Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  He took the pouch and hurried away. I turned my attention to Agmont. “How bad is it?”

  “Got… got one in each shoulder blade… one in my arm… one in my gut.”

  “Can you make it?”

  “I need… I… a hospital. Stomach acid… it’ll eat through my organs…”

  His eyes fluttered and I thought he died. Mrs. Fincherello felt his neck. “He passed out.”

  “Keep pouring on the powder. Then bandage him best you can.”

  Mr. Fincherello came back, my gun in his hand. “Took me three seconds. These fingers are nimble as ever.” He handed me the Colt, butt-first like I’d taught him. “I loaded it for you. But, naturally, I expect you to check for yourself.”

  I swung open the cylinder and checked. All six rounds were in place. I snapped it closed.

  “Do you have a car?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I need you to drive to the police station. Get them here. Tell them it’s the Line Cutter from South Carolina. Get every damn cop in the state here, along with medics. Make sure to tell them about me, that I’m a friendly. Can you do that?”

  Mr. Fincherllo turned to look at his wife. “What do you say, hon?”

  “Do it,” she told him. “And when you come back I’ll suck your ding-dong so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

  I finally understood how Mrs. Fincherello put up with Mr. Fincherello. She was just as crude as he was.

  He went to her, gave her a quick kiss on the lips, and then grabbed his car keys.

  BBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTT!

  It came from the hallway, by the stairs.

  “Get to the elevator, I’ll cover you.”

  “Good luck,” he told me. Having known him for months, it was the first time I’d ever seen him serious.

  “You, too.”

  He opened the door, and I wheeled out and turned toward the shooting, aiming my Colt, as Mr. Fincherello called the elevator. It arrived, he gave me a squeeze on the shoulder, and then I heard it close behind me.

  The Line Cutter was in someone’s apartment, looking for me.

  Killing someone, looking for me.

  I needed to yell. To draw the shooter out.

  But my adrenaline reserve was gone. And it was taking my bravery with it. Taking my strength with it.

  When this whole shitstorm started, I’d reverted to my training. Everything happened so quickly, I didn’t even have time to think about it. I just reacted.

  Now, sitting there alone in the hallway, I began to calculate my odds.

  And my odds weren’t good.

  Behind me, an elevator. I could go back up to Mom’s floor. Stay there and protect her until the police showed up.

  Ahead of me, a stone cold killer. Younger. Faster. With untold hundreds of bullets and an automatic weapon against my six double-action rounds.

  I needed to yell. To draw the shooter out.

  I stayed silent.

  I needed to yell.

  No yell came.

  Maybe I wasn’t a fighter.

  Or maybe I was, once. But not anymore.

  Maybe I was what Dr. Agmont said. A wounded healer.

  Wounded healers didn’t save the day.

  Wounded healers didn’t take down the bad guy.

  Maybe I’d done enough.

  Not just tonight. But over my whole life.

  How many monsters did I have to stop?

  How many times did I have to risk it all?

  I thought of Mom upstairs. Alone. Probably worried to death.

  I thought of Sam. Of her growing up without me.

  Was facing this shooter worth the risk?

  I thought of Phin.

  Jesus… Phin.

  My husband. The man I loved so much it hurt.

  And what was the last thing he said to me?

  “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”

  No, Phin. I’m not strong.

  “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”

  Not anymore. I’m scared. I’m weak.

  “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”

  I’m not the woman you think I am. I can’t even keep my marriage together.

  “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”

  I can’t even tie my own goddamn shoes.

  But I kept hearing the son of a bitch.

  “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”

  I pictured Phin, kissing me goodbye.

  I pictured Sam, with marker all over her face.

  I pictured my mother, calling me a pussy.

  And I pictured me.

  But when I pictured myself, I didn’t see myself in a wheelchair.

  I pictured myself standing up. With a gun in my hand. Facing anything and everything life threw at me.

  “You got this. You forgot how strong you are.”

  Maybe Phin was right

  I forgot how strong I am.

  And then I spoke. Aloud. To myself. To my family. To the whole damn universe.

  “I got this.”

  Then I yelled, loud as I could, louder than the hurricane outside, louder than the gunfire, louder than anyone had ever yelled anything in the history of humankind.

  “I’M HERE!”

  “When seconds count, the cops are just minutes away.”

  CLINT SMITH

  “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

  ANONYMOUS

  GAFF

  Darling Massacre Total: 31.

  After painfully climbing to the fourth floor, I looked down both hallways and didn’t see Super Wheelchair Bitch or Hot Dr. Shrink.

  I squinted at the elevators on either side. Neither seemed in motion.

  So where did they go?

  Maybe the woman had a room on this floor.

  Without thinking about it 2 hard, I freed my sledgehammer from my belt and whacked the first door I saw, B46, half-expecting to get shot when it burst inward.

  Spoiler: I didn’t get shot. I switched on the light. Another unrented apartment.

  I hit B47 next, found an old man in his bed.

  My gat spit death in his old-ass face.

  Darling Massacre Total: 32.

  But where was Super Wheelchair Bitch?

  I did a quick count of my ammo. I’d gone through all my drum mags, and I sat on the dead guy’s bed and spent a few minutes loading up two of them. I was filling a third when I heard the yell.

  “I’M HERE!”

  Super Wheelchair Bitch.

  I felt a twinge. But it wasn’t like a normal twinge.

  Normal twinges made me feel good. Sensual. Immortal. Lit.

  This twinge made my mouth get dry, and my palms get wet.

  WTF?

  I stood up, but didn’t immediately walk into the hallway.

  She was out there. Waiting for me.

  Calling me.

  I needed to rush out there, pop some caps, waste her ass.

  But my legs wouldn’t move.

  Mood.

  Salty.

  Was I… was I actually scared?

  That didn’t make no sense. Nothing scared me.

  So why wasn’t I going out there?

  “She’s in your head,” I said aloud. “She’s just some old lady in a wheelchair. I got a high score of 32. She can’t stop me. No one can stop me.”

  #Unstoppable.

  But I still didn’t move.

  “YOU HEAR ME, YOU CHICKENSHIT?! I’M RIGHT HERE!”

  Day-am, chick was loud.

  And my hip hurt.

  And the side of my head hurt, where my ear used to be.

  And I didn’t want to go out there.

  “I KNOW WHO YOU ARE! YOU’RE THE LINE CUTTER FROM SOUTH CAROLINA!”

  I wondered if she was 5-0. She had that vibe.

  I wondered if more cops were on the way.

  I wondered if I should GTFO and drive out of state and lay low for a few months unti
l I healed, and then try again some other day.

  “I’VE SEEN YOUR FACE! THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPON AND I WON’T KILL YOU!”

  Actually, prison didn’t seem so bad. I’d have my memories from the last few days. I could see myself kicking back, chillin’ in a cell, remembering everyone I killed, over and over and over. Even if they executed me, that shit took years to happen.

  #Tight.

  A memory zapped into my dome. My Pops face.

  Weird.

  So many counsellors asked me about my pops, but I could never remember nothing. Just that he called me Gaff.

  But now I could picture him. Picture him perfect. His hair. His eyes. All the tatts he had on his arms.

  I could remember his voice. Low and rough.

  I could remember him talking to Moms.

  Yelling at Moms.

  “Are you fucking high again, bitch? You ‘spect me to take care of the fucking mistake while you zone out?”

  “Guthrie’s not a mistake.”

  “Biggest fuckin’ mistake of my life. Shoulda worn a rubber. Look at that kid, staring like some kinda freak. That ain’t normal. Other kids cry. Other kids laugh. All that fucking kid does is stare.”

  Pops picked me up and shook me. Hard.

  “Stop it!” Moms yelled.

  “I should chuck this fucking kid out the fucking window. Biggest fucking mistake of my life.”

  Moms tried to grab me, but Pops wouldn’t let me go. He kept shaking and shaking, like he was trying to shake my head off.

  “I got a better name than Guthrie. How about Gaffe? When I was a kid and I fucked up, my Moms said I made a gaffe. That’s what we made. We made the biggest fucking gaffe ever!”

  So Moms was right.

  I wasn’t Gaff.

  I was Gaffe.

  A blunder. An error. A mistake that caused embarrassment.

  So why did I remember it now?

  Why now, after all the years of therapy, all the counselors and psychiatrists, all the meds, why now did I remember my Pops and what he said?

  I had an answer.

  I had the perfect answer.

  My answer is: who gives a fuck?

  Like I said at the beginning of this story, the problem isn’t movies or music or games or the internet or porn or immigrants or Muslims or the poor or the rich or drugs or whatever political party isn’t yours.

  But it also ain’t a meth addicted mother who didn’t love me, or an abusive gangbanger father who got shot when I was two, or the school system that gave up on me, or the community who shunned me, or the doctors who force-fed me pills to stop me from being me.

  There’s no one to blame.

  Bcuz I’m not a mistake.

  I’m not Gaffe, with an E.

  I’m Gaff.

  I’m death AF, and I’m never gonna stop, and don’t try to tag me or label me or understand me or diagnose me because I’m here, and I know I’m not the only one, and we all don’t care what color you are or what religion you are or what you believe in bcuz we’re going to burn your world down.

  If I died today, I’d inspire ten more like me to do the same thing.

  You scared?

  You should be.

  Givin’ up was str8 trash.

  And my score’s not high enough.

  Would I ever have another chance like this?

  #PerfectOpportunity.

  The only thing standing between me and double-digits was this wheelchair bitch.

  And she wasn’t even standing, yo.

  I made sure I was giggled to AUTO.

  Then I ran into the hall, twinging like a fiend, the good kind of twinging, fiending to make Mr. History my bitch.

  “Sometimes if you want to get rid of the gun, you have to pick the gun up.”

  HUEY NEWTON

  “If you haven’t hit the deer with three shots, you’re a pretty lousy shot, that deer deserves to get away.”

  MICHAEL BLOOMBERG

  JACK

  I was ready to yell out another taunt when the shooter came running down the hall, fast and erratic and spraying bullets everywhere.

  I was so surprised I missed my first shot.

  The second hit home, but too low, drilling center of the vest.

  The third caught a leg, and the Line Cutter went down.

  The fourth hit the helmet.

  The fifth, a shoulder, covered by body armor.

  One shot left.

  Then, blinding green light.

  The Line Cutter’s laser sight, right in my eye.

  I pushed forward off my chair, barely standing in time for a barrage of bullets to beat against my Kevlar, knocking the breath from my chest, driving into me like a speeding truck, and I fell forward and hit the floor and I looked up and met the killer’s eyes, dead-even with mine, and I saw nothing there.

  Emptiness.

  Oblivion.

  I brought up my Colt.

  I took careful aim.

  I fired my last round.

  PING off the helmet.

  A miss.

  I screwed up.

  The Line Cutter reached into the gun bag, going for a fresh drum magazine.

  I was in serious trouble.

  I tucked my empty Colt into the back of my pants and crawled around my chair, managing to get a knee under me, somehow managing to barely reach the elevator call button. The doors opened, and I pulled myself inside as the gunfire tore through the hallway and into the lift.

  Up or down?

  I didn’t have my wheelchair.

  I could stand, but I couldn’t walk.

  I could barely crawl.

  I was unarmed. Again.

  Unless…

  I pressed 6, hoping my hunch was right.

  The doors closed. The elevator went up.

  I crawled on my hands, pulling my legs behind me, reaching B62.

  Then I banged on the door. “Mrs. Shadid! Mrs. Shadid! Sowa! Open up!”

  Seconds passed.

  The elevator doors closed, and the elevator descended.

  “Sowa! It’s Jill! Open the damn door!”

  The door cracked open the width of a security chain.

  “There’s an active shooter,” I told her as she peered down at me. “Let me in.”

  She didn’t let me in.

  “Sowa, please. There isn’t any time.”

  “There’s really a shooter?”

  I glanced back at the elevator, the number stopped on 4. The Line Cutter was getting on it. I could feel it.

  “There’s really a shooter. You told me your husband owned a gun. Do you still have it?”

  The elevator climbed to 5.

  “Dammit, Sowa, we’re going to die!”

  Sowa closed the door.

  Then she opened it just as the elevator doors opened. I dragged myself inside her room and shut the door and realized why Sowa had been reluctant to let me inside. It was the same reason she’d stood in the hallway and hadn’t entered her apartment until I’d gone into Mom’s.

  The Darling Center staff gossip had been correct. The building had a hoarder.

  A hoarder named Sowa Shadid.

  I laid on the floor, doing a yoga cobra pose, trapped between two huge piles of stacked stuff. Stacked almost to the ceiling. It was like being in my mother’s closet, but with a thin aisle in the center. Cardboard boxes, mostly. But also loose clothing, books, shoes, papers, all crammed together like a vertical yard sale.

  “When they died, I couldn’t bear to throw anything away,” Sowa said.

  I couldn’t tell if she were half-asleep, terrified, or just in a daze because I’d discovered her hoard.

  “I understand, Sowa. Did you keep the gun?”

  Banging, on the door.

  The Line Cutter.

  “I know you’re in there!”

  “If you try to come in, I’ll shoot you!” I turned back to Sowa and lowered my voice. “Your husband’s gun. Do you still have it?”

  “I didn’t throw anythin
g away.”

  “Find it, Sowa. Find it or we’re both going to die.”

  Sowa walked off, in no hurry at all. Was she drunk? Sleepwalking? So depressed she wanted to die?

  More pounding on the door.

  “You used a different gun the second time.” The Line Cutter’s voice was alto and sing-songy, like a pre-pubescent boy taunting on the playground. “I bet you’re out of ammo.”

  “I have boxes of ammo. Come in and I’ll show you.”

  I quickly looked around for something to barricade the door, and remembered Mr. Fincherello from the gun class.

  I needed a wedge of some kind. A tube of lotion or toothpaste or—

  A magazine.

  I snagged a catalog out of the nearest pile and rolled it into a tube. Then I smashed the tube flat and folded it in half lengthwise.

  I jammed it under the door, pushed it hard, just as a BANG! shook me to the core.

  The sledgehammer.

  I dragged myself away, through a labyrinth of stuff, cherished memories of Sowa’s dead family reminding her of her loss every minute of every day.

  After two meters, the hoard forked. I took the left path, trying to use my legs to go faster, knowing I couldn’t hide anywhere.

  “Sowa! Did you find it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Another BANG! How long would a magazine hold up to a sledgehammer?

  I needed to do something other than lie on the floor and wait around for The Line Cutter to bust in and shoot me. But there was nowhere to run. No place to hide. And I couldn’t find anything to fight back with. Everything was boxed up, except for some old mail, random kitchen utensils, assorted toys, neatly stacked furniture, towels; just piles and piles of endless stuff, none of it useful to me.

  BANG!

  I had no idea what to do. But I was clear on one thing.

  I wasn’t giving up.

  I’d wasted months. I’d ruined my marriage.

  I was done skinny dipping in the self-pity pool.

  If today was the day I died, I was going out fighting.

  I looked around, trying to will a brilliant idea into my head.

  BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!

  The Line Cutter had given up on the sledgehammer, and was now shooting the door.

  Think, Jack. What will happen next?

  The Line Cutter will get in, and search for me, expecting for me to be crawling on the floor.

  What if I wasn’t on the floor?