Dead Shot

by Ethan Johnson

  Diana’s heart sank. “Are you sure you can do this?”

  “I’m doing my best. I promise I’ll be there.”

  “Would it help if I moved closer to you?”

  “Well… sure, but that’s risky. I mean, can you do it safely? The news is making it look like if the bombings don’t get you, the gangs and looters will.”

  “Then how can you promise you can come get me?”

  “Because I made it this far, and I’m not turning back. Not without you.” His voice became firm and resolute. Diana liked it.

  “Okay. Can you see what’s happening? How bad is it?”

  “Well, I can tell you I watched three explosions so far, and it’s really weird, not seeing any airplanes taking off or landing.”

  A sharp beep sounded in Diana’s ear. She held the phone away from her ear and looked at the battery indicator. It was down to 10%. “Gabe, this battery is about to die. I can’t keep this on any longer. We need a meeting place and time.”

  “Okay, the place is Washington and Linden, like you said. Time… well, tell you what, contact me in six hours and I’ll tell you if I’m close by yet.”

  “It will be dark in six hours.”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you.” His voice was weaker and softer. Diana didn’t like that. “I’ll honk the horn three times when I get there. You should be able to hear it. Contact me then, and I’ll pick you up.” His voice regained some of its confidence, and with it, her approval.

  “Okay. Just… be careful.”

  “I will.” The connection terminated. She pressed down on the power button and waited for the device to go black. She tossed it aside and took another sip of water.

  She wished she had a can of sardines to hold her over, or a bag of jerky. She winced as she recalled another piece of advice from the Good Book and cursed herself for not remembering it.

  Diana trembled as jet engines screamed overhead. Living in the big city had introduced her to persistent noises of all sorts, but these were different. More urgent. A black blur passed overhead, followed by a loud boom. Could they be fighter jets? If so, where were they going? Were they going to shoot down the enemy? The relative safety of her alcove offered little in the way of visibility in any direction. She heard two more roars nearby, followed by booms, then… nothing. Nothing overhead, that is. She heard a woman get attacked by at least two men, by her count of the differing voices.

  She looked at the shotgun and considered a rescue. There were two of them, at least. The shotgun could defend her against one of them, but she’d be a victim too, once the other got ahold of her. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the screams to trail off and blend in with the rest of the noises that surrounded her brick and asphalt oasis.

  When she felt the immediate danger had passed, she got up and paced back and forth again. Her knees were stiffening up, and she hopped up and down to restore proper circulation. Another benefit of her hiding place was shelter from the cooler air. It was late April, but not summertime yet. She had dressed for work, not prolonged exposure to the elements.

  She thought about the apartment she shared with Veronica. Was she okay? Had it been blown up, or set on fire? She wondered if bad men had found her too. She considered making her way back and setting up a new rendezvous point with Gabe. She could charge the phone and have a window to peek through. She peered down the passageway and saw a few police cruisers and an ambulance pass by. Maybe the gangs had moved on, having picked over this part of town. She eyed the shotgun again and considered her options.

  Gunfire sounded on the other side of the alcove this time, and Diana dove to her spot out of sight from passing foot and vehicle traffic. She laid the shotgun across her lap, and held her breath, straining to hear any identifying information about the shots. Glass broke, and shots sounded once more. Diana exhaled slowly and determined that somebody had broken into the building. Maybe they shot out the window. Maybe they took a potshot at the police or a rival gang. She didn’t care about the specifics of the break-in, rather the logistics. A rusty metal door stood between her and the intruder, and if that person opened the door, it would be either him or her. She couldn’t afford the luxury of making assumptions about motives.

  She trained the shotgun on the door and waited. She heard more gunfire and glass breaking. Tires screeched, and voices shouted in all directions. She heard some sort of commotion through the door, then it banged open, and a Hispanic man held a long-haired blonde woman in a choke hold. His eyes widened as she saw Diana pointing her shotgun at him, and he jabbed a handgun into the woman’s ribs, causing her to yelp.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  “Drop it, let her go, or I drop you,” she replied.

  He pressed the gun against the woman’s temple, and she squealed in terror. Fury flashed across his eyes, but in an instant, Diana recognized fear. She stood firm and adjusted her aim slightly to the left.

  “Drop it, or she dies. Then I get real mad, you feeling me?”

  Diana pulled the trigger and blasted buckshot on his elbow. The woman wriggled away and scrambled for freedom through the passageway as her assailant dropped his handgun. Diana eyed it and spun the shotgun around. She drove it into his skull, sending him crashing to the pavement.

  She tossed it aside and picked up the handgun. She aimed for his forehead and took a single shot.

  “That’s for ruining my hiding place.”

  Metal met metal on the street behind her. Diana turned around and saw the woman had run into traffic, and two police cars had collided trying to avoid her. The jig was up. She’d have to move, quickly.

  She ejected the magazine and counted rounds. The gun had seven remaining out of twelve. She snapped the magazine back into place, applied the safety, and stuck the gun in her waistband. She picked up the phone, sucked down the last of her water, and hovered over the shotgun. She shrugged and picked it up.

  “Can’t hurt,” she said to herself.

  CHAPTER 14

  Diana kept the shotgun low and second-guessed herself for taking it with her. The handgun was lighter and much more portable. The shotgun had its uses, but it wasn’t exactly stealthy. With her hiding place spoiled, she had to find somewhere else to camp out while she waited on Gabe. Her phone had just enough juice for one more contact attempt, and the horn blasts had to sound before she’d consider turning it on, let alone attempting contact.

  She wondered what route he was taking to reach her. If he was stuck in traffic, especially with a clear view of Manhattan, he had to be some ways north, she figured, based on her limited knowledge of the area. Which probably put him on a highway, which meant… bridges.

  She gasped at the thought of it and hoped he wasn’t so stupid as to allow himself to be exposed like that during an attack. The subject of the Good Book hadn’t come up before, but she assumed it was common knowledge to stick to solid ground. Black smoke billowed from behind a parking garage, and more police cars were patrolling the streets, replacing the usual assortment of vehicles. She noticed signs standing at intervals that read TERROR LEVEL RED and SHELTER IN PLACE.

  The Good Book mentioned color-coded terror alert levels that were implemented after 9/11, but they fell into disfavor and were scrapped in favor of Terror Level Red, which was only to be used if a significant terrorist attack or full-scale invasion were to occur. People shrugged it off, putting it on par with the sun burning out, or California sliding into the ocean. If it ever happened. If. Which was as good as never, they reasoned.

  Terror Alert Red gave the police the authority to shoot on sight and shoot to kill. Wide latitude was given to the police in this regard, as nobody wanted to require a police officer within spitting distance of the enemy to have to get congressional approval to condemn the act on moral grounds and strongly consider the application of force, pending a 2/3 majority vote. There were two camps: If, and When. The Whens won the day, and Terror Level Red was added to the arsenal of worst-case scenario responses.

&n
bsp; Diana supposed they were saying a lot of “told you so’s” right about now.

  She wasn’t seeing any terrorists or foreign soldiers. No warplanes dotted the skies, no tanks rolled down the streets, and no urban warfare appeared to be in progress. Just explosions, and fires in the oddest places. Whoever did this didn’t opt for a statement, like an iconic building like the Empire State Building, which was presently covered in scaffolding as restoration crews took layers of gunk off the sides. The targets were random but effective. A group of black men huddled together, walking briskly away from the smoke, and two police cruisers and a transport vehicle pulled up beside them. Diana ducked behind a dirty sedan and watched as the men were rounded up and sealed in the transport vehicle.

  Diana tried to make sense of it. At least they weren’t gunned down. And they were supposed to be indoors. She looked at her pale skin and wondered if it gave her an added layer of protection that the other men lacked.

  She kept low, in case the roundup was incidental and not targeted. She ducked around the corner, and into a gathering of police officers who waved her on, shouting at her to shelter in place and off the street. One of them looked down at her shotgun and reached for his sidearm.

  “Please tell me you’re out trying to be a hero, and you’re not one of them, miss.” The officer drew his weapon and raised his other hand. “Put the shotgun down and leave the rough stuff to the force.”

  More officers stepped forward and aimed their weapons. Their commands were staccato, and much less pleasant. Diana raised her left hand and held the shotgun out in front of her. “I’m putting it down. Don’t shoot.”

  The lead officer waved them off and kept his sidearm trained on her. He was sorely underestimating her, but to his good fortune, she had no interest in shooting cops. Plus, even though she could have killed him instantly, there were at least seven more officers behind him. She wasn’t in the mood for a shootout that guaranteed she’d lose. She set the shotgun down and took a step backward. She raised both of her hands, but just below shoulder height. She wanted a fighting chance at reaching the gun in her waistband if they decided to take her out.

  He crouched down and picked up the shotgun. He gave it a quick once-over, then straightened up. He held the shotgun up and tipped his head.

  “Where the hell did you get this thing? This is a lot of firepower for little girls.”

  Diana smiled. “Little girls need all the firepower they can get.”

  “To do what, hunt elephants? Jesus.”

  “One looter, so far.”

  The officer stiffened. “Are you confessing to Murder One? I’m dressed up, but this is the wrong outfit. I’m not your priest.”

  “Self-defense. And it’s Terror Level Red right now. I’d say I saved you the hassle.”

  The officer gave her a stern stare, then chuckled. He turned to the other officers, and they lowered their weapons, having a laugh along with him. “Jesus, this girl. Stick a badge on her, and we can all go home.” He stepped forward and handed her the shotgun. “Well, since you’re on our side, I’m officially telling you to go home and shelter in place. This ain’t a shooting gallery out here.”

  “Yes, sir. I was heading there now, sir.”

  He patted her shoulder. “Good girl. And unofficially, make it six more looters on your way home.” He winked. His fellow officers laughed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Diana gripped the shotgun and kept a low profile as she tried to seek out a new hiding place. The officer told her which intersections to avoid in the immediate area, as other officers wouldn’t have been as inclined to let her off with a verbal warning. Like she said, it was Terror Level Red, and one of them would have no qualms about shooting her just for being out on the street, let along packing a shotgun.

  Diana kept that in mind as she looked around for gaps between buildings. After the wide-open spaces of Crocker, Nebraska, she couldn’t get used to the apparent principle of jamming buildings together haphazardly and providing few—if any—rear exits. She was fortunate to be able to exit the market through the rear. Other people weren’t so lucky. She saw bodies lying in the back of a music shop, and blood spattered on the walls. Was it looters? Was it the police? The distinction was irrelevant. The fact is, they were sitting ducks, and somebody took them out.

  Diana shivered. That could have been her, Athena, and Mister Leotis.

  Two out of three wasn’t bad, she thought.

  Diana heard shouting, and glass breaking behind her. She wasn’t too far from the gaggle of officers she stumbled upon, and when the shouts turned into screams and gunfire, she doubled back. She pressed up against a brick wall and peeked around the corner. Men with their faces covered with scarves were on the roof on either side of the officers, dropping Molotovs on their command post. One officer rolled around in the middle of the street, trying to extinguish the flames that engulfed his body.

  The other officers ducked behind their vehicles, taking shots up at the roof line and striking bricks, or nothing at all. Another bottle sailed over the side, and the roof of one of the cruisers went up in bright orange flames. Diana turned back the way she came and followed the edge of the building to a wooden ladder that leaned against a sign shop. She looked around and saw a repair truck missing ladders from their carrying hooks, then scaled the ladder, her heart pounding as she questioned her sanity.

  The building that bordered the police had another wooden ladder pressed against it, which leaned against the side but didn’t clear the roof line. It was close enough for her. She tested the ladder, then climbed up quickly a little more than halfway, then one rung at a time. When her eyes peeked over the roof line, she saw three men on the roof, kneeling and plucking clear liquor bottles from a cardboard box, stuffing the necks with rags, then using a lighter on them. After sounding a three-count, one of the men would heave the bottle over the side of the building. The sound of glass breaking and more shouting and gunshots rose from the street.

  Diana ducked down and considered her strategy. The shotgun could only take one of them out. The handgun could hit all three, but she had no clue as to how many were on the other rooftop. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to match bullets to bad guys. She cocked her head at the realization of what she was contemplating: was she really going to take on three men by herself? She wasn’t a cop, and she could leave them to fend for themselves. It wasn’t her fight. She could go straight home, and not get involved. However, she could prove something to her father—and herself. She opened her eyes and put on an expression of grim determination.

  She stepped onto the second-highest rung and aimed the shotgun at the men as they knelt over the box. She waited for the leader of the group to light another rag on fire, then she pulled the trigger. The bottle broke in his hands, sending flaming liquor all over the three of them, and more importantly, into the cardboard box.

  The three men staggered around, waving their arms, covered in flames. One got too close to the edge of the roofline, and a bullet passed through his chest. He fell backward over the edge. Another slipped and fell off the roof to Diana’s right, leaving one hostile who had the presence of mind to drop and roll.

  She set the shotgun down and broke it open, pulling the spent shell out and tossing it over her shoulder. She dug into her right pocket and slid another shell into the shotgun and snapped it closed. She preferred the handgun, but she wanted options.

  She pulled herself up onto the roof and steadied herself with the shotgun. The third hostile rose to his feet and pulled a lock blade knife from his pants pocket. He pulled the blade open and rushed her. She pointed the shotgun at his chest and shook her head. “Bad idea.”

  She spun the shotgun around and batted it against the side of his head. He dove to her left, and the gravel covering crunched as he dropped to one knee, with his hand over his ear. He rose to his feet once more, and Diana drove the butt of the shotgun into his chest. He fell face-down onto the edge of the roof. The knife fell from his hand and on
to the sidewalk below. He reached for it in vain as it fell, then looked back to find Diana gripping his ankles with her shotgun lying beside her.

  “You dropped your knife.” She lifted his legs and sent him over the edge of the roof. She heard a crunch as he hit bottom. She sat down and wiped her brow. Three hostiles, one shell. If only Daddy could see me now, she thought proudly.

  She reached for the shotgun and dropped onto her stomach. Another bottle arced over the edge of the roof on the building across the street. She army-crawled on the roof and made her way close to the burning liquor bottles. She gazed across the abyss to get a rough count of the hostiles on the other rooftop. After a moment or two, she counted two of them, based on their face scarves. There could be at least one more, she reminded herself.

  She reached back and pulled the gun from her waistband. She released the safety and crawled closer to the edge of the roof. She watched intently as one of the hostiles poked his head up higher than the other one. He was stupid, and an easy target, she concluded. She opted for the other one. Two more bottles had been hurled from the roof before Diana saw her opportunity. Smart Guy poked his head up a little higher as he apparently shifted his weight to his other leg. She pulled the trigger, and a puff of red mist appeared over the roof line. She heard panicked screams, and the second hostile stood up, putting his hands to his head, in apparent disbelief. He looked around, making exaggerated movements, which struck Diana as almost comical. He made the grave error of stepping close to the edge of the roof, and a hail of bullets tore through him even as his body tumbled over the side to the sidewalk below.

  She trained her gun on the roof line, then applied the safety. She slipped the gun into her waistband once more, adjusted it as the hot barrel singed her bare skin, and slithered backward before scooping up her shotgun. She returned to the wooden ladder, and slid down carefully to the second rung, then plucked the shotgun from the roof edge before scaling the ladder down to the lower roof. She pulled the ladder away and let it fall beside her. She jogged to the first ladder and hurried down to street level. She trained the shotgun on the third hostile and pulled his blood-soaked scarf from his face. He couldn’t have been much over eighteen, she thought. Stupid kids, thinking they were tougher than the cops.