by Gareth Spark
Nash looked up at me like a whipped dog. The intended outcome.
I reached into the back seat of the Charger.
"This is how you get to go out, Leon. Here's your gun and a bullet."
I tossed both to the ground.
"Do the right thing. But don't take too long. Jack is an impatient man."
He stared at the gun and held his bloody mouth.
I got into the canary yellow Dodge and cut the highway into black ribbons. I still had thirty minutes to make it to the airport and tell Cobi what happened before she flew back to Salt Lake. Her sister, Francine, could finally rest in peace. Her parents could start to heal. In the rear view, I caught a glimpse of Leon scrambling for the gun right before silent shots caused roses to bloom on his forehead and chest. My boys didn’t feel like waiting. Fine by me. He took a nosedive into the pavement and died sucking Charger exhaust.
I think I'm gonna keep that Glock 17.
Brian is firefighter living in East Georgia. When he's not busy saving babies, or running into burning buildings, he spends his time making shit up. His crime fiction has been on a few esteemed online fiction websites, including shotgunhoney.net, and outofthegutteronline.com. His story Sixteen Down was the grand prize winner of Evolved Publishing's story contest and is the lead story in the anthology Evolution Vol. 2. His most recent project is the zombie epic C'mon And Do The Apocalypse Vol. 1 co-written with some dude named Ryan Sayles. It's great, you should buy it. There will be a lot more of that so look out for Vol. 2. The story in this book, Somebody's daughter, ties into Brian's first full length novel, A Warm Machine, that is currently being shopped for a publisher. This is not the last you'll be hearing from Emmett Cobb and the boys.
By Ryan Sayles
Bullets snap to life around me and I dive, hitting the deck behind a solid concrete fountain.
The sun is beating down. Midday. Heat wave and drought conditions. Now this. Outside on the campus, walking along; the crackle and pop of gunfire puncture the air. I taste adrenaline like that sour mash from a bad hangover. My heart is pummelling like a death metal drummer. Everything tunes up.
Bits of concrete snap off in plumes of dust: rain down on me. The walkway around the fountain is blistering to the touch. Not a tree or shade in sight, and this walkway has been absorbing the 100 degree of day since forever ago. My knees squeal like frying ham touching a pan. I try and crouch; no good.
One minute you’re on a college campus struggling for a passing grade in calculus, the next minute some dude pulls out a rifle and goes ape shit.
Stay calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. A calming technique I practice. Everything is oddly silent except for an alarm klaxon, dinging like a fire bell and the mushy but constant moaning of the wounded. All the senses tune to a higher pitch. This is war. I close my eyes for a moment; inventorying my body. Checking for perforations. Nope, but someone shoots again and I feel the impact into the fountain basin.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” I hear him shout. “Show yourself and take it like a man!”
911 must be blowing up right now. Student after student calling and screaming, “HE’S GOT A GUN!” Not me. I stay below the fountain’s level. I stick my head around the side and hear a stray bullet bark. I jerk back. I get my phone and fire up the police scanner app I downloaded yesterday. I find the city: cop voices, tense like that moment before you make the decision that changes everything. I can hear sirens behind those voices. They ask for information as they race to the scene, trying to keep tabs on their enemy.
I’ve never been good with my electronics. Brandon actually helped me with the app. If I could just have a rotary phone, I’d be in my comfort zone.
Footfalls. Confusion and disbelief.
I planned on being as near to the Student Loan Center as possible in just a few minutes. I've got an appointment. People shout sporadically. One girl won’t stop screaming. I think she’s dying. I saw her on the ground before I took fire; writhing and clutching at a red bloom on her waist.
Three dead on the other side of the fountain. I know one of them. I also know Brandon, shot in the head standing not ten feet in front of me. I look to my left and there he is; lying on his belly. His face turned my direction. Blood running out of his eyes. His nose. His mouth. An accusatory look, because it was him, not me. It's not like he suffered. I suppose he’d give that look to anyone right about now, but he won’t stop. “It’s not like you suffered,” I say. He doesn’t respond. He just bleeds.
I worry I’m going to get flanked. Whoever is shooting has obviously targeted me. Might just go in for the kill, skirt around to my side. Open up his killing field. Hell, the shooter might be ex-military. He might have skills. I was never military. Might be a cop. I was never a cop. There’s not supposed to be guns on this campus. The signs say so. Me? Chemistry student. I did best making things in a lab. Equations. Reactions.
But if I get flanked, I’m over with. I know that much. I slide up the three-foot basin of the fountain, hugging the heat-soaked concrete like it’s my lover. The kind of lover that makes your skin swirl and agonize and you love every second of it. If I weren’t trying to stay alive I would never touch something this hot. I ease over the lip and down into the water. Refreshing yet also sun-scorched. I keep my phone and junk above water, slowly move around, away from where he last saw me. Throw ‘em off.
Now I hear sirens for real in the air. The cavalry’s arrived. The water presses down. Squeezes. Like a lot of things, really. I move and it kicks up, sloshes into my mouth. Panic. Can’t get my phone wet. Need it. Police scanner. And, I need to make a phone call. Who doesn’t right now?
“828, PD. On scene and approaching from the south.”
“821. All units, I have a man down on the east side. Two shots in the back-”
“800, PD. Hold the air. Have EMS stage up on the west side of the auditorium off of Lake Drive. Broadcast the description and location again.”
“PD. All units. Subject is described as white male, early twenties, shaved head, black shirt, black shorts, combat boots, back-pack, armed with a rifle. Last seen near a water fountain-”
I click it off. The scanner is loud as fuck, giving me away. Hear footfalls racing around the fountain. Blood heaves through my jugulars and I know he’s coming in for the kill. Must play a lot of video games. Thinks he can roll up and double-tap me. The guy is shooting, pinning me down. I get up on a knee to face him.
The world squeezes. It doesn’t fit right on my skin anymore. My skin squeezes, doesn’t fit right on my sins anymore. My sins, they tattoo. Slither. Caress. And when you have a choice between squeezing, suffocation, slithering and caressing, you pick the affectionate stuff. Trust me.
Let me tell you something. When a headache lasts an entire year, you find new ways to adjust. New thoughts that don’t hurt as much. Escape valves.
Moans and screams echo off the campus buildings. Even from where I am I can see blood sprays along the concrete. I need to be at the Student Loan Center. Funny thing. During the orientation tour they told us the Student Loan Center was the campus safe haven. Built to take a tornado. They drilled it home into all of us. Whatever is happening, come here. Student Loan Center. Safe. God. It’s hot today.
He’s almost here. He thinks he can roll up and double-tap me.
You know, you give it all you have and for some people, that just ain’t fucking good enough anymore. Mom wants me to be a chemist just like her dad and my own father just says come home with something to show for the money I’m spending and as it turns out, he shouldn’t have spent the money. I learned a few things, though. Like what corrodes through a padlock on the back of the Student Loan Center. Or what explodes when you run an electrical current through it. So my father might get a good fireworks show for his money. Motherfucker.
The dude who was laying down return fire, suppressing fire, comes around to the left. I have my rifle levelled. I see him before he sees me. Two rounds into his chest and I’m e
mpty. Drop the rifle. I move to his big red blotch baking on the hot summer concrete and grab his gun.
“You know you can’t carry concealed on the school grounds, right?” I ask, looming over him. “They have signs up all over the place. You could get criminally charged, idiot.” Motherfucker.
Just some dude, I didn’t even see a book bag. Maybe he's an off-duty cop having lunch with his girlfriend. Maybe he’s failing school as well and we shared the exact plan, only I beat him to the punch. I win. For once in my God-forsaken life.
He’s fading out and flips me the bird. I plug him with his own gun, spraying brains out under him like a gooey pillow. You get extra points in video games for killing someone with their own weapon.
One minute I’m on a college campus struggling for a passing grade in Calculus, the next minute I pull out a rifle and go ape shit. According to plan. I’m sure over the course of the following weeks I’ll be a media sensation. My name on the lips of every broadcaster. My face on the computer screen and TV of every house in America. The people who gave their lives so I could finally have some respect, they’ll be fluffy news stories with sad songs playing in the background while family and friends who hated them yesterday will gush and miss them tomorrow. Folks, you’re welcome in advance for the newfound adoration.
All I want is some relief.
The world, tense like that moment before I made this big decision, knowing it was going to change everything. I fire up the police scanner app I downloaded yesterday. Never needed it before I decided to go through with this. Trying to keep tabs on my enemies.
Let me tell you something. I wrote in a spiral bound notebook. Counted it. I wrote six-thousand two-hundred and eighty-eight times, 'You have this coming'. I’m man enough to admit I cried during most of it.
Let me tell you something. If you had my dad, you’d want someone to bully also.
“Why are you wearing that ridiculous jacket?” Brandon asked me as we strolled through the Student Pasture here. The Pasture, part lawn, part courtyard, part study area and part picnic for all us failing intellectuals to hang out inside and be corralled. Despite the heat, I needed some way to conceal my chopped down rifle.
“Dude, it’s already over 100 degrees. You must be sweating your balls off,” he said and regarded me as a moron. I don’t like Brandon much, but he’s one of the few people who talk to me. “Not to mention you look like a retard. If you’re going to be all Trench Coat Mafia on us, at least get a jacket that doesn’t have sequins stitched in the back-”
And it was time. That’s how I knew. Brandon turned away to finish his thought and the rifle came out. It kissed his cowlick before I pulled the trigger. People screaming. Music. My life’s tensions: evaporating. Something about dust in the wind enters my mind, a melody; Dad loves that song and I aimed and fired. Everywhere.
“800, PD. Shots fired near the Students' Pasture. Use cover.”
“826. I can see a water fountain-”
I run past the guy who tackled his girlfriend to shield her. I got him in the neck for his trouble. Past the girl with the blood blossom on her waist. She’s shut up. Past the guy who, out of the blue, decided to engage me in a gun fight. What are the odds? Past Brandon, past all the others.
I dart into the Bannerman building. It's the most direct route from point A to point B, factoring in chaos and a probable Police response. I rush down the northeast flight of stairs, counting as I go. The calming technique I practiced during the dry runs.
The basement's air conditioning runs its tongue along my skin. Chilling, cool, delicious and reinvigorating. Across one, two, three and four doors on the left before I hit a T-juncture in the hallway. Turn right. One, two, three, four, five, six rooms, turn left. Staircase. Two flights up. I burst out into the sizzling air.
Across a small parking lot, up the hill: Student Loan Center. Shrieks. A trail of blood, even here. A girl sees me and starts bellowing like a banshee. I must be recognized. Phone; dial, trigger number. I could have done this from anywhere, but I want to see it. I want to see all those shitbags who are doing better than me, who have parents that will love them no matter how they come home, all those preps and dirtballs and stoners and jocks and foreign exchanges that turned the other way when I’d walk up, that left the table when I sat down, that giggled and said no when I asked them out. Motherfuckers.
“I wrote a letter!” I shout to no one. “Wait ‘til it arrives tomorrow or the next day! Then you’ll see! Then you’ll fucking see!” My psychiatrist will tell them. He’ll read the letter and tell all the police. Then, they’ll understand me. It’s all written down.
Let me tell you something. Little guys like me have feelings too. We need love too. If God can pour lava over cities and Stalin can slaughter his own people, I can express my distaste as well.
Two digits left – 48 – and the cops rush. I should have put it on speed dial. I’ve never been good with my electronics. You know, for all the planning in the world and-
Bullets snap into life around me. I dive and hit the deck behind an administrator’s car.
Blood pools in my vision. I can’t see clearly. Can’t think clearly. Color washes out and I taste copper. Lots of it. My stomach is on fire; left thigh. My ear is buzzing a high-pitched squeal like frying ham touching a pan. The law enforcement blue floods in. I think I swallow a tooth. On the touch screen I see 4. I need an 8. All I need is an 8.
8 rhymes with hate rhymes with fate and sometimes you are destined to be great and sometimes your fate is to die alone on a sweltering sheet of concrete bleed from the face and one day there will be a memorial and the president will ask for a moment of silence and everyone will know just how much I hate chemistry and my mom and dad rhymes with bad which is the only type of attention I could ever get and now the big decision has been made rhymes with fade as in fade to black and fade mostly rhymes with fate rhymes with hate rhymes with 8 rhymes with fuck it all, world. Fuck your squeezing.
Fuck your squeezing. Motherfucker.
With all the blood in my eyes I can’t tell if I press 3 or 8 when the phone dials and the cops run up and all their muzzles flash at once for a thousand years.
Ryan Sayles’s debut novel The Subtle Art of Brutality is out through Snubnose Press. He is a founding member of Zelmer Pulp, has a nonfiction column at Out of the Gutter and is a fiction editor at The Big Adios. For a full list of his publishing credits please visit Vitriolandbarbies.wordpress.com
By Chris Leek
Buckshot splintered the door and gutted Leroy's brother. Big Earl hesitated for a moment, before toppling like a sawed off pine and thumping on to the dirt floor.
“Shit! Earl, you okay?” Leroy called from the far side of the cabin. He was hunkered below the window, blindly returning fire with a rusty .44. His Ruger Scout lay discarded behind him, the last of the.308 rounds gone.
“Damn it, Tommy. Go fuckin' help him.” I didn't move. Instead I pressed myself further up against the cast iron stove. I could feel its heat on my back, smell the leather burning as it singed my jacket, but still I didn't move. The window above Leroy disintegrated in an spray of glass and another blast was unloaded through the ragged hole, hammering the back wall like hard rain and shaking dust down from the rafters. I looked at Big Earl, he looked back, but was past seeing. His blood – too much blood - almost black in color, crept slowly towards me over the packed dirt. I shuffled my feet out of its path. I'd known Big Earl all my life and right now I should be feeling something, anger maybe, or at the very least sadness. I just felt hollow.
“Tommy.” Leroy's voice was distant, drowned out by a constant wump-click-clack-wump, the rhythm of a shotgun duet. “Tommy!” Something thudded into my shoulder and bounced on the floor beside me. I snapped my head around and saw a snub nose pistol laying there.
“Get in the fuckin' game will ya boy. I make it's no more than two of 'em out there.” Leroy stared at me with hard eyes, one hand hung useless by his side, gore dripping from hi
s knuckles.
“I think Earl's dead,” I said looking at the gun, its dull metal smeared with bloody finger prints.
“Fuck.”
It went quiet outside. Time crawled. Five minutes passed, or maybe it was ten. It might have only been one. The silence pushed down on me. I fought back a crazy urge to sing out and shatter it.
Something moved by the window, at first I thought it was a glazing bar from the busted frame, but it was growing, pushing further into the room. I realized it was the barrel of a 12 gauge. Leroy saw it too. He steadied himself in a crouch and silently mouthed for me to cover him. He gave me no time to do it before he leapt up and made a grab for the gun with his good hand. He knocked the barrel up, sending a deafening discharge of double-aught harmlessly into the roof. Leroy yanked hard on the burner, it's jockey held on and tumbled in through the window on top of him. I scooped up the pistol and pointed it at a mound of flailing limbs. The two men were locked in a death grind, each toiling for an advantage. I couldn't find a clean shot.
Behind me the door shuddered under the weight of a boot. The lock held for a moment, then gave with the second kick. Big Earl's lifeless bulk blocked it, restricting the opening to just a few inches. I spun on my knees and saw a hand clawing round the jamb. I took aim, emptied my six into the flaking paint and was rewarded with a yelp of pain from the other side.
Leroy gave a muffled shout of triumph and his opponent cried out, scrabbling backwards with one hand clasped to the side of his head. Leroy turned, spat out a chunk of ear and got up cradling his gimp hand.
“You know this piece of shit Tommy?” Leroy asked, stooping to retrieve the shotgun. I couldn't see the guy's face from where I was, only the cuffs of his faded jeans and his muddy work boots. I shook my head. “Well, I do,” he said and chambered a shell, one handed, with a sharp jerk on the pump. “Don't I, Sleepy boy?”