Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  “Can she talk?”

  “She’s stable. Her EKG looks good. But she’s unable to communicate.”

  I took the elevator, reminding myself to ask Agmont about the Darling Center’s generators, and what happens if Harry hurts the power grid. When the doors opened, Agmont was there, his GQ look at odds with his tired face and red eyes.

  “Before you go in, know she’s stable, and not in any pain.”

  That did nothing to reassure me, and as I brushed past he put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Jill, your mother may be fully aware, even if she can’t fully express it. Know that she’s responsive, and she’ll be watching how you react.”

  He’s telling me not to fall apart.

  I didn’t make him any promises, and wheeled into her room.

  Worse than I expected?

  A whole lot worse.

  At first, it looked like Mom had died. So tiny, so shriveled, so pale. Her skin, paper-thin and stretched across her face, showing the skull beneath. Hair, greasy and limp. One eye open—the right eye—dull like she’d been drugged. The left side of her face, melted wax.

  I faked bravery, inside feeling like I was breaking into a million pieces, and took my mother’s hand.

  “You’re not allowed to die,” I told her.

  Mom didn’t respond. Didn’t react.

  I wanted to scream.

  Dr. Agmont came in behind me to talk about tests and treatment and therapy, but I paid him little attention, instead trying to find any remnant of my mother in the sack of skin and bones lying on the bed before me.

  I almost gave up. But when I moved slightly to the side, her right eye followed.

  “Can you squeeze my hand, Mom?”

  Maybe there was a faint squeeze. Maybe it was my imagination.

  “Can you blink? Once for yes, twice for no.”

  She didn’t blink.

  I felt a sob building up in me, and I was going to lose my shit, right there, and the only thing that would shut me up was a blow to the head or forced sedation.

  But before I lost myself to hysteria, Mom made a grunting sound.

  “Was that for me, Mom? Do you know I’m here?”

  Another grunt.

  “She’s not in any pain,” Dr. Agmont said. “She seems aware of what’s happening, and the treatment to dissolve the clots in her brain is aggressive. We’ll know how she responds within the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

  “No offense, but isn’t there a brain specialist on staff? You’re a psychiatrist.”

  “No offense taken. I was a neurosurgeon for many years before I switched my specialty to psychiatry.”

  Of course he was.

  “You’ll get through this,” I told Mom.

  Another grunt.

  “Also, Jill… she’s partially blind.”

  I whimpered.

  “Sometimes, with a stroke, vision becomes impaired.”

  “How impaired?”

  “Since the right side of her brain was damaged, the left side of both eyes has been affected. It’s known as hemianopia. Because her communication is limited, it’s difficult to ascertain how severe it is.”

  “Will it improve? Can she get glasses?”

  “It’s a brain problem, not an eye problem. We’ll know more when we do another CT.”

  Another CT. “Can the Center lose power?”

  “No. The entire complex has back-up generators. And we still have some of our medical staff here, and we’re not going anywhere. Mary is the high-profile patient of the moment, and she’s getting a lot of attention.”

  I covered Mom’s hand with both of mine. “You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this. I promise.”

  But it didn’t feel like a promise to me.

  It felt like a big, fat, ugly lie.

  “I don’t believe there should be any restrictions when it comes to firearms. None.”

  GARY JOHNSON

  “Guns are not the problem. The species is the problem.”

  FORREST CARR

  GAFF

  When I crossed the state line into Georgia, I kept an eye out for hotel billboards. I’d never been in a hotel b4, but I knew to avoid the big chains, bcuz they might ask for ID and credit cards and license plate info. Instead, I looked for someplace privately owned.

  A road sign caught my eye. Not bcuz it was big or flashy or recognizable, but the opposite. It looked hand painted and posted there without permission.

  The Roosevelt Inn. Ten miles west of Brunswick.

  The sign took me off the expressway, another pointed me down some side roads, and after two more I was thick in the woods. After a few kilometers of nothing but trees, I realized I must have taken a wrong turn.

  Then the inn appeared.

  It looked like one of those motels out of a low budget horror movie. Creepy one-story building from the 1950s with no cars in the parking lot and a VACANCY light that had a short in it and blinked spastically. The kind of place where some indestructible and possibly supernatural serial killer prowled the hallways to gruesomely murder teens who were having sex.

  I pulled in, knowing no one would look for me here. Plus, written under the CHECK-IN sign was CABLE TV and WIFI.

  #JustWhatGaffNeeds.

  I parked in an empty lot and walked up to the front door, entering a small office. No one sat @ the desk, and a nameplate on top read CHESTER B ARTHUR ROOSEVELT, OWNER.

  A bell on the desk could be rung by tapping on it. I tapped.

  I tapped again.

  I tapped again.

  After a minute, a gnomy-looking bruh with a weird-shaped head limped through the side door. He wore denim bibs and his nametag said FRANKLIN.

  “I need a room.”

  “How many days?” Franklin sounded scratchy, like he didn’t use his voice often.

  “Just one.”

  “You alone?” He looked behind me, squinting @ my car through the window.

  “Yeah.”

  “From Ohio?”

  Impressive he knew my license plate design, especially from thirty yards away.

  I turned on the finesse, not wanting to answer questions or be in any way memorable.

  “How much a night?” I dodged.

  “Sixty, plus eight dollars tax. We got cable.” His eyes narrowed as he grinned. “All the dirty channels, whether you like girls or boys.”

  I handed over seventy bucks.

  “Also need Driver’s License and a credit card for the security deposit.”

  “I don’t have any of that. Wallet was stolen.”

  He stared @ me. I stared back.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Franklin eventually said. “But we still need a security deposit.”

  “For what?”

  “In case you break the TV. Or steal towels.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was normal, but it sounded legit. “How much?”

  “An extra hundred. You get it back when you check out.”

  I fished out another hundo, and Franklin opened up a desk drawer and handed me a key. His hands felt like a cold package of lunch meat, and he had body odor. A weird body odor, kinda sweet.

  “Room 8, just around the corner.”

  “Am I the only guest?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What’s the WiFi password?”

  “ELEANORLIVES. All caps.”

  “How do I spell that?”

  “E-L-E-A-N-O-R. It’s the name of our sainted mother.”

  No doubt she was a saint, putting up with this creeplord.

  “Check out at 10 A.M. Ice machine on the other side of the motel, near the vending. Have a nice stay.”

  He grinned, missing teeth, giving me a whiff of rotten fish breath.

  I left the office and unloaded my car, wanting to take everything inside bcuz I didn’t like Franklin, this hotel, or being this deep into the woods with nothing else around.

  Happily, I still had 900 rounds of ammo left.

  #Ready4Trouble.
<
br />   The lock to my room stuck and I had to jiggle the key. Inside smelled like an old closet that hadn’t been opened in a while.

  I flicked on a light switch, saw a bed and an older model TV—one of the thick ones made b4 flat screens—and a small desk and chair not much bigger than the ones @ my high school.

  I found a remote for the TV, flipped on a news station, then made three trips to my car to bring everything inside.

  The news was all about a hurricane in Florida, so I flipped to another station.

  More hurricane footage.

  Fail.

  I set up my laptop, punched in the password, and viddied social media.

  #VideoTownShooterSC.

  Hells yeah. Trending.

  I quickly scrolled down, looking for stats.

  Seventeen injured.

  No dead.

  That’s it?

  That’s all?

  WTF?

  The smile left my face like a guy jumping off a bridge.

  There were half a dozen videos. I hadn’t expected that many, but when I watched one I realized people had already been recording while in line to capture the hype around the GM2, and then turned on me when the shooting began.

  The first image of myself, shooting, brought my grin back.

  Then, watching myself trying to unjam the Merican, I felt my neck and ears flush.

  I looked like a n00b. A scrub.

  I watched another video as I reloaded my magazines.

  Then another.

  And another.

  #Amateur.

  #Embarrassed.

  #DoOver.

  But I couldn’t stop looking.

  Facebook already had a fan page for the shooting.

  The YouTube vids had hundreds of comments.

  Someone set up a GoFundMe to help with medical bills for the survivors.

  SJWs on Twitter demanded stronger gun control laws.

  4chan and 8chan and gab were buzzing with speculation. With my rave mask and hoodie, no one could divvy my race. Was I Al Qaeda? ISIS? A neo-Nazi? Antifa? CIA false flag? Anarchist? Fake news?

  One enterprising channer even shopped a pic of me, Merican blazing, with a halo over my head, dubbing me The Line Cutter.

  Others weren’t so kind.

  Zero fatalities. Fail.

  Dude is a bitch.

  Women shooterz are like women driverz; suck.

  Didn’t kill no one ran like a pussy.

  I left the shitposting boards and went back to Twitter and YouTube.

  Two hours later, I was still watching. Still reading comments.

  Still feeling salty.

  No dead.

  No one even critically wounded. All superficial shit.

  And I told Tully to watch CNN.

  #TotalFailure.

  My Moms used to say that every cloud had a silver lining. That made no sense. Literally. But I knew what it meant. Even when things are bad, there can be some good.

  So I thought it out.

  On the plus side, no one had a clue who I was. South Carolina, and the Internet, was in full freak-out mode. Lots of crying eyewitnesses and survivors and family members of victims, lots of tough talk from 5-0 and the mayor of Katydid, lots of protestors whining for stronger gun laws.

  Dope.

  On the minus side, some fake news asswipe actually called it a “failed attempt at a MoshMania-style mass shooting”, one survivor said, “The guy seemed really inexperienced,” and someone made a gif of me trying to unjam the Merican, repeating it over and over, with the word MERP underneath me, and it got over six thousand views.

  Then I actually got pushed off the trending screen by that stupid Florida hurricane.

  #Fuming.

  I needed to regroup.

  To think.

  To plan.

  What did I do wrong?

  Break it down Gaff.

  #MakeAList.

  I should have practiced with the gun first. I hadn’t shot it on full auto b4, and it was harder than I thought.

  I should have anticipated a faster first response since every damn person in line was an early adopter tech-head with a cell phone. Some of them had even been streaming.

  I shouldn’t have picked such an open area. I had gone for a MoshMania-style massacre, shooting into an outdoor crowd. But I didn’t have long guns and scopes, I hadn’t barricaded myself in a high vantage point, and the crowd wasn’t contained in a venue and bottlenecked by exits.

  I should have gone the Rathlin Massacre route, getting inside a building, killing people room by room.

  So what did I need to change?

  #Here’sMyList.

  My next attempt would be indoors.

  Far from the first responders.

  I needed to target a group that couldn’t run so fast, or call the police so fast.

  I needed to practice fully auto.

  I went back to the TV, flipping from news coverage to news coverage, looking for me.

  All I saw was that damn hurricane, pounding away @ Florida.

  Canceled.

  Dumbass storm stealing my clout.

  FOMO.

  Hold up.

  Right now, Florida was getting the shit kicked out of it.

  Electricity out in many areas. Cell towers down.

  Emergency services maxed out.

  If I picked the right spot in Florida to do #GaffKills100Round2 there would be no cops on me. They’d be too busy doing other stuff.

  I could pick a big place indoors. Take my time.

  What was open during a hurricane?

  #Hospitals.

  Not a bad idea. Patients couldn’t fight back or run away.

  But hospitals had security. They also had an endless stream of cops coming and going.

  What else?

  School?

  Closed. Same with museums, amusement parks, beaches.

  An apartment or condo?

  That might work. A big one. Start @ the bottom, work my way up, floor-by-floor, killing as I went.

  I got online again, tracking Hurricane Harry.

  Supposed to batter Florida for the next twelve hours.

  I searched for big apartments in Ft. Myers, where the storm was hitting hardest.

  The first thing that came up was something called the Darling Center.

  A retirement community and rehab clinic. Only admitted people over age sixty.

  Over eight hundred residents.

  Residents who wouldn’t fight back.

  Luddites, who prolly didn’t even have cell phones.

  Old people, who might not even be able to hear the shots being fired, or be too demented to know what was happening.

  I could take my time. Not waste any rounds.

  Fire.

  I took a moment to study the layout of the facility. Eight buildings. Six floors each. All of them pretty much identical.

  Hell, they even had an Alzheimer’s ward and a hospital.

  I mapped it out.

  About a six hour drive. By the time I got there, most of them would be asleep.

  High key.

  It’s on.

  #WhyDidn’tIThinkOfThisSooner?

  I spent a few minutes loading up the car, then on a whim I did a quick walk around the motel.

  No other vehicles. Whole place seemed empty.

  No security cams.

  No traffic driving past.

  Nothing around but woods.

  I went back to my trunk, hung my gun bag on my shoulder, stuck my hand in the open zipper with my fingers curled around the Merican, and walked into the check-in office.

  It took four rings of the bell b4 Franklin showed up.

  “I’m checking out.”

  “No refunds.”

  We stared @ each other.

  “Fine. Gimme my security deposit back.”

  “I need to inspect the room first. Make sure it’s all in order.”

  More staring.

  Eff it.

  I pulled out th
e gun and shot him over a dozen times in less than two seconds, only stopping bcuz the noise was excruciating.

  #ForgotEarplugsAgain.

  Franklin twisted around a few times, twirling little bloody spirals, and fell to the floor as I rubbed my ears and stretched my jaw, trying to get the pain to stop.

  Water. I should have used water in the suppressor.

  #RememberTheAblative.

  I also forgot the gloves.

  Messy. I was acting on instinct and emotion, instead of cold equation planning.

  Making mistakes.

  Begging to get caught.

  I needed to slow my roll.

  I walked around the desk, to make sure the little toad was dead.

  Franklin lived. His eyes wide, and every time he tried to gasp in some air, blood burbled from the holes in his chest.

  Hype.

  I checked the floor, making sure I wasn’t stepping in the widening pool of blood.

  “Where’s my hundo?”

  He didn’t answer. Blinked, like a lizard, one eye then the other.

  I put on some latex gloves and picked up a small garbage can. Then I set it on his ribcage and leaned on it, asking again.

  He whined hard, and the bubbling blood made a rattling sound.

  “Drawer,” he croaked.

  I followed his gaze and saw a drawer under the desk.

  “Losing… blood… so… much… precious… blood…”

  The drawer had a little keyhole in it. I guessed Franklin had the key on him, but I didn’t want to pat him down bcuz I’d get his DNA all over me. So I kicked it with my heel until the wood splintered. It hung open like a mouth, and I spied guap inside. I pulled the drawer out and set it on top of the desk.

  Cash. Bands. A few hundred bucks, maybe more. And about a dozen credit cards.

  I knew credit cards could be tracked, so I left them alone. But I took the mad stax.

  Franklin wouldn’t be needing it.

  I fished my earplugs out of my bag and stuck them in, then flipped the giggle switch to SEMI.

  Walking to the other end of the office, I aimed @ Franklin’s head.

  He looked @ me and began to laugh. “You can’t… can’t end my bloodline.”

  I shot.

  Missed.

  Put on the green laser and shot again.

  Another miss. Too low.

  “Immortal… bloodline is immortal… Eleanor… lives…”

  The laser had an adjustment screw on it, and I used a hex wrench to give it half a turn.

  Franklin began to giggle and wheeze and twitch. I noticed he had a hard-on.