Bullets of Rain

by David J. Schow

  "How much time?" said Luther, just as a thunderstrike shook the ground. That was plenty for Blitz, who indicated that he would await them inside, thank you very much.

  "I don't know!'' Art shouted, frustrated at having no data, no hookups, no advisories, and no rescue. "We need to check the perimeter-around the house-superfast. That water could come another hundred yards or so inland. It's called storm surge-the storm combines with the high tide."

  Luther did not want this duty, but was prepared to execute it. He was already three paces toward the yard where Art had done his shooting practice. The wooden fence was gone, airlifted away forever. "What am I looking for?!"

  "Damage to the outer structure, pieces of the roof down, any debris, any weakness we might have to patch up.'' Art moved past the exterior wall of the guest room. "Hurry."

  The two men could feel the Wind changing its mind, prickling their flesh. Tasting them.

  Art met up with Luther near the huge aerodynamic stanchion that secured the beachward foundation. The exterior deck had buckled in the middle, but held, almost as if a passing dinosaur had decided not to trust it with his full weight. The air around them was darkening by the second, and the sea was marshaling for a fresh siege.

  "Guess we batten down the hatches again," said Art.

  "Did you vacuum?" said Luther.

  Art's whole body needed to retreat to the house, but the question was so goofy it immobilized him. Had Luther just lost his mind, too? "Say what?"

  Luther pointed downbeach, toward what was left of the ravaged Spilsbury house. "Because we've got company coming, and I don't need glasses."

  Art followed Luther's direction. Several figures were visible in the haze and twilight, and it seemed obvious that they were going for broke, trying to reach Art's house before the leeward end of the eyewall got to them. The envelope of calm was rushing south, providing a window for their end run. At least one of them was wearing what looked like a zebra skin.

  Without a word, Luther worked the action on his gun to put a slug in the pipe, then dropped the magazine and slammed in a spare from the sleeves riveted to his shoulder holster. He was now racked hot, with a full house.

  He slapped Art on the shoulder and pointed, indicating a retreat path. Another gesture to indicate they had not necessarily been seen. All nonverbal information Art could comprehend instantly. They pulled back, hugging the walls.

  Art wanted to waste time gaping at the stragglers in the distance, not willing to believe his home was their target. He felt the same way whenever he saw a movie special effect that did not quite convince. What he was witnessing was unrealistic, improbable. He could waste even more time by protesting. This can't be happening. Or he could stop fretting over what was real and what was not, and deal with the story as it changed in front of him.

  He made Luther pay attention to the cross bolts on the front door, pointing them out so Luther could see that they shot two up, two down, two on each side, in the manner of a vault lock. Off electrics, they could be seated manually by cranking a little wheel.

  For emergency exits, the window shutters were designed to un-dog from inside; same deal.

  Once he secured the front door, Art's eyes sought his own gun. The Heckler-Koch was still on the kitchen counter.

  "Your alarms on a battery backup?" said Luther, all biz. He had his focus back.

  "Yeah." Art double-checked the status panel anyway.

  "Cameras?"

  "Not as dependable without the generator," Art said. To demonstrate, he clicked on the monitor covering the front walk. The image was discernible-if you already knew what it was-and the lens suffered intermittent blur from the water blowing across it, leaving a shimmering and halated point of view. "How aliens from outer space see us." Art shrugged.

  "Got any forty-five ammo?"

  "That's affirmative." He knew it was in the gun safe, next to the racked Desert Eagle. Luther would snicker if Art produced a piece like that. It was a showoff gun, a bigass movie gun.

  "Wait up. Not yet. All those shutters down?"

  "Yeah. I think it was them that tried to get in before."

  "And?"

  "Held secure." That was something to be proud of.

  "Okay. They might just try again and give up again. But just in case, you know, right?" Luther was ducking in and out of doorways, checking rooms.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "This hallway right here," said Luther, pointing. "Walls against walls. Layers. In case they have something mightier than pointed sticks, right?"

  Smart, thought Art. In case they can penetrate one wall, but not two. The outsiders had access to a lot of windows, but the hallway gave Art and Luther the archer's advantage from the castle keep. His family was in that space, framed on the wall in safety-Lorelle, his parents, hers, some siblings, a shortform of a past life in pictures.

  "Lemme see your piece," said Luther. Art handed him the Heckler-Koch from the counter. Luther sprang the mag and jacked the round in the chamber, checking the barrel. "Nice. I'd prefer the Mark 23, the civvie version of the Special Ops." He peered at the ejected bullet and thumbed it back into the clip, assuming a precious expression. "Don't you know that hollow points are illegal in the great state of California?" Luther shook his head arid grinned. "Got anything with more beef?''

  "Shotgun," said Art. "Twelve gauge."

  "Save that for if they get in. Make sure it's loaded and get me those forty-fives now. Go, while we got time. And kill the lights in here. Save the outside ones for when we need them."

  ***

  When Art had turned off the battery floods, he went back to the bedroom with his baton flashlight and a small, flickering candle in a votive holder, to check Suzanne and ensure she was still alive. Her position had not changed and her pulse was feeble.

  "Hafta go to the bathroom," she said, bleary.

  "Power's out," he said of the darkness.

  He helped her up, leery of possibly broken bones, another checklist item he'd neglected to think of when it was important. He left the door partway open in case she toppled and dashed her brains out on the shower ledge. As he slotted seven rounds into the Benelli riot gun he heard the aerosol sound of pissing, a distinctly feminine noise, strangely intimate.

  Here he was, ramming ammo into a shotgun, girding for an assault on his turf. His life had morphed into an action movie, and he was supposed to save her, or protect her, or something. His blood was high, and his nerves were singing, and he realized, with electroshock abruptness, that he wanted all this to happen. His life in the house after the loss of Lorelle had become a robotic succession of chores and expert denial. No matter how well he kept the place up, no matter what strides he made, Lorelle was never coming back, and he had been hanging on, waiting for ghosts to show up to take him backward in time, to what "used to be," when he had at least thought he was happy. That life had ceased to exist, years ago, and he had sunk into a living-dead simulacrum of living, boozing into a coma, holing up to refute the world beyond his driveway. And it had turned out that he could not keep the world away; now it had come looking for him.

  Come ahead on, he thought, snapping the safety near the Benelli's pistol grip and leaning it against the wall, out of sight, when he heard the toilet flush. At least the waterlines were intact.

  He credited the specifications on his plumbing plan.

  Inside his own head, he was straight, he was good, he was even a tiny smidge righteous. Except for the fact that his every new move made him a mad dog, in the outside world. He had kept Bryan 's ball-bat, as a sort of caveman trophy. It was in the kitchen, leaning against the wall behind the fridge.

  "What day is it?'' said Suzanne as she allowed herself to be led back to bed.

  "Saturday night. Suzanne, there might be some trouble outside. I want you to stay put in here no matter what you hear.'' He left the votive near his own bedside clock, to provide that one small point of light in the darkness about which he'd always read, but never genuinely
appreciated.

  " 'Kay." Her arm sought a pillow to hug as her head depressed another. She said, "Candle's romantic," and was out again.

  ***

  Art brought the shotgun into the living room along with a box of shells for Luther's Hardballer-jacketed Hornady hollow points that could deliver nearly a thousand foot-pounds of velocity from the muzzle. He swore he could hear Luther mumbling to himself.

  "Now, if the bad guys come round thataway, your job is to let us know, okay? That good for you? Okay, deal."

  Luther was squatting down, elbows on thighs, as if for storytelling time. Art got into view just in time to see Blitz raise his paw for a shake, in the glow from a single candle affixed in wax to an ashtray on the coffee table.

  "What the hell's going on here?" said Art, affecting a stricken grimace.

  "The team's now three," said Luther. "We came to an arrangement. We made a deal. Right?" The dog lifted his head, tongue hanging out, panting in agreement.

  "How'd you do that?"

  "Easy. I have secret power." Luther held up the packet of jerky Art had bought at the Toot 'N Moo. It had Blitz's complete concentration as Luther moved it to and fro, hypnotist-style.

  "Traitor," Art said to the dog. Who did not care. "Some watchdog. He's all show. If the bad guys get in here, he'll roll over."

  "Will you roll over?" Luther said to Blitz. "Roll over!"

  Blitz flopped and rolled. It was a disgusting display. Obviously his damned dog had been picking up some bad English… somewhere.

  "How's the roof on this place?"

  Art placed the shotgun on the counter. "I guess you could smash up the solar panel array and kick through, but you'd probably need tools, and I don't think anybody is going to climb on the roof in the middle of the storm. Hear that?"

  Outside, the wind was torquing up again. The house creaked and groaned in accommodation as the candle hurled spooky shadows around.

  "What about under? Any way to come up from under?"

  Art shook his head. "They'll never find it." More credit to his design, thank you.

  "You keep those big ole ears open or I'll tie 'em in a knot," said Luther to the dog, sealing his coercion with another shred of jerky, then chewing on some for himself. Blitz chose a post near the fireplace, at the window where the attackers had tried before, and plunked his butt down.

  "That your family?" said Luther, of the pictures in the hallway.

  "My wife died," Art said, and he tried to keep the saga short. The more he told the story, the better he was getting at making it concise. Just hit the high points. Emphasize the grief and loss. Season with adjectives to taste.

  Luther took it in patiently, sipping bottled water, his gun holstered. "Once, in Seattle, I worked a surround crew-you know, bodyguarding? Some politician asshole. It was all slightly shady, but to make a hard target out of a soft one isn't necessarily a thing you can buy outta the Yellow Pages. They made us stealth into the city. I had to drive up in a VW bug with a disguise on. There was this lady on the squad, hard enough to job with a male crew, and I admired that right away, and she was easy to look at, too. And I asked her name and she said, 'I am Counselor Zero.' Shut me down in a heartbeat. Somebody took a shot at this clown we were guarding, and anybody could see it was a pro contract. We shared gunfire and nobody got killed. After that was twenty-four solid hours of doing the classic cover patterns, using decoys, all that shit. At the guy's hotel-he was booked into three different ones under three different names-we're above, below, and on each side. And this watch is amounting to nothing. I mentioned we were going to need high-capacity mags if ever the shooters figured out all our zigzags, right? Comes one A.M., there's a knock on my door and it's her, and she says, 'All this waiting is giving me a bitch of a headache.' I come on real cold and say, 'So?' and she grabs my head and kisses me, just like a fantasy. Man, that was some fucking kiss. Then she says, 'That's the only way I know of to get rid of the damned headaches, and by the way, you requested some magazines?' She's talking like some stewardess, right? And she hands over the hi-cap mags I'd mentioned, and acts like she's going to leave, and stops at the door and turns and says. Ts there anything else you need, or would like to see?'

  "So right away I'm thinking she's a mole, it's a trick, it's a fucking setup, but you know what? I did a radio check and everything was five-by; the relief crew was getting ready to stand us down. Mission accomplished. She was completely straight with me. Talk about falling in love. We were married like the way you talked about. For one night. It was that intense.''

  "What was her name?'' said Art.

  Luther leaned against the wall, watching the candleflame. "She never asked mine, and I never found out hers.''

  "Are you serious?"

  "That's the way the biz goes. But she staked a claim to a place inside me, and not a day goes by that I don't think of her, always kindly, always with that little bit of regret that keeps that flame alive. Kind of like what you're doing."

  "What about your little firefight?"

  "It was in the papers the next day as a drive-by. Gangs." He snorted. "Sheeeet. People who watch the news don't see nothing."

  Art looked around, trying to stay alert. "Nothing's happening."

  "Relax," said Luther. "The waiting's the tough part."

  The front door took a battering-ram hit, as though a caber had been slung into it by a crane. The impact shook the house. Yelling, from outside.

  "Hit them floodlights," Luther said, keeping low, looking up.

  Wham-the door was struck again. Whoever was out there sounded mightily pissed off. Simultaneously, another whoever began banging on the deck shutters near the dining-area door.

  Luther was already on the move, pointing quickly. At his direction, Art took a position that allowed him to monitor both doors, front entry and garage. As Luther passed the kitchen he caught sight of the shotgun. "Is this hot?"

  Art gave him a thumbs-up.

  "Any way I can get out through the garage, catch that sucker from behind?"

  Can-opening the door was out (too noisy), but if Art knew one thing well, it was the specs for his fortress. "There's a little window, ten feet back from the door along the front walk. It's shuttered. You ease open the shutter-quietly-and the exterior lights are in your favor. It's a perfect bushwhack. You can bag them from behind and drop the shutter before anybody notices."

  “Good idea." Luther holstered his pistol and racked the debut round on the riot gun. "Here's a better idea."

  Art held firm as Blitz started barking, full tilt, doing his bit. An instant later the deck door was hit hard enough to partially break the glass behind the shutter. Note: Next time, use Plexi in all seaward door glass as well as the windows.

  ''Hold it," said Art.

  "What is it?"

  "If they had guns they'd be shooting them at the house by now. They don't sound like paragons of self-restraint."

  "So?"

  "Just hold off a second."

  Luther treated himself to a spare deep breath, almost a sigh. Bad for the glands, to rocket-fuel himself for action and then do nothing. To fill the gap he said, "What's a paragon?''

  Art looked comically taken aback. "Umm… a good example. Like an expert or a perfect expression.''

  Luther chewed on this for a beat. "Why didn't you just say they was all too squirrelly not to shoot?''

  "Right."

  "Shit, man, nobody talks normal human anymore."

  "Sorry."

  "Stop apologizing. I don't need nobody watching my back who only has apologies to whip out."

  "Right. Would you like to go shoot someone, so you'll get off my back?"

  Luther grinned big and wide, pointing at Art. "You should see your face. Now, that's the face I need at my back."

  The front door took another jarring hit. A nick-dent sprang across the inner facing for the first time.

  "That gonna hold?" said Luther.

  "Not if he hits it for half a goddamned hour."

&nb
sp; "I'm gonna go around to that little window in the garage."

  Another slam of wind silenced the activity outside for a moment. After a few more desultory (but no less startling) whacks and bangs from outside, the attack seemed to stop, or pause. Coffee break, perhaps.

  "You're sweating like a steambath, man," Luther said. "Drink some water when you get a minute." Art was astonished by the guy's cool under fire.

  The perspiration on Art's palms was hot and slick against the custom rubber Pachmayr grips on the Heckler-Koch. Luther probably thought Art was the world's biggest gun poseur. Expensive guns, fancy add-ons, target practice. All that roundy-round with Lorelle about morals versus ballistics. Luther had scratched the Bry-Guy outside with less deliberation than Art would have applied to scratching a fleabite. He envied Luther's attitude. It was practical, pragmatic, unstinting. Art realized that since Luther had pegged one intruder already, now Art was expected to ante up in an equal-share kind of blood bond. Art was transfixed near the kitchen, jerking at every sound, clutching one of his overpriced firearms, wondering if he would have to look in another person's eyes and shoot them. And, if Luther's tale held true, remember a stranger's face for the rest of his life. His pal Derek had said the same thing about the guy he supposedly shot.

  Art's face grew warm and he knew he was blushing. What was next-panic farts?

  The window shutter above the kitchen sink took a couple of test hits before Art heard another destructive sound, repeated banging, like metalwork, higher up. The outsiders were trying to take out the lights. Doing a good job of it, too, from the racket. The banks covering the north face of the house, from the corners, ceased to exist in a cascade of ruptured glass and broken sensors. Art knew the sounds.

  If these were illusions, why not take fierce control of them? It did not matter what was real or what was not. This wasn't some abstract, theoretical situation in which he was locked and loaded, testy and nerve-racked. Very Western thinking, that, with rigid rules and structures. You should, he thought, access the head that inspires you to transform a shopping mall into a translucent glass cathedral. Apply your skill to your actual life. See what happens.