by Chris Welsh
Chapter Twenty-Three. 07:55pm
FUN TOYS ARE FUN.
Shooting a large rifle was an amazing sensation; I've never been one for guns but pulling the trigger and feeling the power of it ripple through my body was bloody lovely. Boner inspiring, even.
I wanted to shoot until my fingers turned into nubs and I had to rig up some sort of stump attachment to keep shooting. I wanted to go out and join, well, maybe not the army...but a gang, a violent gang. Or a gun club; whichever cost less. Shooting that thing was satisfying as hell and birthed a huge, delighted grin on my moronic face.
Completely and consistently missing the target, however, is not quite as good.
Which we were all doing.
Dodging returning fire also hindered the fun.
After grabbing a gun each and having a quick fumble for the 'safety' (because this is what they do in films - I honestly had no idea what I was looking for) we lined up and shot. That's when the unbridled joy began. I took a knee as it felt better, but Susan and Nelson stayed standing. From the corner of my eye, I saw Susan's gun rise a good few inches each time she depressed the trigger. Nelson shot wild and erratic as if he sat on a mechanical bull in some shady bar, aiming at bottles on a shelf after downing a whole litre of caustic moonshine. I truly believe, all machismo aside, that I was the best at firing the gun. I'm fairly sure I hit the helicopter and everything. At the least we put her off, forcing her into erratic airborne acrobatics.
Nelson tossed another spent gun and returned to the bag. Susan followed. I'd conserved ammo by firing in short, controlled blasts, meaning I had a trove of bullets left, which made me the best. I kept shooting, having the time of my life yet still flinching whenever one of his mother's bullets burrowed into the floor.
...but then something soured my mood. Sullied the image of myself I'd pinned up in my head; the one that made me look like the baddest of asses. It came from behind and mussed up my hair, knocking my aim off so I fired some rounds into the ground. A hot ball of smoke whooshed past my head and created a ghostly trail; it near demolished my hearing. The wicked, loud gunshots were replaced by a prolonged, grating whistle that stayed even after I shook my head and slapped a palm against my ear like a sink plunger. Each breath burned my tender lungs. I stumbled out of the smoky cell and saw Nelson resting a tube about a metre long on his shoulder. His mouth contorted into a gleeful smile, baring his plaque-ridden teeth and pink gums like a mental clown at a sadist's birthday party.
Above the tinny whistle I heard a faraway explosion, a big bang in the sky that turned everything a shade of burnt orange.
The smoke cleared enough to show the mini-copter in the air and a whole bunch of debris falling down on it. Stuart ran out of the building, looked straight up, and then scrambled back in as a sizeable piece of brickwork bounced off the steps.
More detritus tumbled from the top of the office block. Flames raged out of a hole where the corner had been.
"You missed!" I screamed at him.
"Yeah, but still! Rocket launcher!"
"But the...the building!" I stammered.
"It literally fires rockets!"
I conceded with a shrug and turned back to the festivities.
He missed only in the literal sense of the word. As in, the rocket he fired did not hit his intended target, but he fucked up in a way that achieved success. He'd trick-shot it, bouncing the cue ball off two bumpers before potting the black. If he'd acted like he'd meant it I would've slapped his lying face.
The aircraft wobbled capriciously before anything struck it, the result of a few lucky bullets more than any skill on our part, but the death-blow came from a wedge of roof that fell with balletic grace and landed square in the centre of the rotor blades. It knocked one off entirely and bent another down to slice through the long, stabilising tail. Nelson's mum lost pretty much all control, battling wild lunges to stay in the air, impersonating a spinning waltzer car in a rickety fairground.
One nose-dive later, it crashed in front of the fountain and, somewhat unexpectedly, burst into a torrent of scorching flames, igniting the craft and Nelson's mother. She made no effort to climb out of her seat. Nelson turned to deposit his spent launcher back into the black bag.
"Nelson! Your mum!" Susan said, pointing and waving at the carnage. She still held a gun, though she'd taken her finger off the trigger.
Nelson didn't react to Susan's cries, didn't even glance at his burning parent.
A larger, more effective explosion rendered the point moot, as the shell of the helicopter disintegrated into shrapnel fired outwards at speed. A shard from a blade slammed into the green unit it flew out of and stuck in, making a fun 'twang' sound. Two zombies that had been shuffling near the fountain were caught by the blast and burst into a million sloppy morsels. An arm landed near Susan who flinched and pointed her gun at it, ready to shoot if it ran at her on its fingertips.
"Oh," Nelson said, finally inspecting the wreckage. I wasn't sure what to say to him; 'sorry your mother blew up' didn't seem appropriate, and I struggled to find comforting words to say to someone I'd universally detested for so long. I'd hated him so much that I would have campaigned to spread the hate if I'd had a podium, stage or placard from which to do so, but, well...
Well it wasn't great. I just felt bad.
"I'm sorry that I shot at your mum, Nelson. And I'm sorry she blew up," Susan said, struggling with the same issue but not concerning herself with locating eloquent words. As a eulogy it sucked, but the sentiment transferred.
"It's okay," he said. "I told you to do it. And I fired a rocket at her. She tried to kill us, after all. She wasn't a super person in general, really..."
I couldn't imagine developing such blank disdain for a parent that I would explode them. I only maintained minimal contact with mine, a phone call at birthdays and Christmas, but I wouldn't pull a gun on them. Then again, I'm sure they wouldn't pull a gun on me either. Or set an army of me-clones on my friends. Or pilot a whirly-bird whilst taking potshots at me with a handgun.
My mother used to be a secretary and my dad worked on a farm.
It wasn't in their remit.
When Nelson eyes swelled with tears, Susan dropped her gun and gave him a clumsy but warmly reciprocated hug.
I trudged off toward Stuart's last known whereabouts.
I'd wanted Nelson to show some emotion, sure, but not that bloody much.