Three Days To Die

by John Avery

  Needles stepped into the shooting booth and pulled out his 9mm pistol. He released the magazine into his palm and handed the gun to Aaron.

  "Have you ever held a gun before, kid?" Needles asked, feeding shells into the magazine.

  Aaron hefted the pistol and was surprised by the weight. "Not a real one," he said. He sighted down the gun's impressive gunmetal-steel barrel. "It feels really good."

  "They used to recommend that you leave two or three rounds out of the magazine when not using the gun to extend the life of the spring," Needles explained. "But the newer springs are stronger, so I go ahead and top it off." He showed Aaron how to lock the magazine into the handle, and then he set the pistol aside and picked up an assault rifle.

  "Okay, now pay attention," he said. "This weapon is a bit more complicated." He released the large curved magazine. "You insert the loaded magazine into the slot here below the trigger. Push it up from the bottom until the catch engages. Slap the bottom of the magazine up into the weapon to ensure that it stays, and then pull down on it to be sure."

  Needles finished the demonstration and handed the rifle and magazine to Aaron. "Go ahead and try loading it."

  Aaron looked the magazine over, then slid it into the magazine-well and clicked it home. Then he slapped it hard and gave it a tug to make sure it was seated.

  "Nicely done, kid," Needles said.

  Aaron handed the rifle back and Needles set it aside.

  "Do you want to try a few shots?" he asked.

  Aaron hadn't dreamed that Needles would actually let him shoot. "Sure, of course," he replied, excited.

  "Leave the guns where they are for a second, okay?"

  "Okay."

  Needles lit a second lantern and walked it down to the target end of the firing lane. He placed the lantern on a wooden shelf next to the target and adjusted its placement for the best light. Then he returned to the firing booth to show Aaron how to use the target retrieval system.

  The simple system consisted of a spring-clip tied to a length of clothesline looped through two pulleys, one at each end of the firing lane, allowing the shooter to reel in the targets for inspection and replacement.

  "Pull on the bottom line to bring in the target," Needles said.

  Aaron pulled the rope and a tattered target with most of its bull's-eye blown away came reeling toward him. Needles selected a fresh target from a nearby stack and had Aaron clip it in place.

  "Okay, now send it back down," Needles said.

  Aaron pulled on the upper line, and the fresh target receded into the distance.

  "You'll feel a tug when the stop-knot hits home," Needles said.

  Aaron continued to pull on the rope until he felt some resistance. "I think it stopped," he said.

  "Okay," Needles said. "Here, you'll want these." He handed him a pair of sound-deadening earmuffs and Aaron clamped them over his ears. Then he handed him the 9mm and showed him how to release the safety. Aaron held the gun toward the target.

  "Use your other hand for support," Needles said.

  Aaron wrapped his left hand around his right.

  "Excellent. Go ahead and take a couple of shots."

  Aaron slowed his breathing, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

  POP!

  "Wow," Aaron said, looking at Needles for approval. "It has a kick."

  Needles nodded. "You'll have to allow for it when you fire several shots in succession." Aaron recalled how the better video games simulated that effect.

  "Go ahead," Needles said. "Fire at will."

  Aaron steadied himself then fired off round after round until he emptied the gun.

  "Good," Needles said. "Let's check your aim." He tugged the line and the target moved toward them. Aaron was excited to see that his shot grouping was tight around the bull's-eye.

  "Nice shooting," Needles said, surprised. " Very nice. Do you want to try the rifle?"

  "No way… really?"

  Needles took the pistol from Aaron and picked up the assault rifle. He helped Aaron place his hands in the correct positions on the weapon.

  Aaron hefted it and smiled.

  Needles clipped a fresh target to the string and wheeled the target down the lane into position. "You may want to rest this gun on a sandbag," he said, pulling one over. "Fire quick bursts at first to get the feel of it. It will wander on you if you're not careful. Just give the trigger a quick squeeze and release."

  Aaron adjusted his earmuffs, and then he rested the barrel of the rifle on the sandbag, aimed down range, and with as much confidence as he could muster, squeezed the trigger.

  POPOPOP!

  The barrel kicked skyward, and three bullets splintered the wooden ceiling joists.

  "Holy cow!" Aaron exclaimed, embarrassed to discover that he wasn't the marksman he thought he'd be.

  Needles laughed and helped him get back into position.

  – Needles continued to work with Aaron until he was satisfied that Aaron could safely handle both guns.

  "You're a natural," Needles said. "You could easily hold your own in a fight."

  Aaron glowed; that was one of the coolest things he had ever done. "Thanks, Needles," he said. "That was awesome."

  Needles smiled; he felt good about what he'd done for the boy. He extinguished the target lantern, secured everything, and led Aaron back up the steep wooden ladder to the cannery above.

  Chapter 31

  You're Michael?

  Michael drove up and skidded to a stop in front of Aaron's apartment building. He jumped out of the car and ran up the steps to ring the bell.

  There was no answer.

  Again.

  No answer.

  He located the hidden key, but when he tried it he found that the door was unlocked. He replaced the key then stepped inside, peering into the darkness of the foyer.

  – "Hello?" he said, clicking on a light. "Is anybody home?" A backpack lay heaped in the corner with some papers and other junk. A beach cruiser leaned against a wall.

  He walked through the living room, past a set of stairs that led to the second floor, and flipped a light on in the kitchen. There was no one there, so he checked the rest of the downstairs before returning to the living room.

  He climbed the stairs and about half way up his foot slipped on the carpeting and he had to put a hand down to keep from falling. As he straightened he noticed that his hand was moist. He rubbed his thumb and index finger together and felt a soapy residue that smelled like laundry detergent. He knelt and ran his hand over the carpeted stair treads. Three were damp. Then he continued on up the stairs.

  The upstairs hall light was already on. Michael checked the master bedroom and bath, but they were deserted.

  When he came to Aaron's room a wave of panic tightened his chest: The door was splintered by what appeared to be a gunshot to the lock. He tried the knob, but the door was still securely dead-bolted from the inside.

  "Aaron?" he yelled, banging on the door. "Aaron, are you in there?"

  There was no answer.

  He stepped back a couple steps and lunged at the door, throwing his entire weight into it. The lock held, but the center panel had loosened and Michael was able to get his hand through and release the bolt. He swung the door open, but the room was empty. He looked out through the open window across the roof. It too was deserted.

  He lingered for a moment, breathing in the cold air, thinking about Aaron. Then he left the bedroom and started back down the stairs.

  As he descended he heard a sound, as if someone had dropped something in the kitchen — a plastic cup perhaps. He stopped and listened, then trotted the rest of the way down to investigate.

  – He entered the kitchen and noticed that the pantry door, which had been closed, was slightly ajar, now. He slowly opened it and clicked on the light.

  Crouching in the shadows behind a stack of newspapers was what appeared to be a boy in a hooded sweatshirt. The boy's head was down, and Michael couldn't see his face.

/>   "Aaron?" Michael said, but there was no reply.

  He stepped over and moved some of the junk aside and was surprised to see that it wasn't Aaron at all, just a chubby little black kid wearing thick glasses.

  "Come on out of there," Michael said.

  Willy looked up at him, terrified. "I–I was just looking for my friend," he said, close to tears.

  "It's okay," Michael said. "I'm a friend, also." He'd only known Aaron a short time, but he considered him his friend — the first friend he'd made in a long time. He offered Willy a hand up and they stepped out of the pantry.

  "So, you know Aaron?" Michael said.

  "I'm his best friend," Willy replied stubbornly, chin down, and with all his heart he wanted to believe it was still true. Maybe if he acted as if it were true, it would be true.

  Michael pulled out a chair for Willy at the kitchen table and took a seat across from him.

  "I haven't heard from him since yesterday," Michael said. "I think he's in trouble."

  "To put it mildly," Willy said.

  "Why? What do you know about last night?"

  "I know a lot," Willy said. " I saw the whole blasted thing."

  The two compared stories about Aaron's run-in with Souther and the narrow escape. Willy described their cannery hide-out and agreed to take Michael there in the morning.

  Willy mentioned that he'd gone to visit Aaron's mother the evening before, and that she hadn't seen Aaron since dinner and was worried. And now she was missing, too.

  "The door was unlocked when I got here," he said. "She would never do that, and I doubt Tom would either — not in our neighborhood. It doesn't make any sense. We have to find them."

  Michael stood up from the table. "Come with me. I'm going to check around back." They left the kitchen, stepping outside through the side door, and headed around to the rear of the building.

  A makeshift plywood-patchwork had been nailed up over what used to be Aaron's garage door. Michael and Willy entered the garage through the same small door Ashley had used.

  Michael noticed a fresh pair of tire burnouts running the full length of the garage and out into the alley. He looked at Willy then knelt and slowly ran his fingers over one of the charred-rubber streaks.

  – They left the garage and started back up the side alley toward the street.

  Michael extended his hand. "By the way, my name's Michael," he said.

  Willy gave Michael's hand a vigorous shake. "I'm Willy," he said. "Bloody good to — " He stopped in his tracks. "Hey, wait a second. You're Michael? The pool table Michael? The guy with the loft? Aaron called me from your place last night."

  "That was you?"

  Willy nodded his head sadly. "Yes… that was me." Then he turned and walked on up the alley.

  – When they reached the street in front of Aaron's apartment, Michael glanced at his watch. 7:45 p.m. "So, can I offer you a ride home? If you don't hate me, that is…"

  Willy laughed; he had hated the mystery Michael, but now that he had met him he could see that he really was a nice guy — and maybe he'd misjudged Aaron a little as well.

  "Thanks… but I have my bike," he said, and Michael waited while he ran inside the apartment and returned with his beach cruiser.

  "So, I'll pick you up here tomorrow morning at nine?" Michael said.

  "Sounds good," Willy said.

  They shook hands again, and with a quick wave goodbye Willy took off toward home.

  Chapter 32

  A Dagwood Sandwich

  Aaron poked his head through the door to the cannery break room and saw Needles sitting alone at the long wooden table with the entire contents of the refrigerator spread out in front of him. Normally the fridge was pretty bare, but that day had been a good payday, so there was plenty to eat.

  Aaron started to knock on the door frame, then considered calling the whole thing off. But it was important to him — and he was probably making too much out of it anyway. A simple question requiring a simple answer, he told himself. So he knocked.

  Needles had nearly completed the construction of a Dagwood sandwich. He turned toward the sound and smiled, bracing the wobbly stack of lunch meat with both hands.

  "Aaron," he said, "come in. Are you hungry? You want some iced tea?"

  "That'd be great," Aaron said. "Thank you."

  Needles held the sandwich with one hand and poured Aaron a glass of tea from a surprisingly elegant crystal pitcher. He passed the box of sugar and a long spoon, and then he balanced the final slice of bread on top of his towering creation. Aaron added two spoonfuls of sugar to his tea and watched the white crystals swirl around as he stirred the amber liquid.

  Needles studied his sandwich, trying to figure out the best way to eat it. "Isn't it a little late for you to be up? It must be close to midnight."

  "Yeah, but I was just — "

  "Do you want half of this?" Needles said, interrupting him. "I think I got a little carried away."

  "Oh, sure," Aaron replied.

  Needles carefully sliced the sandwich in two, then laid half on a paper plate and handed it to Aaron. "You were saying?"

  Aaron paused, holding the plate in his hands; then at last he asked, "Why do you rob banks?"

  Needles had already committed to a large bite and he was forced to mumble. "Because I'm an idiot," he replied, crumbs flying.

  Needles's casual reaction surprised Aaron and he relaxed a bit, but he wasn't going to let him off that easy. He set his plate on the table and wiped his hands on his jeans. "No, really, why do you? I mean, it's wrong to steal… right?"

  "It's not by choice," Needles said, dodging the question intentionally this time; he was in too good of a mood to dredge up a bunch of sludge. Besides, he wasn't sure if Aaron could handle the truth.

  "What do you mean?" Aaron asked.

  Needles paused for a moment then decided to be up front with Aaron. "I used to be a surgeon," he said.

  "Wow, really? Why'd you quit?"

  "I wish I had," Needles said. "The truth is I lost everything in a lawsuit: my license, my practice, my future… all gone in the blink of an eye."

  "Oh, man," Aaron said.

  "Two years ago," Needles explained, "a young child, left unattended by his heroin-addict mother, drank some liquid drain cleaner and burned his insides out. They brought the kid to me, but he died on my operating table."

  Aaron wondered how close Willy had come to doing the same thing those nights when his mother left her little boy all alone.

  Needles slid some chips and a jar of dill pickles toward Aaron. "So, I got sued, of course, and my malpractice insurance ran out half-way through the trial. Then came the settlement with the kid's mother…"

  "Was it big?"

  "Let's just say the judge wasn't sympathetic toward the 'big-city doctor.'"

  Aaron leaned forward in his chair, anxious to get to the part where Needles became a bank robber. "So, what happened next?" he asked.

  "Hell, I was a total wreck," Needles said. "I likely would have killed myself had it not been for Johnny Souther."

  "What? You mean — "

  "The same guy," Needles said. "It was Souther who loaned me the money to pay everyone off."

  "You're kidding… How much?"

  "Well, after insurance, and close to a million bucks out of pocket — which left me with nothing incidentally — I owed around $475,000."

  "Whoa," Aaron said. He had guessed $50,000 and thought that was ridiculous money.

  Needles continued. "Of course I couldn't imagine how or where he would get that kind of money, but I was in no position to question him." He paused. "To this day, I still wonder where he got it. The money we make robbing banks is good, but it's not that good."

  Just then Beeks walked in wearing a determined look on his face.

  "Let me guess," Needles said to him, grateful for this unexpected chance to hassle his friend. "You're lost, and you blundered in here thinking it was the toilet."

  Beeks ignored hi
m and opened the refrigerator.

  "If you don't mind, Beeks," Needles said, "we're having a private conversation here."

  Beeks leaned down for a closer look at the fridge's empty shelves. "Where's all the damn food?" he asked. Then he turned and saw the huge spread Needles had laid out on the table.

  Needles knew what was coming. "Easy, Jezebel. Take what you need and park your fat-ass down the road."

  "Well, excuse me for bein' fuckin' hungry," Beeks said.

  He gathered the food into his massive arms, wedged a drinking glass under one elbow, and hooked the pitcher of iced tea under his little finger.

  "I hope you enjoy your little pow-wow while I'm out here in the damn warehouse findin' a damn table," he said, then he left in a huff.

  – Aaron was trying to digest Needles's wild story. He felt for Beeks; but he was happy to see that the big guy had missed the jar of pickles. He selected a large one and took a bite.

  "I can't believe you borrowed that much money from Johnny Souther," he said, chewing with vigor. "Of all people."

  Needles drained his iced tea in one indignant swallow. Aaron felt the atmosphere in the room become tense.

  There was a long, deliberate pause as Needles calmed himself. Why he felt compelled to explain himself to a thirteen-year-old kid, he couldn't say. "Ten years ago," he said, his voice dark and joyless, now, "Johnny Souther was my pastor."

  Aaron nearly choked on his pickle.

  "By the time everything with the malpractice suit happened, I had already left the church, and I hadn't seen Souther in years. But with no one else to turn to, I called him, and he agreed to meet with me. I told him about the money and he said he might be able to arrange some kind of a loan. I had no choice but to accept his terms. Of course I had no way of knowing he had just been released from prison, and unfortunately, by the time I was educated as to his current line of work I was already in up to my neck."

  "It should have been obvious he was a criminal," Aaron said carelessly.

  That was too much for Needles. His face turned to iron. "What makes you Mr. Big-shot expert all of a sudden? Huh? What do you know about anything? You smart-ass little shit."