Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  But what were the alternatives?

  The killer had a crowbar and a sledgehammer. Locks wouldn’t stop him. But if we could warn everyone, they could barricade their doors.

  How long would that take? There were seven more buildings, hundreds of tenants.

  Agmont tried his cell phone again, but I guessed Emergency services already had their hands full with Harry. Even if the lines weren’t busy, it would be a while before help arrived.

  “Do you have a car?” I asked.

  “Damn line is still busy.”

  “Dr. Agmont, do you have a car?”

  “Yes. But I can’t leave all these people here.”

  “You can take my mother. Go directly to the police station. Driving there will be quickest.”

  Mom grunted twice. No.

  “What about you?” Agmont asked.

  “My gun lock key is in my mother’s room, and she has another gun, and bullets, in her safe.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  An important question. One I’d been asking myself a lot lately.

  I’m crippled. What am I going to do?

  My husband is cheating. What am I going to do?

  My mother had a stroke. What am I going to do?

  But, in this case, there wasn’t any uncertainty.

  I was going to do what I needed to do. I was going to do what I was born to do.

  Harry McGlade was right. We were the good guys. We needed to act like it.

  I squeezed my mother tighter.

  “I’m going to stop him,” I said.

  “Background checks, waiting periods, reports of transfers, and access to mental health records have not stopped the legal sale of firearms to legitimate buyers.”

  COLLEEN HANABUSA

  “The bad guys, the criminals, don’t follow laws and restricting more of America’s freedoms when it comes to self-defense isn’t the answer.”

  SARAH PALIN

  GAFF

  A swing and a miss.

  I approached the elevator, watched the lights as it stopped on Floor 1, and then on Floor B.

  The basement. Interesting.

  I pressed the down button, waited for the ‘vator to come, and took a look @ the button panel.

  Button B had a keyhole beneath it. Employees only.

  So I pressed 4 and went up.

  The floor contained offices. All empty.

  #BadNews.

  But good news, I got to the other elevator in less than 2 minutes.

  I didn’t know yet how long it would take me to get inside a locked door, but I bet some residents would answer when I knocked, so I did the maths. If I averaged ten minutes a floor, seven buildings with six floors each, I should be able to kill between 400 and 600 people in about seven hours.

  #WorldRecord.

  I just needed to make sure I didn’t waste any more ammo. Who coulda thunk 1000 rounds wasn’t enough?

  Floor 5, empty board rooms.

  Floor 6, a gym. Empty.

  No prob. I had a different kind of workout in mind.

  I moved to the center of the hallways, where the staircase was, and went down a flight of stairs to a 180 degree angle landing, then turned and took another flight down to the basement B level.

  Door was locked. Heavy duty.

  I checked the time on my cell and went @ it with the sledge and pry bar.

  Savage.

  Banged that shit open in under a minute.

  If they were all that easy, I’d be outtie b4 sunrise.

  I paused in the hallway, listening.

  No sounds.

  The floors were concrete and the walls were white painted cinder block. Florescent lights overhead. No doors that I could see. I followed the corridor to the right, took a turn, and it ended @ an elevator. I backtracked, passed the stairs I came down, and found another elevator and a hallway. Painted on the wall, a red arrow and the words BUILDING B.

  #Lucky.

  I wouldn’t have to stumble through a hurricane to get to the next building.

  #BestPlanEvah.

  When I came to the locked Building B stairwell, I had to pry the door rather than bang it open, and that took a lot longer. Five minutes, maybe more. It had one of those steel panels over the lock so I couldn’t get the crowbar in, and using the sledge made it worse, bending it all to hell.

  Hardo. Extra AF.

  I’d almost given up, and then I decided to give the hinges a try.

  Three whacks each.

  Cake.

  When I got the door open I saw another staircase. I stopped and listened.

  Nada. Not even the hurricane.

  I went upstairs, and the first floor door wasn’t locked. There was also a door leading outside, with a small square window at eye-level. Now I could hear the hurricane roaring, and I peeked out and saw a palm tree get torn from the ground and cartwheel out of sight.

  Lit.

  I entered Building B, walked to the right, and found apartment B6. I knocked.

  A moment passed, then, “Who’s there?”

  I yanked down my mask so I didn’t look scary through the peephole. “Exterminator.”

  #BestJokeEvah.

  “It’s late.”

  Finesse. “The hurricane has riled up the rodent population, ma’am. We think the rats are trying to get into your room.”

  That did the trick. I heard the door unlock, and when it cracked open I stuck in the suppressor.

  #OneShot.

  #OneKill.

  Darling Massacre Total: 24.

  And I haven’t even hit my stride.

  I popped into the old lady’s place to see if she had an old man.

  Nope.

  But she had bottled water in the fridge, and there was half an apple pie on the counter.

  I grabbed a fork and gobbled down some pie.

  Bitch deserved to die. Pie was str8 trash. I almost OD’ed on cinnamon. Wished I could resurrect her so I could kill her ass again.

  I drank half the water, poured the rest on my suppressor, and washed the fork and bottle because my saliva was on them.

  #DNA.

  Then I went to B7.

  No one answered the knock. But these doors were a lot easier than the security doors leading to the basement. One good whack with the sledge, and it burst inside.

  Old guy, one door over from B9, stepped into the hall, wearing an undershirt and whitey-tighties.

  Bruh had a handgun, pointed at me.

  I raised my gun ultrafast, and we both fired a few times.

  He went down.

  I did not. But getting shot effen hurt, dawg. For a few seconds I couldn’t catch my breath, and I thought the vest didn’t work and the bullets got through. Like getting whacked with a bat in the chest three times. I reached up, felt my trauma plate, felt the dents in it.

  Worth every penny.

  Old bruh fared worse. He fell into the hall onto his back, his white underwear all red and getting redder. He tried to raise his gun again, but I stepped on his wrist and took it away.

  Old POS revolver, prolly older than my Moms.

  “I’m a veteran,” he wheezed. “I fought in Cambodia. I’m not afraid of you, you nasty little bitch.”

  I pointed his own gun at his face. “You should be.”

  I fired his gun three times into his face.

  His dentures came out, all bloody and spitty.

  #OldPeopleRGross.

  His old ass gun worked pretty good. Much easier to hold and control than my Merican. But the shit was empty, so I dropped it. I went into his room to see if he had a bae, found an old woman in a bathrobe, holding one of those old-fashioned phones with a cord on it.

  “Where’s Charles?” she said.

  “Where you think, old lady?”

  She stuck out her chin, all defiant-like, but she was quivering all over. “I told him to stay inside.”

  “Wouldn’ta mattered. I woulda gotten in anyways.”

  I raised the Merican and she
said, “Hold on a moment. I have a question.”

  “You gonna ask me why?”

  She nodded.

  Other dude earlier wanted to know why, too. Like shit had to have a reason.

  “You think I got some sort of cause. Like I’m political. Or hate certain kinds of people. Causes are bullshit. Just BS to justify doing what you want to do anyway. It’s an excuse. I don’t need no excuses. Why am I doing this? Dumb question. Why do snakes bite? It’s what they’re born to do.”

  I shot her twice. When she fell she let go of the phone, and I picked it up and pulled out an earplug to see if anyone was listening.

  “—ARE CURRENTLY BUSY. PLEASE TRY YOUR CALL AGAIN LATER.”

  #Sweet.

  I caught movement, something black dashing past.

  Charles and his bae had a cat.

  I put my earplug back in and wasted three bullets trying to hit the salty thing, but it moved fast, and funny as it would have been to see a news graphic that said 238 Dead Plus A Cat I couldn’t waste any more time.

  I went back to B7. Dark inside. I found a light switch, heard snoring, followed it to a bedroom.

  Another old lady. Sleep mask on. Earplugs in.

  Killing her in her sleep seemed… I dunno… wrong for some reason.

  So I woke her up.

  My bad with expressions, but I bet her expression was pretty funny when I put the gun up to her nose.

  #MessyUpClose.

  Dumb move.

  Her DNA was everywhere, and I probably had some bits on me. And spray. Maybe when I went out into the hurricane it would cleanse me, but just to be safe I’d ditch the outfit and buy a new one.

  The twinges were coming so often that feeling good was becoming my new baseline. Is this how human beings lived? Is this what being happy felt like?

  I had such a buzz, such a high, that it felt almost sexual. Maybe sensual was the better word. My body and me weren’t friends. Didn’t get along, mentally, physically, or emotionally. But feeling tingly made me want to take off my clothes and rub on things.

  Also, it was getting hella hot. The vest I bought was supposed to wick away moisture, but I was feeling the sweat in my pits and on my belly. I unzipped the hoodie, which didn’t help much. My hands felt all wet and pruned in the latex gloves, and my shooting specs had begun to fog.

  I wiped them on my hoodie.

  Where was my high score @?

  Darling Massacre Total: 27.

  Yurrr.

  Needed to step up the pace.

  #NoSleepTillTripleDigits.

  I got back to it.

  B8. No answer. Empty when I busted in. Same with B10.

  #Disappointing. Both apartments looked lived-in, so maybe the occupants left ahead of the hurricane.

  I reached the ‘vator and had to double-back.

  Knock-knock on B5. A dude answered without even asking who it was.

  #StrangerDangerYo.

  I shot him in the face.

  #DarwinAwardsYo.

  Really, if you gon live your life without ever paying attention to the threats around you, y’all deserve what you get.

  No one else in the room, onto B4.

  Knock. Sledge. No one home. Found some juice boxes in the fridge, drank one, rinsed off the straw and threw it in tha garbage.

  B3.

  Knock. Sledge. Completely empty. Not even furniture.

  The windows had no drapes or blinds, but there were shutters on the outside. I couldn’t see nothing, but heard Hurricane Harry cheering me on.

  Props back 2U, Harry.

  I used the sink, soaking my suppressor, and moved along.

  B2.

  Knock. Sledge.

  I busted the lock out of the doorframe, but the door only moved an inch. Blocked by something.

  I put my weight on it, managed to open it far enough to squeeze through the crack, and was climbing on top of the sofa that had been pushed there and some old bitch hit me on the head with a golf club.

  #Triggered.

  She hit me in my ballistic helmet, and it didn’t hurt nothing, but it sure pissed me off. I flipped the giggle to AUTO and emptied the rest of my drum, knowing it was a waste of ammo, not being able to stop myself. I took a minute to calm down, to stop blinking so fast.

  Chill.

  Went to the bathroom. Pissed. Flushed. Watered my suppressor in the sink. Popped in a new drum.

  Checked on B1. Knock. Sledge. Empty.

  That’s all, yo.

  Checked my phone.

  Took seven minutes to complete the level, even with a pit stop.

  Five more floors. Figure forty minutes to wrap it up, then on to Building C.

  #KillingIt.

  I headed for the elevator.

  “If you can’t take something down in 10 bullets, you probably shouldn’t even own a gun.”

  CAROLYN MCCARTHY

  “When a lady accessorizes here in Texas, she’s selecting caliber, not color.”

  RON BRACKIN

  JACK

  We made it to B65 and couldn’t get inside because we had no apartment key. We’d forgotten Mom’s purse back at the clinic.

  Unbelievable.

  “I can kick the door in,” Dr. Agmont said.

  I shook my head. “No. We want to be able to lock it if we have to.”

  “I’ll run back to Building A. Grab her purse.”

  The thought of Agmont leaving us in the hallway, my mother in my lap, defenseless and unable to move, terrified me.

  But what was the alternative? Pick the lock?

  Why did that sound familiar?

  Mr. Fincherello. He’d mentioned working as a locksmith before retiring. He might actually have some tools. And he was in this building. B31, three floors down.

  He’d also said something else during my last gun class. That the locks in the Darling Center were rinky-dink. You can get through most of them by loiding with a credit card.

  “Hold on,” I told Agmont. “Got a credit card on you? I can use it to try to pop the lock.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Maybe. If the deadbolt isn’t on. Mom, did you put on the deadbolt when you left?”

  Two grunts. No.

  Agmont reached into his slacks, took out a wallet. “Do you take American Express?” he asked me.

  Handsome. Heroic. And a sense of humor in the face of danger.

  I kept hating him more and more.

  I rolled my eyes and he handed me his AmEx—of course it was Platinum—and then scooped up Mom. I slid the card into the jamb.

  The door swung inward, so the curved end of the bolt opposed me. I had to come at it from the top, try to get behind the latch, then pull it forward.

  The latch didn’t want to cooperate. I wondered if it had one of those little security plungers on in, preventing loiding. But if it did, why would Mr. Fincherello say it was rinky-dink?

  After I left the Job, I worked with Harry McGlade in the private sector for a bit, and he had all sorts of tools to illegally breach doors. McGlade, I was loathe to admit, could break into Fort Knox with a library card and a screwdriver. During down time, I played with a few of them, including a flat bar called a shove knife. It had a notch on the end, making it easier to catch the bolt.

  I dug into the compartment under my seat, taking out my prepper box and removing my Swiss Army Knife.

  “You mind if I cut up your credit card?” I asked Agmont.

  “Do whatever you need.”

  I used the scissor attachment, and cut a notch into the plastic.

  “Fingers crossed.”

  After some wiggling and pulling I caught the latch and pushed the door open.

  I went in, Agmont following. I heard Hurricane Harry through the window storm shutters, trying his best to get in.

  “Put her in bed,” I told him, wheeling toward the second closet. “Then check around for my gun lock key.”

  The second closet was even worse than the crammed one I’d gone through the o
ther day. Who needed this many towels? Seriously, there were enough to dry off every person on Ft. Myers Beach during peak season.

  I started pulling them out, caused a minor towelalanche, and then pawed through shelves looking for Mom’s bullet proof vest and her gun safe. In the other room, I heard Agmont gently interrogate my mother.

  “Did you put in in your pocket?”

  Grunt.

  “What were you wearing? Pants? Shorts?”

  Grunt.

  “Where are your shorts, Mary? Do you have a hamper?”

  Two grunts.

  Agmont continued to ask questions in his mild-mannered, patient way, and I ignored them and concentrated on the closet.

  Nothing on the lower shelves.

  Okay then. I had to go high.

  That meant standing up. On my own.

  No leg braces. No crutches.

  Without thinking about it too hard, I took my feet off the chair rests, then grabbed onto both sides of the closet doorway—

  —pulled—

  —pulled even harder—

  —and then I was standing.

  My legs didn’t want to hold my weight, the atrophied muscles trembling, my back spasming in pain.

  I told my body to shut up, and used one hand to explore the top shelf.

  I found a stack of jigsaw puzzles—when did Mom ever do jigsaw puzzles?—and took them down, one-by-one, throwing them onto the floor behind me, reaching deeper, stretching for it—

  Kevlar. I knew that feeling well.

  I pulled down the vest, collapsing back into my chair, panting with effort as I hugged it to my chest.

  Still smelled like Mom. And I still remembered when she got it, when I was young, being so proud of her and marveling how strong she looked in it and wondering why Barbie didn’t have body armor but GI Joe did.

  We’ve come a long way, baby.

  Now for the gun safe. For Mom’s birthday, decades ago, I’d bought her a small, steel safe with a combination lock.

  “Combinations are best,” I’d told her, “because you don’t want to be in an emergency situation and can’t find the key.”

  Great advice. I should have listened to myself when it came to my trigger lock.

  Once again I had to stand, and once again my legs wanted to disobey me.

  “I’m sick of your whining,” I said, teeth clenched. “I’m sick of you being weak. I’m sick of you not getting better. Now work, goddammit.”