BULLETPROOF
DREADFUL - EVENT #21
This story contains extreme gun violence.
Daddy always called me a straight shooter, which is ironic considering I have never shot a gun before. What’s even more ironic is that Daddy could be described as the only straight shooter of the family, seeing as it only took him one bullet through the roof of his mouth to end his own life. Surprisingly, people aren’t always successful when using a gun to kill themselves. Seriously. I’ve read stories and watched videos about it. Somehow, people will lop off a portion of their skull or blow out their cheek, missing the fat, gooey target they were aiming for. Daddy knew what he was doing—years of military training and the like. Trigger in the mouth, grazing against his soft palate. Used his dominate hand so there wouldn’t be any slipping or unsteadiness. Probably clamped his teeth down on the barrel, which would explain why half of them were scattered across the floor or involuntarily swallowed. Picked a location isolated enough that no one heard the initial shot, allowing his body enough time to begin the decomposition process. When Daddy pulled the trigger, I imagine that the back of his head resembled a confetti bomb, like the ones those couples have for a gender reveal party, but one filled with blood, brains, and bone instead of confetti, of course.
Anyway, I think Daddy may have been referring to my ability to just tell it how it is. I know that sounds silly (it feels silly to read those words back), but I have been that way for as long as I can remember. Right to the point. Not one to mince words, so to speak. He always laughed at how I’d tell Momma at the dinner table what I didn’t like about our evening meal or how my teachers were as smart as magic beans. Of course, I never noticed how Momma’s face shriveled and boiled in anger as the men ganged up on her, saying time and time again in subtle ways how what she did was never enough.
It really is never enough, huh?
I’m not just talking about cooking dinners or the other bullshit I spewed because the words tickled that pleasure center in my brain. Nah, I’m talking about everything. If I were content, we wouldn’t be speaking under any circumstances.
You know what, let’s not go down that path. I don’t need to get into some rambling nonsense on my philosophies about life. People will dive into all that soon enough. People are going to pick apart my life bit by tiny bit. Internet communities will unearth every measly fact about my personality and beliefs. Investigators will harass and interrogate all the folks I called friends, family, or acquaintances. Those interested enough in my actions will look for motive and convince themselves that what I did was out of savagery and fucked-up circuitry.
You know why?
Because conveniences are simple. Conveniences tie up loose ends and provide closure. For whatever reason, people believe that talking with neighbors and dissecting interactions on message boards is how to understand someone. Do they ever consider that the truth lies within a space they don’t have access to? Sure, someone can be legitimately insane, but many times the reason why is far beyond the easiest answer.
When all the reports are filed and all the news channels stop sending out their reporters for field duty, people will conclude that some convenience was the root cause. I’m here to tell you I did it because I wanted to. There wasn’t some demon on my back whispering about notoriety or an obligation. There isn’t a manifesto I subscribe to. There isn’t a path of radicalization. Those are all convenient. Those are all tired and played out.
In the end, I wanted to be a legit straight shooter for once.
Here is how my last day goes.
I wake up on the couch, soaking in my surroundings. Every apartment looks the same. You discover that after unnecessary couch-surfing. The walls and ceilings are always an off-white color that barely hides the faintest smudge or scuff. Any wood paneling is slapped on with questionable craftsmanship. Worst of all, there’s an underlying tone of daylight robbery that you can never shake. I yawn, stretch my arms with intensity until my elbows consider bending outward in horrific fashion, and exhale a groan so fierce that the neighbors are likely to bypass any need for their alarms. I pull my phone free from behind the pillow and consult my checklist one more time. Most of the items are checked off or far enough along that I don’t even bother letting my eyes glance across the instructions.
Brahma comes out of the bedroom and shuffles into the kitchen. He looks at me. I look up from my phone.
“Morning,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty well. You?”
He shrugs. Runs a hand through his hair. Announces a yawn far more drawn out than my own. “Coffee?” he asks.
Before I can answer, he continues his shuffling and preps the coffeemaker. We have been friends for long enough that he knows I enjoy my two cups in the morning before I have any chance of prospering.
I hear the clattering of mugs from the cabinet and milk being pulled from the fridge. I remain on the couch, blanket pulled up close to my face. Brahma has always been good to me. He is selfless to his own detriment, and while I try not to take advantage of his extended kindness, I never repay him in a meaningful way. Sorry, my friend.
Soon enough, a hot mug is delivered to me on the couch. I manage to sit up, swinging my legs out to the floor. “Careful, it’s hot,” Brahma warns as if he is obligated to. “Thank you,” I say.
He collapses into the chair beside me and stares out toward nothing for a few seconds. The mornings have been peaceful at The Amorphophallus. It feels like suburbia. I expect to hear dogs barking, lawnmowers chirping, and the quintessential paperboy tossing newspapers against the front door. It isn’t better than my living situation, but vacations of any kind are a welcome escape.
“Busy day?” I ask. Our mornings have been peaceful. We ease into any stress that may come about. One of the many perks of having a cushy, indescribable tech job that allows us to work from home.
“A few meetings,” Brahma says. “A few meetings that will probably accomplish nothing more than multiple follow-up meetings.”
I laugh. It’s forced. Not that the idea isn’t funny. My mind is split. Thinking ahead. Focusing. I’m not nervous. At no point during this day will I be nervous. You should keep that in mind.
“I can relate,” I say, sipping the coffee. It burns my tongue. Whatever.
“So, uh, how much longer are you planning to stay here? Not that, uh, not that . . .” Brahma searches for a clarifying statement, something to confirm how he doesn’t mind me encroaching on his space.
“Until tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Totally.” His voice climbs enough octaves that you’d think he just got kicked in the balls. “You should just stay until Halloween. The block party on Cedar Springs is always entertaining. We can go.” He doesn’t want to. He is saying it out of charity and a belief that he doesn’t want me to feel like I’m being kicked to the curb.
I don’t mind that he’s gay and chooses to live in a gay neighborhood surrounded by other community members with whom he feels comfortable. Contrary to what others will think, I hold no grudges. Let everyone get married. Let everyone do whatever they want. Autonomy is an underutilized concept; one I intend to bring back into the spotlight.
“I wish,” I sigh. “You talk about it every year, but I have never taken you up on the offer, huh? I actually have plans this weekend.” I frown. Does he buy what I’m selling?
“Ah, no worries. Next year. For sure,” he chuckles.
“Without a doubt.”
We finish our coffees in silence. He returns to staring into space. I think of the time I went to a wedding and slipped on the dance floor. Face first. My chin bounced off the wood. I assumed blood would be spilling underfoot. I assumed my jaw would be hanging limply like a barn door against a fierce wind. Everyone continued to dance around me. No one laughed. No one helped me. I stood up and blended back into the crowd. The memory is pointless. There is no deeper meaning to it.
I return to the coffeemaker and pour myself another cup. I ask Brahma if he would like one, but he declines as he clutches his stomach.
I drink my second cup of coffee. In between sips, I text my boss and tell her I am taking the day off. Personal reasons. That extra detail doesn’t matter, but it sounds mysterious. Periodically, she may wonder what Jimmy is up to. She may even reach out to someone else on the team and poke at them to see if they know anything more. Truthfully, I keep to myself at work, so no one knows shit about me. I’m amicable but distant. They aren’t friends, only coworkers. Understanding that has kept a sturdy barrier between me and their inane lives.
She responds immediately, sending me well wishes. Another text bubble then appears and is soon sent my way. Be back tomorrow?
Yes, I send back with a thumbs-up emoji.
She responds with one of her own. Always needs to get the last word in. Dumb cunt.
I swallow a smile and watch Brahma return to his bedroom. He closes the door as if he is embarrassed for me to hear it. I am not in a rush. Yeah, I have a timeline and flawless execution depends on me hitting certain marks, but that all comes later. This morning is my sanctuary. I fall back onto the couch and bury myself between two cushions. They have a faint odor, like walking down a street minutes after a garbage truck has passed through. I don’t mind. I lose myself in other memories. About Momma. About Daddy. About Sonja. About catalysts and triggers and reasons to exist.
About what comes after.
Even someone like me isn’t immune to those thoughts.
Brahma comes out of the bedroom and asks if I need the bathroom. I shake my head. He disappears back down the hall. A door closes. This time with no fear of embarrassment.
I look toward the apartment door. Next to it is a cheap wooden thing screwed into the wall. It houses Brahma’s keys and other miscellaneous objects. What I need is no longer there. I knew I should have grabbed it yesterday. But what if he suddenly needed it? Unwanted attention is unneeded at this point. I center myself. It’s fine. I will casually ask him about it.
Twenty minutes later, I do when he comes back out into the kitchen.
“Have you seen my ID around here?” I ask.
“Which ID?”
“For work.”
Brahma looks around. “No, can’t say I have. Honestly, I don’t even know what it looks like.”
I hold up my hands in the shape of a rectangle. “About this big. Has my smiling face on it. Pretty typical.”
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m sure it will turn up.”
He turns to go back into the bedroom. It’s past the start of the workday for both of us, but no one holds a gun to our heads about what time to start. Perks of being white, not blue.
“What about yours?” I pivot. “Where is yours? I mean. Maybe they got mixed up.”
“I keep mine in my backpack,” he says.
“Oh, I thought I saw it on the hook over by the door.” I point to where my attention was minutes before.
“Sometimes,” Brahma confesses. His eyes press together. “I’m confused.” Probably more suspicious than confused, but he won’t admit to that.
“Don’t be. You know how observant I can be. I always take in my surroundings. Maybe notice things others don’t.”
This is falling into a ditch of stupidity.
“Uh huh. Anyway, I have a meeting soon.”
“Okay. I took the day off,” I volunteer.
“Nice! Going to do anything exciting?”
“Maybe this afternoon.”
Brahma nods and turns back to the bedroom. The door shuts softly as I unleash a quiet explosion of expletives. This whole day is absolutely torched if I can’t find his ID. It’s okay. It’s okay. He said the backpack. Should be easy enough.
I finally pull myself off the couch and go to the bathroom. I strip myself down and step into the shower. I let the water scald me until my flesh turns red. I step out of the water and tug the handle down further. The steam rises away from the water in dense sheets. I stick my arm out until it’s being cascaded by the flaming water. I don’t flinch. I don’t grit my teeth. I tell myself to enjoy it. This moment is pointless. There is no deeper meaning to it.
Once done, I wrap a towel around my waist, return to the living room, and rummage through one of my duffle bags until I find the set of clothes. I decided what I should wear a week ago. The choice is important. I want something that blends in but will also look good. My attire is bound to be immortalized by some.
I busy myself with several more hygienic activities before I pull on my shoes and head for the door. A short walk around the neighborhood will do me good. The air is crisp and weighty. Cars occasionally pass by, but it is relatively muted. I stroll. I do my best to hide my excitement, wondering if anyone is watching me from their window. I allow the formations to manifest. I allow the fuzzy pictures of what’s coming to populate my mind. They are beautiful.
Back inside, I determine that the lie will be sufficient. I knock on the bedroom door. I don’t wait for an answer before stepping inside.
“Hey, so I just went for a walk and passed by the leasing office. Someone stopped me and asked if you had a second to go down there and talk with them.”
Brahma turns to me. “What?”
I consider myself an adequate liar, but the pettier a lie is, the worse I seem to be.
“I don’t know, man.” I throw my hands up in surrender. “I guess they saw us coming out of the building yesterday and just wanted to—”
“I’m sure they will call if it is important.”
“You’re right. Yeah, sorry to bother you.”
“No problem.” Brahma turns back to his computer. I hide my frustration and disgust at my idiocy. I thought . . . I don’t know what I was thinking. Somehow, I can mastermind this whole plan but fail at a simple lie.
I return to the living room. I pace. I pace some more. Five minutes later, I go back to the bedroom.
“Hey, would you mind making me a cup of coffee? I just . . . you know, I don’t want to break it. I’d be pissed if someone did that to mine.” I say my plea in the most pathetic voice possible. I was foolish not to exploit Brahma’s kindness from the start.
He looks at me. He wants to say no. He wants to hold his ground and abide by all the advice his therapist has given him. Instead, he crumbles. “Sure,” he says. He gets up from behind the desk and walks out into the kitchen.
The backpack is leaning against the desk. On the far side. I creep over to it. I slowly unzip the first compartment. This isn’t a movie. I don’t keep checking the door. I find the ID in there. It’s wrapped around a lanyard that displays Brahma’s company’s name multiple times. It’s vain but expected. I bury the ID in my pocket and re-zip the backpack. I step out of the bedroom.
Told you it would be easy.
The next hour is nothing. Brahma gives me my coffee. I pretend to drink it. Brahma has another meeting. I pack up my things.
I say see you later from the front door. My hand is already on the handle. I don’t need questions about why I’m bringing all my stuff with me.
“Will we grab dinner together?” Brahma shouts from the room.
“Definitely.” I’m out the door, sparing one last look at the haphazard couch I hadn’t bothered to neaten up.
I take the elevator down one floor and walk through the hallways until I get to the guest parking within the garage. I toss the bags into the trunk, on the side that isn’t covered with the blanket. I get in the car. I leave The Amorphophallus.
I get on the tollway and drive north. I have no specific destination at this point. I keep going until I reach Addison and get off at an exit that dumps me out near a massive shopping center. I sit in traffic. The light turns green, and I don’t move. I honk. Once. Then again. I wag my fist. I yell, “Fuck you, bitch” to the man who refuses to go. The man then moves. I proceed.
Within the shopping center, I find a corner with no one around. A part of me wants to get caught here. Why else would I do this next part in public?
I park. I move to my trunk. I open it and begin my reorganizing process. The two duffel bags are emptied. The contents are laid out. I remove the blanket, reminding myself of everything I have. I count it all once. The numbers add up. I pull out my phone and check that item off the list. I feel great. No nerves. No hesitation. I repack the duffel bags as orderly as I can. I toss the clothes into the corner. They are no longer needed.
I return to the driver’s seat. I start the car. I play instrumental music. Chopin. Mozart. Mendelssohn. Handel. No Bach. Never understood the appeal. This detail is pointless. There is no deeper meaning to it.
I cry. I do this every day, so don’t be surprised. This does not mean I deserve sympathy, although I will take it. Anything free is worth having.
The tears come quickly and violently. I wipe my face with a tissue and toss it onto the floor. I’m good now.
I return to the highway. I drive south toward 35. I take 35 eastbound until I reach 75. Traffic is tolerable. I keep above the speed limit, like everyone else. On 75, I go north again. There were more optimal ways to make this trip, but I don’t care. Timing is king now. My grand entrance has a small window.
Eventually, I take an exit. I’m north of the city. Out in the suburbs. More land here. More availability for companies to plant their feet and say, “This is all mine.” No directions needed. I make the necessary turns until I see the entrance. The gate is as expected. I pull up to it. No one is ahead of me. I look out into the sea of cars in all the various lots. Easy to get lost if you don’t know where you’re going.
I know where I’m going.
I pull out Brahma’s ID from my pocket. I smile at the camera above the scanner. I put the ID on the scanner. It buzzes. The gate slides open. Another item checked off my list.
Welcome to Abbott Technologies.
Past the gate, I turn left and work my way around the biggest building until I spot the side entrance with the blue awnings. I turn into the nearby parking lot. I’ll take what I can get. I get something far away. I’ll have to hoof it with the duffel bags, but I have practiced. I’m supreme. I won’t be out of breath.
I park. I leave the keys on the front seat. I put on my coat. It hides what it needs to. I go to the trunk and remove the two duffel bags. I sling one over each shoulder. I shut the trunk. I leave the car to bake in the sun.
I’m not nervous as I cross the parking lot. I’m not nervous as I find coolness under the blue awnings. I’m not nervous as I pull out Brahma’s ID one last time and press it against the scanner. Another buzz.
They let anyone in who has a badge. Why?
This section of the building seems newer. More childlike, which makes sense.
I walk toward the receptionist sitting behind the table. She turns her attention toward me. I place the duffel bags on the ground and unzip the first one. This will be my home base. I will return here.
“How can I help you?” she asks. Polite, kind, a true professional. And clearly someone who has never aspired to be anything more than a greeter.
I stand up. She looks shocked. It can’t turn into anything more than that.
I shoot her in the chest. The AR-15 hitches upward. That, combined with my finger on the trigger, means more bullets plow into her. Further up her chest. Her neck. Her face. Her body turns into Swiss cheese. Chunks of skin decorate the back wall. Muscle and tissue are exposed. They will have trouble identifying her. She was nothing to me when I walked in the door. She is even more of a nothing now. My stomach is a fortress, unbothered by the carnage before me. I prepped myself for the worst of this. My finger comes off the trigger as her body collapses. Blood splatters the desk and pools across the floor. The company will never be able to use this space again. They shouldn’t, but they will. Empty space means a profit loss. Back to the woman . . . She is already dead. She didn’t get any last words or pleas for me to show her mercy. Thank god. The bullet to the chest likely pierced her heart and made her death almost instantaneous. I see the ring on her finger. I hope she said she loved him before she left for work.
If you can believe it, this is the first time I’ve ever fired a gun. I wasn’t kidding at the beginning. I managed to avoid too sharp a recoil because I watched plenty of YouTube videos about how to handle an AR-15. Great tutorials. Made me more eager. Anyway, there is a reason the NRA calls this “America’s rifle.” The gun handles like a dream, even for a novice like me.
My first victim wasn’t exactly a straight shot on my part, but it’s a meaningful start. I’m lusting for more.
As expected, the gunshots sounded like an explosion. Distant screams echo out into the open room ahead of me. In my research, I discovered that the daycare center at Abbott Technologies is divided into three rooms. The first, that I’m standing in, is an atrium of sorts. Think of it as the place parents go to drop off and pick up their kids. The other two rooms are offshoots. The babies are on one side, while the toddlers (up to age five) are on the other. Foolishly, there is no security after making it through the initial door, which is perfect because Brahma’s ID is already on the floor. I really don’t feel like picking it up. I need to focus my energy on what’s ahead.
I step away from the desk and move further into this initial room. It’s sparsely decorated with only a few chairs hugging the far walls and a long, skinny table in the middle. A woman is hiding under the table. She has a baby clutched to her chest. Naturally, the baby is crying, revealing her exact position. I mean, even a blind man could pinpoint their location with extreme accuracy. I aim down the sights and drop to one knee. I’m willing to expend some energy for this. “Hello,” I say. Her wailing matches the baby’s. I shoot them both. This time with trigger discipline. The baby’s arm is eviscerated by a bullet, and what remains of it flops to the floor like a discarded tentacle. The woman falls back from her crouched position onto the floor. She gurgles and begs for air. Instead, blood chokes her throat as she lets out a strangling cry. Her arm loosens around the baby and it smacks onto the floor. Blood pours out from the severed arm. Not much, though. They both die. The room falls silent.
I return to my feet and hear a door slam shut. I turn my attention to one of the other rooms. Through the glass panels, I can see several daycare workers struggling to get furniture against the door. I move toward the growing obstruction and aim down my sights again. I fire off a couple of rounds. They shatter the glass, eliciting more screams from inside the room. That fuels me. I rush shoulder first into the door. It bends. I kick at it now. It relents further. With one more burst of effort, I force my way into the room, scattering their pathetic attempt to stop me.
“No. Please. No. We have chil—”
I shoot the woman in the stomach, stopping any of her pleading. I continue to shoot her as she tips toward the ground. Her body vibrates with each bullet. I do this until the gun clicks empty. I remove the cartridge and replace it with a fresh one from my jacket pocket. Anyone else would feel the weight of all the ammunition I have strapped to me, but I don’t. I’m weightless. I’m floating across these rooms. I’m watching the tally tick upward.
The woman with the extensive stomach wounds writhes around on the floor. I step over the soon-to-be corpse, knowing that if she is still performing her jig on my way out, I’ll give her another bullet in the name of mercy.
As I move past her body, some hero darts out from behind a row of shelves. She is carrying a baseball bat in her hand. Her screams are primal, motherly, like a warrior charging into battle. I appreciate her willingness to attempt to save their lives. It’s a waste. I clip her once in the upper leg. It’s enough for her to fall. Momentum makes her skid forward several feet. She rolls over onto her back. Her eyes are blue. They are pretty. I’m undeterred. I put three more bullets into her chest. Have you ever heard bones crack before? Think of it like on Thanksgiving when you and your cousin took the wishbone from the turkey and ripped it apart. Except much, much louder and more pronounced. The hero stops moving. The bat is still rolling around on the floor.
I reach the row of shelves. There’s space between them and the wall. Not much, but plenty for a group of small children to be cowering behind. As I peek behind, there they are, lined up like a row of birthday presents. They are crying. No, they are sobbing. Snot runs from their noses. Their eyes are red and wide with uncompromising terror. I count six. Six little ducks. Six tiny tots. The one in the far back is motionless. Mouth agape as if Santa fucking Claus stepped out to give his season’s greetings. Sorry, kiddo, just me. I’ll save him for last.
I smell shit. I see piss running onto the floor from two of them. It’s tragic to die in your own filth. They never told me if that happened with Daddy, but I am guessing it did.
I raise the gun. Their screams elevate to an unfathomable level, like every alarm in the world going off at once. One of them asks for his mommy. Another is trying to summon his imaginary friend. It’s no use. I pull down on the trigger. I am their mother. I am their father. I may even be god. The bullets do the rest of the work. The first kid gets his cheek ripped off. His baby teeth are hiding behind the flesh. Hard to tell if he was ever going to need braces or not. The little girl next to him catches a bullet in the shoulder and then another to the neck. Her eyes go wild as her tongue lolls out of her mouth. She falls over into the lap of the first kid. I fire four more rounds into their contorted bodies. Their blood mixes. Their torn limbs overlap one another. It’s my take on modern art.
With two of the six gone, I focus my attention on the next batch. If I do this right, I can still save the stoic shit in the back for last. I dig the gun further into my shoulder and take a breath. I can concentrate better now that a portion of the screaming has subsided. The third kid is black. This detail doesn’t matter except to tell you that when I fired two bullets into his skull, the blood looked just the same as the others. The fourth kid shit herself, so I aim down toward the filth and let several bullets rip into her legs. They do enough damage to show bone. She screams louder than the rest at the sudden pain. I end her suffering with a bullet to the forehead. She falls back, mouth still open. The fifth kid tries to get to his feet. As he turns, I shoot him in the back and then the ass. An insulting death.
Now for my prize. The last toddler remains unreadable, like a tablet scrawled in some dead language. I step on the other bodies to get to him. My boots grind their bones into the floor. They snap with a satisfying pop, just like those wishbones. The final kid is on his back now. Prone. I stand over him. I must look like a god. I must look like salvation, an angel of beautiful death. I lean down and bring the barrel of the gun to his head. He doesn’t resist. He knows his fate. Some kids are stupid, but not this one. Why fight a lost battle? I settle the barrel on his left eye. I pull the trigger. His head bounces up and then back down onto the floor. I fire again into his right eye. What remains of both oozes out of the sockets. I stand up straight and slam a boot onto his skull. It caves inward. No resistance. No need to defy me.
I move away from the six dead children and head back to the entrance. I check my clip. Only a couple of bullets are left. I discard it and replace it with a fresh one. I’m in the atrium now. I look outside. There is a police officer. We look at each other. I lower the gun and then hold out my free arm. I form my finger into the universal sign of “Give me another minute, please.” He nods. I proceed to the last door.
I will admit that breaking into this room takes more effort. They have sufficiently barricaded me from entering. I commend their efforts. It makes me wish I had grenades or homemade explosives. I considered it at one point, but didn’t want to come off as a try-hard, you know? I mean, is there a better death in this country than from a rifle? Grenades are impersonal. You can heave them from across the room. And while I enjoy the idea of baby parts being blown to unrecognizable bits, I’m quite delighted with my approach. Planning this shit wasn’t easy. Lots of deception. Lots of late nights. Lots of pretending to care about people. Call me a sociopath if you want, but you’d be mistaken.
I press a hand to the door. It budges slightly. I bring the butt of the rifle forward and swing it into the glass. Three hits and the panel breaks into pieces. “Can I come in?” I ask.
Silence.
That’s surprising, actually. I expected more crying, more begging. Is anyone even in this room still?
Only one way to find out.
I ram a shoulder into the door. Ouch. A pain flares up through my body. I try my boot instead. That works a bit better. I don’t have much time, but I have enough patience to stick with this. My tally isn’t high enough yet to be done. I kick the door again. Then another time. I kick and kick and kick until I hear a portion of the barricade topple over. Wood splinters. Now there is a cry of panic. Perfect. That fuels me. I kick more. I kick harder. I lick the sweat off my lips and swallow it. I should have brought something to drink. I guess I could search the fridge when I’m done.
The door is open enough for me to gain more leverage. I stick my hand through and grab onto the frame. I grunt and work the muscles in my legs. My boots hold firm against the floor.
The door flies open. I stumble into the room, which looks bare since most of the furniture had been piled up to impede my progress. I step toward the center, onto my stage. I see two workers shielding two cribs. I count another six babies hiding within. A few of them are standing and grabbing onto the crib’s edge. The others are sitting, ogling at the ceiling or a bright light. I’m amazed none of them are crying. Honestly, it’s disappointing.
“No, you can’t do this,” the old woman pleads. Her hair is gray. She is probably a grandmother. Her glasses fall down her face and sit on the tip of her nose. Did she wake up this morning thinking she would die? More importantly, did she think pleading would work? It never does.
Sensing her end, she moves away from the cribs. She grabs the other woman by the arm.
“Just us. Just us. Leave the babies. Ple—”
I shoot the old woman four times in the chest, right above her sagging tits. As for the other woman, she has launched into hysterics. It’s like watching terrible acting. I’m expecting someone behind me to yell “Cut!” to end this awful display. Instead, it persists, so I aim at her neck, fire off two rounds, and find bliss in the transformation of her voice to a soothing gurgle.
I start with the brown baby. It has curly hair. It lifts an arm toward me and closes its fist. I press the gun against the fist and fire. The arm splits in two.
I proceed down the row of babies. Each one gets a bullet in the body. Have you ever seen a baby that’s been shot? Me neither. I can tell you that the blood is tremendous. The limbs sever so easily. The bones are still malleable that it’s almost as if they aren’t there. The skin separates and reveals the treasures inside, like peeling the wrapper off a candy bar. Little blobs of Jell-O. That’s all they are.
When I circle back, I place another bullet in each of their underdeveloped brains. As I kill these six babies, I spare a thought to what they would have grown up to be. I imagine how all of them will have been mass murderers. Maybe I’m doing the world a favor. No one will thank me for it. Their bodies are so soft and unweathered. While they are all dressed in their Sunday best, I like the one with the plaid shirt the best. He almost seemed to wave at me before I shot him in the belly button.
I tip the cribs over and shake the bodies out onto the floor. I use my foot to push them closer to the two women. The dead bodies slide across the floor like hockey pucks on track for a goal.
I return to the atrium. I return to my bags. The police officer is gone now. Maybe he went to lunch. Maybe he went to call for backup.
Is there a bathroom in here? Why isn’t there a bathroom in here? I swivel my head around and look for any signs. There are none. Shame. I have a sudden urge to use the bathroom. I’d also like to run some cold water over my face. Get rid of some of this blood, you know? It’s fine, though. Really. I’ll manage.
I’m tired. The coffee has worn off.
I count again. One receptionist. One, two, three, four workers. One, two, three, four, five, six toddlers. Times that by two for the babies. Shit, tally another baby from the first room. Almost forgot about them.
Eighteen, if my math is correct.
Not bad. Suitable.
I dig into the second duffel bag and find the revolver. I pull it free and double-check that it is loaded. It is. I slump down against the desk and in between my two bags. I unsling the AR-15 from my shoulder and place it across my legs. We worked well together, although I didn’t use as much ammunition as I thought. Pity. That shit was expensive.
I lick my lips again. Swallow some blood this time. I don’t hear sirens. Why not? Am I not worthy enough to be a threat? Oh well. Someone will find us eventually.
I open my mouth. I put the barrel of the revolver inside. I press my teeth down. I feel the cool metal on the roof of my mouth.
Like father, like son.
I tilt the gun upward. I don’t want to get the angle wrong. I’m a straight shooter, after all. I pull back the hammer. The click is pleasant.
I pull the trigger.
The back of my head resembles a confetti bomb as blood, brains, and bone explode outward onto the front of the wood-paneled desk. My head falls forward. My hand with the revolver flops to the floor. Half my teeth plink beside the gun like raindrops. Blood soaks me. I am cold. I piss myself. It runs down my leg. It’s okay. Someone will replace me tomorrow. Someone else will take up the mantle and try to overshadow my work.
But today I am
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Hours earlier, Mitchell came back for his second day of daycare. The first had been a mess of tears and wondering where his parents were. Today started better. He took three steps before falling over, landing on his knees and outstretched hands. He giggled, ecstatic at his success. Miss Carrie clapped and rushed over, pulling him in for a big hug. “Look at you go,” she said, staring at him from behind her oversized glasses. “You’ll be running before we know it!”