Big Guns

by Steve Israel

  Game on, Ralph sneered.

  Ralph summoned reinforcements. They arrived at the Bunker from across Long Island’s Twin Forks, which pointed like the tips of two bayonets, ready to defend against the invading hordes. They left their farms and subdivisions. They crowded into Ralph’s house and spilled onto his yard. They pitched tents and draped their camos on Mrs. Kellogg’s tilting clothesline. They hoisted flags that said MAKE AMERICA EVEN GREATER and REMEMBER BENGHAZI! They burned campfires and sang songs about taxes and tyranny late into the night. They propped their rocket launchers on Ralph’s picket fence, a particular annoyance to his neighbor, George Kilmner. George was a zealous defender of the Kilmner-Kellogg property line, and three-time winner of the Asabogue rhododendron competition. But this time he didn’t complain. Picking a fight with people capable of firing short-range missiles at his herb garden didn’t seem advisable.

  There was also the stench. The Kellogg house had only one tiny bathroom for its forty guests. It featured its original pink tile and very finicky plumbing. So the entire property was enveloped in thick vapors of backed-up sewage and unwashed bodies, farts and belches, junk food and beer.

  The original members of Ralph’s Organization—Louie Del-marco and Bobby Reilly—didn’t particularly care for the newcomers; how they sprawled their air mattresses in the basement so that no one could move without tangling their feet; how their heavy metal music blared from their earphones; how they pushed their way around and ate Louie’s junk food and guzzled his beer. Even the chain-smoking Bobby Reilly objected to the asphyxiating haze of cigarette smoke. In such close and unventilated quarters, the combination of high-fructose diets, combustible testosterone, and excessive paranoia strained already jittery nerves.

  One day, Louie opened a supply cabinet for his midmorning snack of Cheez-Its. He plunged his thick fingers into the red box. They probed deeper and deeper until hitting bottom and emerged with nothing but orange crumbs clinging to the tips. Louie grabbed the box, turned it over, and watched a few orange flakes waft onto the cement floor.Louie blinked back his rage. Then he asked, “Who finished my Cheez-Its?”

  When no one answered, Louie Delmarco asked again, only louder. “Who finished my Cheez-Its? And left the empty box?” His plump hand closed against the box, crushing it.

  No one paid attention. Ralph was leaning against the washing machine, studying a map of Connecticut, wondering if Islamex terrorists could dig a tunnel under the Long Island Sound and pop up in Veterans Park.

  Louie yelled: “Hey assholes! You finish my Cheez-Its, it’s common courtesy to go out and replace them!”

  There was a deep growl in a corner, like an engine revving. A newcomer who went by the name Levi (“short for Leviathan,” he liked to tell people in a husky voice) stepped forward. He was tall and powerfully built. A Mohawk sprouted from an otherwise clean scalp. His biceps were plastered with American eagle tattoos and a handlebar mustache plunged like a frothy waterfall down his jaw. On that jaw were small traces of Cheez-Its. “Dude, calm down. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Ralph looked up from his maps. He saw Bobby Reilly move protectively next to Louie. Bobby said, “There’s manners, is all.”

  Levi hooted: “Manners! La-dee-fucking-da!” His comrades giggled. He stepped closer to Louie, his biceps flexing in excited anticipation. “Who are you, the Martha fuckin’ Stewart of the militia?”

  Louie had no clue who Martha Stewart was. But he took this as an insult, likely aimed at his manhood. He dropped the Cheez-Its box. Clenched both fists. Stepped toward Levi. A circle formed around the two, ready for action. Meanwhile, Bobby Reilly moved toward one of the weapons cabinets.

  Ralph thought, Crap.

  Louie Delmarco was built to idle, not to fight, especially opponents who could bench-press his rotund body. Louie’s eyes leveled on Levi’s wide chest as it heaved against an American flag tank top. Levi’s arm muscles rippled so that the eagle tattoos looked like they were trying to flutter away. Louie craned his neck and rolled back his head, then suddenly gulped a full blast of Cheez-It-flavored breath expelled from Levi’s cheeks.

  Bobby reached toward a metal shelf, grabbing the first weapon he touched. It was small, round, and fit in his palm. It was an M67 hand grenade, which from everyone’s perspective, including Bobby’s, may have been overkill for not replacing an empty box of Cheez-Its.

  “Stand back!” Bobby yelled, waving the grenade wildly above his head for effect.

  A rapid tangle of fetid bodies suddenly pressed against the wall, under the now-drooping Jack Steele movie poster.

  Ralph sighed resignedly. As a student of the Military History Channel, Ralph knew that all great warrior leaders reached crises like this, when low morale and privation turned men on each other. George Washington at Valley Forge. John Wayne at The Alamo. Mel Gibson in Braveheart. He had to diffuse the live grenade who was clutching a live grenade, then deal with the issue of low morale in the Bunker. He stiffened his back, jutted his chin like George C. Scott in Patton, and strode toward Bobby. He put out his hands. “Gimme,” he grunted.

  Bobby fidgeted. Ralph leaned toward Bobby and said, “Gimme. I got a mission for you. Special.”

  Bobby’s eyes darted. They were bloodshot and yellow from nicotine. They rested on Louie, who nodded, relieved not to be strangled by Levi but anxious about being blown up by Bobby. Bobby handed the grenade to Ralph. There was a chorus of sighs, punctuated with some Holy fucks!

  Ralph said, “Bobby, Louie. Report to me. Upstairs. Now.”

  *

  They sat at a wobbly table in the kitchen. Heaps of crusted plates overflowed from the sink. Outside the window, a plume of smoke coiled from a campfire. The refrigerator buzzed and thumped and generated an eye-watering odor.

  “Boys,” said Ralph, “you’ve been good and loyal soldiers. You deserve some time off.”

  One of Louie’s favorite phrases was “time off.” He pumped his fists.

  Ralph continued: “I want you to go into town. Get some fresh air, stretch your legs. Conduct reconnaissance on enemy positions. And pick up some more Cheez-Its while you’re out.”

  He slid a stolen AmEx card across the table, which Louie grabbed.

  “Take your weapons, boys. But don’t shoot till you see the whites of their eyes.” Ralph chuckled. He thought it seemed like an appropriate cliché.

  Ralph was wrong.

  They took their weapons, walked through the dark hall and out to the front porch, where the screen door squealed closed.

  They went to town.

  *

  In Village Hall, Lois Liebowitz and Sam Gergala shuffled through piles of papers on the conference table to the din of protestors outside. Lois signed a letter to the local congressman about helicopter noise and yet another requisition for the installation of a brand-new streetlight at Asabogue Bluff Lane. Then said to Sam, “Coffee?” “Sounds good. I’ll pick some up from Joan’s.”

  Lois pushed back her chair. “Let me go, Sam. I need a walk.”

  Sam glanced out the window and warned, “Be careful.”

  “It’s Joan’s. Things aren’t that dangerous.”

  She pushed open the door with a chuckle.

  *

  Louie and Bobby turned a corner onto Main Street. Deprived of his morning snack in the Bunker, Louie lagged behind, massaging his growling stomach and whining, “Let’s eat.” He’d been whining since they’d left.Bobby asked, “Eat where? Everywhere’s a crowd. Look at this place. Don’t look nothing like Asabogue!”

  They stood still in the late-morning heat. Long lines meandered out of every storefront. Main Street was gridlocked with hundreds of vehicles and motorcycles bearing out-of-state plates. The sidewalks teemed with visitors, guns slung over their shoulders and stuffed into holsters. On Veterans Park, a bank of news cameras were trained on anti-gun demonstrators in pink shirts, swaying and singing “Kumbaya.”

  Louie grimaced. The grinding in his belly felt like knives and he was growing mo
re agitated. Streams of sweat ran down his puffing cheeks. Bobby stared at him and reached a diagnosis: Cheez-Its withdrawal.

  “This is our town!” Louie shouted above the din. “Shouldn’t have to wait on line to get something to eat. I’m going to Joan’s!” Louie stomped off indignantly, melting into the sidewalk congestion. Bobby scrambled to catch up.

  A crowd was gathered at Joan’s Main Street Bakery for yet another celebrity sighting. There, in tanning-parlor flesh at a small Formica table, sat ABC’s Harry Holt. Harry had a knack for close proximity to war, genocide, typhoon, tornado, plane crash, mass destruction, starvation, or near apocalypse. Which is why he wasn’t invited to many parties. He was the new young face of the network, having replaced the old new young face a few months earlier. And what a face! A hawk-like intensity, crystal-blue eyes, a faded scar meandering across his forehead (“Somalia” was his one-word explanation to the curious), thick brown hair carefully styled to look carefree. And a swarthy Australian accent that made every word sound exotic. He was with his cameraman, swiping at his iPad while sipping the fresh organic tea the network was contractually required to import from London. For a newsman, Harry seemed completely oblivious to the crowd that had formed to catch a glimpse of him. They stretched cameras high in the air to snap his picture and shoved each other out of the way for a better view. They crowded deeper into Joan’s,scuffing the black-and-white tiled floor, pressing against the glass counter, bumping against the small tables.

  By the time Louie arrived, his stomach was like the heaving waves and crackling flashes of an ocean storm. The warm smell of the bakery didn’t help. It swept through the room, propelled by ceiling fans spinning lazily. It wafted into his nostrils, watering his eyes and flooding his mouth with saliva. It drew him through the crowd, elbows flailing as he barked, “Official village business!” His blue Parks Department T-shirt gave him an air of authority. Louie knew that people respected uniforms, even if, as in his case, the uniform was ripped, mud-stained, and revealed the lower third of a hairy and undulating belly. Finally, Louie made it to the counter and breathlessly plunked his arms down on the glass. A group of Joan’s employees greeted him numbly. They were dressed in black JOAN’S aprons with smudges of various colored frosting streaked across their sweaty faces. The counter looked as if locusts had buzzed through, leaving empty dishes and crinkled cellophane. The ticket number display high on the wall had lost count hundreds of customers ago. It blinked helplessly at Louie.

  “Gimme a cheese danish! Quick!” Louie panted.

  The staff stared back. “All out,” one said.

  “Prune, then. One prune danish.”

  “Sorry. No prune. No cherry. No danish.”

  Louie felt light-headed. He wrung his hands on the glass. “Then what kinda pie you got?”

  “Sold outta pie. All we have are these . . .”

  A single dish of brown muffins was displayed in the showcase, fresh from an overworked oven, moist and glistening.

  “I’ll take them. All.” Louie fished for the stolen AmEx card.

  The plate was set on the counter. Louie reached for it. And then—

  “Hold it. I was here first!”

  Louie turned. Next to him was a man dressed like Darth Vader, in urban tactical gear from black tactical helmet to black jackboots.

  “Who are you?” Louie asked angrily. He could taste the Morning Glory on his tongue.

  “Brigadier General Jeb O’Malley. Indiana Militia of Jesus. Greene County Brigade.”

  “Louie Delmarco. Asabogue Parks Department Maintenance Assistant III. Nice to meet ya. Now, get lost.” He tugged at the dish.

  The general tugged back. “Maybe you don’t understand. I’m a brigadier general. I outrank you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Louie caught Bobby cutting through the crowd, moving toward him. “Maybe in Cowturd, Indiana, you outrank me. But not here. Not in Asabogue!” Louie turned to the bakery staff. “Am I right?”

  Since the Joan’s Bakery employee manual was silent on the order of precedence in various civilian militias, the staff stared back, slack-jawed and exhausted.

  Louie tugged the plate to the right. The general tugged to the left. The Morning Glory muffins jiggled. Louie tightened his thick fingers on the rim of the plate. The general grunted. Behind him, four soldiers from the Indiana Militia of Jesus stepped forward, Ruger Mini-14s drawn.

  For the second time that morning, Bobby Reilly sensed threat closing in on his friend. This time, however, there was no Ralph Kellogg to disarm Bobby. Just a group of lanky Indianans in urban gear with their guns pointed at Louie Delmarco, whose reddened fingers were now clamped around the plate of muffins. Fair’s fair, thought Bobby.

  He drew his Sig Subcompact. Pointed it in the air. Pulled the trigger.

  The Battle of Morning Glory commenced.

  *

  A thick stream of blood ran across Harry Holt’s forehead, meandering down toward his eyes. He was about to wipe it with his sleeve, then stopped suddenly. ABC had interrupted its regular programming and was about to go live to Asabogue. Blondes were a dependable ratings booster at Fox News, but ABC now had blood. Real, hot blood. So Holt dropped his arm and stared defiantly at the camera, worrying that his cameraman’s shaking hands would ruin the shot. “You okay?” he asked without moving his eyes from the lens.

  “Think so.”

  “Nice and steady, mate. This may be our Emmy.”

  Behind him, tables were overturned, plates and mugs were smashed, and the bakery counter was a pile of broken glass and bent steel. The black-and-white tiled floor was scattered with guns, brass knuckles, and military knives. One of the ceiling fans was hanging by its wire, the blades wobbling through a thick, acrid haze.

  In his earpiece, he could hear the urgent voices of technicians and producers scrambling to turn the world’s attention to Harry Holt. Or was it buzzing from the gunshots? He felt numb, his ears were ringing, and the deep gash across his head was starting to burn. He listened to the ABC “bad shit is happening somewhere” theme music. Then he heard the sonorous voice of Chad Atlas: “dramatic footage” . . . “our own Harry Holt” . . . “actually caught in the crossfire.”

  His cameraman pointed a trembling index finger, indicating they were live. Not just live, Holt thought, alive!

  He took a deep breath, tried relaxing his jaw. “That’s right, Chad. I was right here at Joan’s Main Street Bakery in Asabogue when it all happened.” His voice was scratchy. Not nervous sounding, he hoped. He lowered his pitch. “Senseless gun violence between rival militias over what seems to have been a dispute over . . . muffins.”

  “Harry, we can’t help but notice what appears to be a pretty nasty wound on your head.”

  I’m glad you noticed. Holt wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, leaving a Jackson Pollock streak above his eyebrows as he tried to convey the proper amount of pain. “I’m okay. Just grazed. I think.”

  The truth was that Harry wasn’t grazed by a bullet. When the shots were fired, he dove, hitting his forehead against the rim of the table. Now he’d have two scars: one from Somalia and another from Formica.

  “Harry, can you tell us exactly what happened?”

  “Chad, my cameraman is the real hero here. When the violence erupted, he kept shooting. Take a look . . .”

  ABC viewers watched the grainy, careening footage. People screaming. Bodies diving. Morning Glory muffins splattering. Glass shards flying. A seemingly brave but pudgy village employee wrestling a militiaman clad in black. Soldiers from countless militias converging. More shots. Bodies diving. The picture suddenly flipping upside down as the cameraman hit the ground, then turning right side up. The voice of Harry Holt, yelling against gunfire and screams: “Are you getting this? Keep filming! Keep filming, mate!”

  Chad asked, “Do we know how many casualties?”

  “No word yet, Chad. Although I can confirm at least one official of the Village of Asabogue.”

  28
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br />   Sunny McCarthy was at her best when things seemed their worst. When crisis erupted, when a wind shear in public opinion pitched Cogsworth International Arms into free fall, when Otis and his idiot nephew Bruce huffed in breathless panic, that’s when Sunny took control. She’d calmly direct the reverse thrust of the fan when the shit hit: pressing buttons, shifting speeds, pushing, pulling, spinning, and steering until things went her way, as they always did.

  Sunny McCarthy was the CEO of crisis management.

  But not now. Now she was slumped back in her chair in a self-diagnosed panic attack. A cold sheen of sweat covered her body. She frantically twirled her hair into spidery clumps. Her neck muscles closed around her throat, slackening her jaw. Her fingers stumbled over the television remote as she numbingly clicked from network to network, searching for one image.Lois.

  She watched the impromptu news conferences from Asabogue featuring grim-faced officials in government-issued Windbreakers. She vaguely recognized old neighbors, like ghosts from the past, haunting her as they nodded their heads, clucked their tongues, and described the carnage. The last time Sunny saw so many twirling lights on Main Street was Christmas, many years before.

  She’d tried calling Lois, bracing herself for the inevitable lecture about gun violence in Asabogue sprinkled with a few Didn’t I tell yous? But there was no answer. Just the sound of her mother jangling the phone and declaiming: “Hullo. This is Lois. Leave a message.” Beep.

  Sunny hung up before recording anything. Because Hi, Mother. Just checking to see if you’re alive. Call me back if you are didn’t seem appropriate.

  Don’t panic.

  I’d have heard if something horrible happened to her.

  Why doesn’t she call me to tell me she’s okay?

  When her phone rang, she lunged for it.

  It was her brother, Jeffrey, his voice quivering from Vermont. He’d tried reaching Lois ever since hearing about the shooting on National Socialist Radio, or whatever he listened to. Now he was racing somewhere through the Green Mountains to Asabogue.