“Unfortunately, during testing, she had a full ischemic attack. We immediately began tPA to restore blood flow and destroy the clot, but she has partial paralysis on her left side, and she can’t talk.”
“Was she taken to the hospital?”
“She’s in the clinic in Building A. We deal with strokes here faster and just as efficiently as the hospital.”
In my scrambled brain a dozen questions fought for dominance. I finally chose, “She can recover from this, right? People recover from strokes.”
“I’ve seen many people recover, some completely.”
He didn’t say all. Which meant Mom might not recover. She could die. Or be paralyzed and unable to speak for the rest of her life.
“I’ll be right there.”
“She’s getting the medication and care she needs. Coming here during a hurricane, in your condition—”
“I’ll be right there,” I cut him off, then hung up.
I called a taxi service, saying I needed a van with wheelchair accessibility.
“It’s a hurricane,” the dispatcher told me. “Rates are quadruple.”
“Fine. Just get someone here as soon as you can.”
“Fifteen minutes.”
I texted Phin.
Talk. Private.
A few seconds later he popped his head out of the kitchen. “Everything okay?”
I beckoned him closer and stage whispered, “Mom had a stroke.”
“Jesus, Jack. Is she alright?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to go to the Center.”
“I’ll grab Sam.”
“I don’t want her to know. And I don’t want you bringing her out in a goddamn hurricane again.”
“It’s bad out, but drivable. Limited visibility, some flooded streets, gotta watch for debris, but I can get us there in twenty minutes.”
“You’re staying here with Sam and the pets. I’m taking a cab.”
“I can take you.”
“I’m taking a cab,” I said, harsher. “I need some cash.”
“Just use the bank card.”
“I checked the bank. We’re out of money.”
“Use the other bank card.”
“What other bank card?”
“The one I set up last month.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“All of the money I’ve… acquired. It’s in the bank.”
“You never gave me a card.”
“We were in bed. You put it in your phone case.”
He was nuts. I checked the pockets in my leather cell phone case to prove him wrong, and there was a Visa with my fake name on it.
Rather than argue with him how it got there, I asked him how much was on it.
“Two hundred,” he said.
“The cabs are charging quadruple because of the storm. Two hundred bucks might not even get me there.”
Phin squinted at me. “Are you messing with me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember this discussion?”
“What discussion?”
“There’s two hundred grand in our account, Jack.”
WTF?
“All the money? From the garage?”
“Everything left over after buying the house. Are you okay?”
I wasn’t okay. I was the opposite of okay. How could he even ask me that?”
“You think it’s the Ambien?” Phin asked. “You get kind of loopy on Ambien.”
We could discuss it later. I needed to get dressed before the cab came. “Tell Sam I went to visit Grandma because the hurricane scared her.”
I rolled away from Phin, into the bedroom.
Two hundred thousand bucks? And I’ve been worrying myself to death about money?
I wondered if my sleep meds were actually causing memory loss, or if Phin was bullshitting me.
Then I wondered if it even mattered. Our marriage was pretty much over. I hated myself, I didn’t trust him, and the next big talk we’d have would be about how we divvied up child custody.
But right now I needed to get dressed and get to my mother.
Dressing was usually drudgery, but the urgency of the situation got me into pants, a t-shirt, and even socks with less effort than it had taken me since I could remember. I was wedging on my shoes when the cab texted its arrival.
“You’re going to see Grandma?” Sam had snuck up on me. A pout creased her cute little face.
“I need to, sweetie.”
“Will you be back soon? To play City Warriors 2?”
“I’ll try. In the meantime, you can play with Daddy.”
“Daddy sucks.”
No shit. But instead I said, “That’s not nice. Maybe you can teach him some combos.”
She gave me a hug and a kiss and padded off.
I rolled to the front door, and Phin met me there with an empty garbage bag. He ripped a hole in the bottom of the bag, then stuck it over my head, smoothing it down my sides like a poncho.
It felt good to have him touch me, and I hated it.
“Is this necessary?”
“You’ll see in a second.”
He opened the door, and I stared into Armageddon.
Religion and I weren’t pals, but Hurricane Harry looked like a circle of hell, substituting the fire with water.
The darkness.
The wind, blowing trees almost ninety degrees.
The rain, an avalanche of it, blowing sideways like it was giving the finger to gravity.
The sound of a jet engine, mixed with howling wolves in terrible pain.
Phin pushed me outside, toward the cab, and my hair was soaked within seconds, my chair so close to flipping over I had to lean into the wind. The driver had a real poncho on, not a Hefty bag, and he helped Phin muscle me up the ramp into the side of the van.
Phin bent down, kissed my cheek, and said, “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”
Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
I watched, through the window, as he stood in the rain and stared at me. Behind him, our home looked vulnerable, the roof seeming to rise and fall, making me rethink our decision to not install hurricane straps.
I locked the wheels on my chair and the driver took off, watching Phin as we pulled away, getting a sudden, terrible, hopeless feeling that it might be the last time I ever see him.
The wind shoved the vehicle side-to-side.
I watched the driver wrestle the steering wheel, fighting the wind and also the debris blowing across the road. Trees, bushes, lawn furniture, a shed; a full size, corrugated metal shed, rolling across the street like a craps die.
“You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”
My husband was wrong.
Humans were fragile, temporary, borderline-helpless creatures, bound to a cruel, merciless world with only one way to escape.
And I was more fragile than most.
I felt pain in my hands, looked down and realized I was gripping my handrails so tight my knuckles were white.
Hurricane Harry chewed at the van.
If it didn’t kill us, something else will. Eventually.
I closed my eyes and hoped this wretched, miserable world wasn’t ready to take my mother yet.
“The Constitution shall never be construed to prevent the people of the United States who are peaceable citizens from keeping their own arms.”
SAMUEL ADAMS
“A sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer’s hand.”
LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA
GAFF
This was it.
The biggest day of my life.
I was twinging like a fiend, blinking so fast it was tough to keep my eyes on the road.
In the passenger seat, next to me, my gun bag, the Merican loaded to spray and slay.
Tweaked.
My vehicle could still be traced back to Moms, so I parked three blocks away from the VideoTown I’d Googlemapped. Pai
d the meter, bcuz that’s how they caught the Son of Sam, and then took off my black hoodie and baggy red shirt and strapped on the body armor.
The shirt fit over it, the hoodie over the shirt.
Then I shouldered the bag and headed to the slaughter.
My expectations were surpassed.
When I got within a block of the videogame store, I could already see the line of people.
Two hundred. Maybe three.
Waiting for VideoTown to open in half an hour.
Waiting to grab their GameMaster 2 consoles on release day.
As I got closer, the twinges got stronger. Some of the people in line were cosplaying, dressing up as videogame characters.
There were even a dozen people in City Warriors rave masks.
#Can’tGetAnyBetter.
I tugged my mask up over my nose to hide my face and my smile, pulled my hoodie onto my head, and fondled the zipper on my gun bag.
When people started to run, they’d run away from me, and it was unlikely any would follow.
I approached @ a twenty-degree angle, so I had a clear view of the whole line. They were queued up alongside storefronts, most of which were closed, so they’d spread out into the street as they fled.
The nearest police station was eight miles away. Even if there were patrol cars in the area, I guesstimated response time to be @ least three minutes. I’d practiced swapping out mags last night, figured I could stand still and be able to blow through all six drums within two and a half minutes. Then I’d walk away, taking one of two pre-planned routes back to my car, taking off the hoodie and rave mask as I moved. Underneath I wore a red shirt. My gun bag would go into a garbage bag I’d brought along.
Cops would be looking for someone wearing black with a mask and a bag. I’d be wearing red, taking out the trash.
Turnt up.
On god.
Off the shits.
Worst case scenario, I ditch the gun bag. A monetary loss, but nothing could be traced to me.
#ScottFree.
#AllHailTheSecondAmendment.
#AnonymousFirearms.
#NoResgistration4Evs.
#GodBlessAmerica.
I unzipped the bag and visualized the first shots.
I was coming up on the end of the line, so I should aim @ the guys in front, furthest away. Then sweep those nearer to me as they scattered. If my arc was slow and steady, and I could keep the recoil under control, and I was fluid with reloading, I could easily shoot over two hundred, and kill @ least a quarter of them.
A respectable number for a first effort.
Both hands in the bag, I snapped on some latex gloves and pushed in my earplugs, then put on my shooting specs. I considered the helmet, figured I was okay for the moment without it, and did one more check for cops, security, and street cameras.
#AllClear.
#ReadyToRock.
#LetsDoThis.
#ItsDyingTime.
I whipped out the Merican, flicked off the safety, double-checked the giggle was on AUTO, and pointed the gun @ the jackass who had probably been standing there since midnight last night to be first in line.
I turned on the green laser dot, and could see it on bruh’s side even though I was @ least fifty meters away.
This is it, Gaff.
Marko was a pedo. He deserved what he got. Kinda made me like a hero.
But killing harmless people in line is some next level shit.
I can still turn back. Still be the hero.
But where’s the fun in that?
No one cares about heroes.
The bad guys get the clout.
#Gangsta4Evs.
I gripped the buffed Merican in both hands, tight.
I steadied my shaking hands.
I stood there for a moment, but no one turned to look @ me.
I was invisible.
Like always.
A nothing. A nobody.
But in a few seconds, a somebody.
Someone to fear. Someone to hate.
Someone who swoops in without any motive and kills a bunch of innocent people.
Then again, is anyone really innocent?
Nah.
Everyone sux.
Everything sux.
Eff em. Eff em all.
I could feel my mouth move under the rave mask. I was pretty sure it was a smile.
Are you ready for me, Mr. History?
Are you ready for my permanent mark on you?
#Yaasss.
I squeezed the trigger.
The Merican made a sound like a motorboat and bucked, a three second burst that felt like holding a jackhammer, throwing my shots to the right, into traffic.
Day-am.
I adjusted my aim, resetting, unsure if I’d hit anyone or how many bullets I’d fired. Some of the crowd panicked, began to run in the direction I knew they would, and they were all screaming and screeching and pointing @ me and I squeezed the trigger again, watching a few peeps go down.
It gave me feelz.
4real feelz.
Like all those net videos I seen where some kid gets ear implants and hears music for the first time, or a family buys their colorblind grandpa those glasses that let him see green and red and everyone starts crying.
I never cried @ those vids.
I was crying now.
It was beautiful.
#GaffKills100.
#Perfect.
Then the Merican stopped firing.
Out of bullets?
I pressed the button to release the drum mag, but the mag was pretty heavy. I squinted @ the spring. Still half full.
Why wouldn’t it fire?
Checked the safety.
Off.
A jam?
I tried to ignore the chaos around me, the wonderful, ugly chaos I caused, to focus on the problem, dropping the drum mag in my bag, pulling back the slide a few times, trying to eject the bullet or casing that had gotten stuck.
Something resisted for a second, then the gun cleared itself.
I slapped the drum back in—
—aimed @ two thots clutching each other—
Fired—
Nothing.
I’d forgotten to load the first round. With a semi-auto, I needed to charge the slide.
#AmateurTime.
#Reboot.
I pulled the slide back, loading a bullet, and took aim again.
The thots, and the crowd, had scattered. Pretty fast, yo. I held the trigger down, spraying in an arc, catching a few of the stragglers and one gassed OG who’d stayed behind to snap me with his cell.
He went down.
Hopefully his cell was good. Hella footage.
Then my mag emptied out and I popped in a new one like I’d practiced and that’s when I heard the sirens.
WTF? Like a one minute response time?
#BadLuck.
I put my gun away, took out the garbage bag, and quickly walked away from the panicking mob. When I turned a corner around a drugstore I shed my gloves, hoodie, mask, glasses, and earplugs into the gun bag, and then put the gun bag in the garbage bag.
Sirens were hella loud, seemed to be coming from multiple directions.
For a moment I got disoriented, blinking so fast I couldn’t get my bearings, unable to remember my two escape routes. I just stood there like a n00b.
Up the street, 5-0 roared straight @ me—
I needed to grab my Merican. Go out like a boss. But I froze.
—then the suckas rolled straight past me.
I forced my feet to move, checking my pace so I didn’t run, choosing the longer path back to my car, zig-zagging the streets in case someone had eyes on me. After passing up my vehicle by fifty meters, I did an about-face and headed back.
No tails. No watchers. No cell phones aimed @ me.
From blocks away, under the sounds of the wailing emergency vehicles, I could swear I still heard screaming.
I stuck the bag in my trunk, taking it slow as
I sat down and snapped on my seatbelt and used my turn signal to ease into traffic as more cops blew by.
Dope.
I chose that particular VideoTown for the GameMaster 2 Release Massacre bcuz it was less than a mile from the Interstate.
#EasyGetAway.
I dipped, cruising to I-95.
The first responders ignored me, clueless, passing by scrubs.
No one followed.
No one even looked @ me twice.
I took the onramp and headed south on the expressway.
On god.
Fire.
Lit.
I got away with it.
I actually got away with it.
I wondered how many I killed.
Double digits, I hoped.
I bet the news was blowing up.
I jonesed to check Twitter or watch TV.
But I needed to get out of town first. Far AF.
I checked myself in the rearview mirror.
Big old smile.
Face wet with tears.
No blinking @ all.
Woke. For the first time, truly woke.
It was just like Tully said.
For the first time in eighteen years… for the first time ever…
I knew who I was.
“I did it,” I told myself.
But it was over too fast. Way too fast.
I’d made some mistakes.
Next time would be better.
And next time would be soon, yo.
“I am a 5′1″ petite female. My pistol is my equalizer.”
DR. GINA LOUDON
“Banning guns addresses a fundamental right of all Americans to feel safe.”
DIANNE FEINSTEIN
JACK
As the cab driver pushed me into Building A, the wind gusted hard and for a moment I balanced on one wheel, ready to topple. Thankfully, a lifetime of poor eating choices blessed my cabbie with enough mass to keep me from blowing away, and he hefted me inside.
The eerily empty lobby gave me pause, but the lights were still on. I pulled the dripping plastic bag off my body and rolled over to a garbage can, peering at the closed cafeteria.
Outside, Hurricane Harry roared, rattling the window shutters and trying to get in.
I tugged out my cell phone, saw that I still had service, and called Dr. Agmont.
“I’m in the lobby.”
“We’re in room 303.”
Shot Girl Page 19