Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  As the words left my mouth, I realized how much that statement might apply to me. Happily, Mrs. Shadid didn’t pursue that direction.

  “That’s paranoid,” she said.

  “There are over a dozen federal laws controlling firearms, and hundreds more on state and local levels. Those gun lobbies and organizations keep pushing for the right to bear arms, and more and more regulations keep getting passed that limit that right. That’s not paranoia. It’s history.”

  “You mentioned the assault weapon ban. But that man in Pennsylvania, the one in the hotel room with all the rifles who shot people at an outdoor concert, he shot seven hundred people. He had assault weapons.”

  “Do you remember the class where I explain the difference between automatic and semi-automatic weapons?”

  Mrs. Shadid nodded. “Fully automatic is where you hold the trigger and it keeps firing. Semi-automatic is where you have to pull the trigger each time.”

  “Right. The Reinhold Stadium shooter technically had semi-automatic weapons. But he used an aftermarket product called a bump stock. It uses recoil to sort of throw the trigger against the shooter’s finger. The accuracy suffers a lot because the rifle is shaking, but it allows a shooter to fire hundreds of rounds per minute. Because the mechanism is different, it got around the legal ban. There are other things that can do the same thing. An auto sear—”

  She interrupted. “What’s the point of making laws if there are ways around them? Like the gun show loophole?”

  Businesses with a Federal Firearms License were required to do criminal background checks on every gun sale, either in their shop or at a gun show. The private sale exemption was a way around that. I own a .38. If I wanted to sell it to Mrs. Shadid, I could, without a background check. To make it even scarier, an FFL holder is allowed to sell a weapon from their personal collection as a private sale, without having to run a check. In rare cases, you have a gun shop owner who goes out of business, so all of his stock becomes part of his personal collection. Then he could sell hundreds of guns without a license or an NICS.

  That extended to Internet purchases, depending on state laws.

  Lots of things scared me when it came to guns.

  But the loophole scared me most of all.

  “Close the loophole,” I said without any hesitation. “Congress voted to close this in February of 2019. We’ll see what the Senate does. I hope it passes. Private sellers should have to go through a licensed dealer, who would get a percentage for the trouble. It will take longer, and it’s more expensive, but law-abiding gun owners should accept it as a cost for their right to bear arms. Just like we accept the recurring costs for owning cars and property.”

  “But you said it yourself. Fixing this won’t fix the problem. No matter how many laws are passed, the gun violence problem in this country won’t go away. What are we supposed to do, Jill?”

  A memory came back, unbidden. “When I was in grade school, I was bullied. An older girl, taller, heavier. Knocked my books out of my arms when we were in the hallway. Pushed me around on the playground. Threw mud at me on Halloween, ruining my costume. I told my mother about it. She said I had two choices. I could let her take care of it by talking to my teachers and confronting the girl’s parents. Or I could take tae kwon do lessons and deal with her myself.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took the lessons, stood up to her, and gave her a black eye. Then her parents complained to the principal, and I got expelled.” I shrugged. “This country has a problem. There are no easy answers. And we can’t depend on anyone else to do the right thing. Not our politicians or judges or police officers. Not our friends and neighbors. And certainly not those who want to do us harm.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, Mrs. Shadid, that we live in a country where bad people have guns. We need to do whatever we can to try and stop that from happening. Until we come up with the solution to keep guns out of the hands of criminals, there is only one way to level that field.”

  “That’s the answer? Arm yourself?”

  “I don’t like it, either,” I admitted. “But if you don’t defend yourself, who will?”

  “It’s not a gun control problem; it’s a cultural control problem.”

  BOB BARR

  “I’m a Texan–my idea of gun control is hitting what you aim at and nothing else.”

  BLAKE FARENTHOLD

  GAFF

  This is the Merican XCQ-TER9, holds thirteen plus one 9mm rounds. Polycarbonate frame, striker fire, fiber optic tritium sights, threaded barrel for the attachment of a compensator, curved and rounded body so it doesn’t snag on clothing. It’s the best handgun currently available for personal defense.” The guy winked. “Or offense.”

  “Can I hold it?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  He picked up the firearm, pulled the slide back to make sure it wasn’t loaded, and handed it to me, butt-first.

  The gun fit my hand like I’d been born holding it.

  “Feels sexy, doesn’t it?”

  I never understood sexy. Puberty came @ me, and my body changed accordingly, but I never had those urges my health-ed teachers talked about. Pornography, even the really weird stuff, didn’t do anything for me. Get laid? I’d rather watch YouTube vids of screws being cast @ a metal factory. Most satisfying video evah.

  But the Merican was sick AF.

  The grip felt perfect. Effortless. Weight nice. So much lighter than that magnum I’d held earlier.

  I raised it up, peering down the sights, which winked @ me bright green.

  I aimed @ a car.

  Imagined it was a long line of people.

  “Can I dry fire?”

  “You can pull the trigger. Won’t fire without a magazine inside.”

  I squeezed the trigger. It felt loose. No click.

  “Do you got mags?”

  “A’course.”

  “High capacity? Extended?”

  “MGC doesn’t make aftermarket mods for its firearms. That could be misinterpreted by the ATF and those anti-gun asshats. But I know a few booths at the show that could set you up with drum magazines. High capacity, fifty to a hundred rounds each.”

  “A compensator is for tip-up, right?”

  “Partly. It also suppresses the sound, like a silencer. But, sure, a compensator can balance the recoil, especially if the weapon is giggled-out.”

  WTF?

  “You can put a giggle switch on this?”

  “You know what a giggle switch is?”

  #HellsYeah.

  “You put it on the end of the slide, replacing the back plate. It makes the gun fully automatic.”

  “You know a lot, dude.”

  “I thought those were illegal.”

  “It’s a gray area. I may know a seller that has one.”

  “Here?”

  He nodded. “They’re expensive. And you wouldn’t want to get caught with it, especially installed on the Merican. But by itself, it’s just a harmless little hunk of metal. A paper weight. You can buy them online, from China, for cheap. A’course, you gotta wait six weeks for shipping. Some folks don’t like to wait.”

  I switched the Merican to my other hand. I can use both hands the same.

  Grip felt good.

  Felt right.

  I aimed @ another car.

  Imagined people running away. Bleeding. Screaming.

  “How much?”

  “You got a caliber in mind?”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “The XCQ-TER3 is a .380. Plusses; smaller, lighter, easiest trigger pull. Three-eighty is the kind of bullet James Bond uses. Assassins like it for the head shot. It’ll enter the skull but not have enough energy to exit. Instead it bounces around inside, scrambling up the brain. Quietest of the four. Ammo is the cheapest. Grip is easier for smaller hands. Minuses; not much power. If the target is behind cover, it may not penetrate. No aftermarket drum mags. Shorter barrel means less
accuracy.”

  “Does it have a giggle switch?”

  “None of these firearms come giggled out. Paperweights are aftermarket. But, yeah, some are out there. A little hard to find.”

  “What about the .45?”

  “XCQ-TER4 is the biggest and baddest in the family. Plusses; stopping power. Penetration. It’ll kill the target in front of it, plus whatever is behind it. Minuses; much heavier, and louder. Ammo is expensive. Gives your hand a real workout after you fire off a box or two.”

  “And this one?” I held up the Merican in my hand.

  “You’re holding the XCQ-TER9. The 9mm and the .40 are similar. Both have their propogandists. They’re more powerful than the .380, not quite as powerful as the .45. Nine ammo is cheaper than the .40, and a little lighter. More common. The forty is a heavier bullet. Rule is; bigger bullet, bigger hole. But it has a harder recoil. If I were shooting, say, two hundred rounds, I’d rather shoot the nine.”

  “Giggle switches and drum mags?”

  “Available for both.”

  “Silencers?”

  “We need to call them compensators. Silencers are in that legal gray area. Again, available for both. But more options with the nine.”

  “What about laser sights?”

  “Like a dot target? All four models have the same Pics—Picatinny rails. Pretty much any sight will fit any of them.”

  The XCQ-TER9 sounded like the best option.

  Plus, now that I held one, I really didn’t want to give it back.

  “How much?”

  “That one in your hand, with a case, lock, manual, hex wrench, two seventeen round mags, and some cleaning brushes… four hundred bucks.”

  I’d done my research. That was cheap.

  “Is it used?”

  “It’s brand spanking new. But I dig the vibe I’m getting from you. And I’m a salesman. I sell you this gun, you tell all your friends about it, they buy it at retail price at local shops, and I make more money in the long run. Make sense?”

  It would make sense if I had any friends. But for four hundred, I couldn’t pass this up.

  “Do you take cash?”

  “It’s America.” He smiled. “Cash is king.”

  I turned away and opened my wallet, taking out enough. I handed it over.

  “Thanks, dude. You’re now the proud owner of a Merican XCQ-TER9.”

  “Don’t you have to check ID?”

  “Are you eighteen?” He looked @ me like he didn’t care what age I was.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we’re cool.”

  He was also supposed to ask if I had a criminal background. I didn’t push the issue.

  “Do you believe that we have a right to privacy?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Even from the government?”

  Another nod.

  “I believe that, too. We already got the NSA up in our grill every time we fire up our WiFi. Two adults, doing a private firearm transaction, doesn’t need government interference. We don’t even need names. I don’t know you, you don’t know me. It’s better that way. Agreed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now you were asking about aftermarket mods, right? Drum mags? Compensators?”

  “And the giggle switch.”

  “A’course. Put your Merican in your car, meet me by the entrance. I’ll introduce you to a few cool dudes.”

  “I will teach my children weapons and warfare, so they might teach their children science and law, so they might teach their children art and literature.”

  GREEK PROVERB

  “We have to face the fact that meaningful gun control has to be a part of homeland security.”

  JEH JOHNSON

  JACK

  After a short but pensive silence, Mrs. Shadid asked, “Did you need more coffee?”

  I stared into the bottom of my empty mug. “If I have another I’ll be jittery.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  I checked my phone.

  Still ten minutes until my class. I agreed to more caffeine.

  “It’s a yes. Thank you.”

  She went for refills. When she brought mine back, I sipped it quietly, contemplating the best way to wrap up the conversation.

  “Thanks again for the coffee and the conversation, Mrs. Shadid. I hope I got you to understand that at least a few people who support the Second Amendment aren’t crazies who want every child to have an automatic weapon.”

  “I already knew that, Jill. People like you don’t worry me. I’m worried about the crazies.”

  Me too. “We could continue this later, if you like.”

  “I’d like that. But I don’t believe I’m going to attend your class today. I’m not in the mood to see another gun.”

  “No guns today. My mother is bringing her Kevlar vest. We’re going to talk about body armor, and everyone can try it on.”

  I regretted the words the moment they left my lips. Besides discussing body armor, I also meant to discuss what to do during an active shooter situation.

  Mrs. Shadid, of all people, probably didn’t want to hear that.

  “Maybe some other time.”

  Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

  No pun intended.

  Mrs. Shadid left ahead of me. I searched the tree for our lizard friend, and found him perching on a palm frond, judging me with his beady black eyes.

  “Storm is coming,” I told him. “Make sure your family is safe.”

  He scurried off.

  What did animals do during hurricanes? I took a quick imagination break, picturing the lizard grabbing his lizard wife and lizard kids and hopping into a tiny Prius, heading north.

  Drive fast, little dude.

  I rolled out of there. One benefit to being in a rehab/retirement/nursing facility was the wheelchair accessibility. Ramps and automatic doors were everywhere. Somewhere in the last couple of years—maybe it was generational, or maybe a social media side-effect—chivalry sort of vanished. In my mother’s time, people stood up when a woman entered and left the room, pulled out her chair at the dinner table, held out their arm to hold when strolling.

  When I was younger, boys paid for dates, and bought flowers and candy.

  I didn’t miss much of that. But since being in a chair, I missed men who held doors open for women. One time I couldn’t get into a shop because I couldn’t get the door myself, and a dozen guys walked past, oblivious.

  But that was probably sexist of me, because women walked past, too.

  Maybe I didn’t miss chivalry so much as regular old human compassion.

  I hit the door button and it whirred open, letting in a blast of wind that actually blew me backward a few inches.

  I thought about something Harry once said. My ex-partner, semi-friend, and occasional co-worker Harrison Harold McGlade was more well-travelled than I. He liked to boast he’d been to all fifty-five states, counting the commonwealths Puerto Rico, Samoa, Guam, the Northern Marina Islands, and the Virgin Islands. When my family was looking to disappear, I made the mistake of asking Harry which was the best state to live in.

  “The state of intoxication,” he’d said. When I didn’t laugh, he answered for real.

  “Every single one of them wants to kill you,” Harry told me. “They’re either too populated, making them hotbeds of crime and communicable disease and car accidents, or not populated enough, so if you trip and bang your head you’ll bleed out before the nearest ambulance gets there. Every state has animals that bite and gore and sting and trample. Or they have natural disasters; earthquakes, wildfires, volcanos. Or floods, tornadoes, hurricanes, tsunamis, lightning storms. Or they have temperatures so low they’ll freeze your eyes in your head, or so hot you’ll run out of sweat. I wouldn’t grade any state in the country higher than a C.”

  “So what’s the best place to live?”

  “Canada.”

  “What if I want to remain a US citizen?”

  “Depends on your needs. M
ine is strippers. I’ve got a spreadsheet if you want to see it.”

  That killed our conversation. So Phin, Sam, and I moved near my mother.

  Chicago had crime, and killer traffic, and bitter cold, and some wicked storms. Florida had heat, and alligators, and tourists (which some think are the worst thing of all), and hurricanes.

  I lived in the Windy City, where you had to keep a tight hold of your car door so it didn’t bend when a gust hit it. But I hadn’t ever experienced anything like the wind when I rolled outside. It damn near knocked my chair over.

  My pocket buzzed, and I set my brakes and checked a text from Mom.

  CLASS SWITCHED TO REC ROOM in B. CAN’T FIND VEST.

  Building B was Mom’s building, just fifty meters east—

  —directly into the wind.

  According to recent weather reports, we were still two days away from Hurricane Harry hitting shore, but the head-on gusting was so strong it blew tears straight back across my temples, into my ears. After wrestling with my wheels for twenty meters, my arms straining, I considered letting it blow me back to the cafeteria and calling an orderly for help.

  I might as well just ask for diapers, too. Because if I’m giving up, I should give up fully, not just half-assed.

  But I didn’t quit. I muscled through, my hair whipping around so hard it hurt my roots, and finally got to Building B, where Mrs. Shadid was struggling to pull closed the automatic door.

  “Mrs. Shadid!” I yelled above the whistling. “Don’t shut it!”

  Mrs. Shadid must have seen me because she halted her attempts until I wheeled in. Then I pulled up close, added an arm to help her, and we managed to get the door shut.

  I blew out a breath. Then another.

  Damn… when was the last time I had an actual work out? Not just trying to walk, but actual cardio and strength training?

  Add that to my list of reasons to hate myself.

  “So, you decided to come to the class?”

  “What? No. I live in B62. You’re having class here?”

  “In the rec room. Moved because we didn’t want residents getting blown into the Gulf.”

  She nodded, and began to walk the familiar hallway. Familiar, because my mother lived in this building, and also familiar, because all six apartment buildings in the Darling Center, named B through G, looked the same. Each had an identical layout in the shape of a right angle L, every apartment with a view of the center pool/lounge area. Ten apartments per floor, six floors per building. If Mrs. Shadid was in B62, that would put her on the sixth floor, just down the hall from Mom.