows. In his spare time, Joe is a craftsman of sorts. He has a lot of leftover airplane parts, sheet metal, pipes, tubes, wires, tires, glass and rivets.