The Summer the World Ended

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Guns, Dad? You already are.”

  He set the Beretta down and grasped her by the shoulders. “If something were to happen out here… or with the world, how long do you think it would take the cops to get here? They’d be coming to investigate a murder scene, not save your life.”

  She gulped, thinking about the creepy guy who delivered Mom’s car. What might’ve happened if she told him Dad wasn’t home? “O-okay.”

  “First.” He picked up the Beretta, popped a magazine out of the handle and locked the slide back. “Unless you see a gun like this, with the slide back, always assume it’s loaded and can kill.” He glanced at it. “On second thought, amend that. Even if it looks like this, respect it like it can kill.”

  “Okay.”

  He handed it to her. She held up her hands and he laid it across her palms. It felt heavy and warm, and smelled like the table in the dining room. Oil. Oh, crap… that table’s full of gun stuff.

  “That’s the magazine release.” He pointed at a little button on the handle. “If you push that, the mag falls out.” He held up an empty magazine. “This is the slide lock button. Hold that down and pull back the slide, and it will stay open. This here”―he pointed at a small lever at the rear end of the slide―“that’s the safety. If you see the red dot, the gun can go off.”

  She stared at it for a moment before finding the nerve to grasp the handle and look it over. “What’s this other lever?”

  “Push the button on the other side, swing that little lever down, and the whole slide will come off the front end so you can disassemble it for cleaning.”

  “Oh.”

  “Here.” He handed her an empty magazine. “Load it.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. She slid the magazine into the handle and slapped the bottom like they do in all the cop shows. It felt nothing like the game, but looked sort of similar when she sighted over it.

  “Line up the three posts, right?”

  Dad grinned. “Yep.”

  “How do I let the slide go?”

  “Thumb switch.” He pointed.

  She fumbled at it for a few seconds and found the thing to squeeze. The slide racked forward with a click. Dad moved behind her, wrapping his arms around and tweaking her stance before adjusting her grip on the pistol.

  “Be careful of your thumb here, hon. Use your left hand to support your right. When you shoot, the slide will come back hard. You don’t want it to bite you.”

  “Okay.” She aimed at some of the cans, dry firing.

  “Trigger.” He pulled her index finger out of the guard, and held his own hand up with his finger curled back against itself. “Put the very tip on the trigger so when you pull back, it’s a linear motion without side-side jerkiness. Aim and squeeze. Don’t anticipate the shot. Let the gun surprise you when it goes off. If you anticipate the shot, you’ll get into the habit of pushing.”

  He held the gun and pushed it forward, causing the barrel to droop.

  “How hard does it kick?”

  “Well, it’s only 9mm Parabellum, but you’re a little thing.”

  She gave him a raspberry.

  “Pull the slide back and lock it.”

  She did.

  “Remember. Never point a gun at something you are not prepared to destroy. Never put your finger on the trigger unless you want to kill something.”

  She left her index finger flat along the side.

  “Good.” Dad held up a single bullet to show her, and dropped it in the chamber. “Let’s start off slow.”

  As soon as the bullet hit the gun in her hand, Riley’s arms went stiff. Having the power to kill someone in her hands for real was infinitely more terrifying than any horror movie. Sure, shooting guys by the hundred in the game was visually similar, but she knew they were just pixels.

  Dad said something but his words hit her brain with no more meaning than had he hummed the Star Spangled Banner. He ran his hand over her head, smoothing her hair. She stood like a life-sized plastic statue of a child soldier, barely even breathing.

  “Riley.”

  Her head turned toward him. “I’m gonna get arrested.”

  Dad laughed. “This isn’t New Jersey.”

  She gulped. “Huh?”

  He grumbled. “You need a permit from the state for permission to even look at a picture of a gun there. Fascists… what are they afraid of? You know the more a government tries to disarm the people, the more they’ve got to hide.”

  “Uh, Dad? Hello? Fourteen year old with a loaded gun about to freak out here…”

  His tirade skidded to a halt. His tone went from accusatory to soothing. “A gun is a tool, Riley. Nothing more. It’s only as dangerous as the person holding it.”

  “I don’t like guns.” She fought to keep from trembling. Was it fear or fatigue from holding it up so long?

  “What if I wasn’t home when that guy dropped off the car? If he attacked you, would you have rather had that or been helpless?”

  “Uh…” She stared at it.

  “Not saying you should’ve killed him. Seeing the gun would probably have made him run away. You seemed pretty comfortable with it on that PlayStation.”

  “Xbox,” she said, in a detached tone. “It’s not the same. That’s just a video game. No one really gets hurt.”

  “You’re far away from the police here. It’s on us to protect ourselves.”

  “Easy fix for that, Dad. We could move back to civilization.”

  “I want you to be safe.” He massaged her shoulders. “Please give it a try.”

  With a solid grip on the handle, her right thumb couldn’t quite reach the slide release. She tilted the gun to the side and pushed it with her left. The gun jumped forward as the slide crashed home. Finger off the trigger. She swallowed.

  “Calm down. Breathe easy. In and out. In and out. Pick a can and sight.”

  Aiming was easier than calming down. The distant can swiveled in a figure eight around the gun sight.

  “No pressure. I’m not going to be upset if you miss. Focus on being safe before anything else. Keep the barrel pointed away from yourself, away from me, and away from the house. Always, always, always, be mindful of what goes on behind your target.”

  “Okay.” She set her jaw in a determined clench and shut her left eye.

  After a few seconds, she moved her finger onto the trigger, squeezed.

  Bang.

  A puff of dust rose in the distance, but none of the cans reacted. She yelped, but held on to the gun. The recoil hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared, but the sound was loud. Dad wiggled his pinky finger in his ear.

  “Shit. That was my fault.” He grabbed a green plastic box from the table and pulled out foam earplugs. “Forgot about these.”

  Riley put the earplugs in. Dad motioned at the full 15-round magazine and nodded at her.

  Loading that made the gun heavier, to the point of being uncomfortable. Nervousness kept her squeezing at the grip. With Dad’s encouraging hand at her back, she sighted in on the same can and let all the air out of her lungs. The game had a button to hold breath as a sniper. Maybe that was why she missed―she kept breathing.

  Over the course of the first fifteen shots, abject terror at holding a killing device faded to stiff apprehension. Dad nudged her feet farther apart and yelled something through the earplugs about stability. Three bullets into her second mag, she clipped the top edge of a can and sent it spinning. Riley took her time with each successive shot. The last seven in the mag all hit a can.

  She glared. I should be sitting on the beach with Amber right now, or farming up crafting mats.

  Boom. Another can went flying.

  Riley aimed at the next can. This was the big summer break before high school.

  Boom. The can danced around the stick, shot clean through.

  Her eyebrows drew together. Now I’m in the Land that Time Forgot holding a real goddamned gun.

  Boom. The can went f
lying in a shower of splinters.

  She tried to fire again, but the trigger didn’t do much. Empty.

  “Riley?”

  She relaxed and set the pistol down on the table to give her arms a break, and popped out her earplugs.

  “Want to take a few shots with the AR15? The Garand would probably bruise your shoulder.”

  “Sure.” She grabbed it without hesitating and looked the weapon over. “Wow this looks just like the one in the game. That’s the safety, that’s the magazine release, not sure what that thing is…” She pointed at a round spur jutting out at an angle on the right side.

  “Forward assist. Tap it to force the bolt in if it doesn’t seat all the way.”

  She peered through the ejection port. “That part moves right, like the slide on the Beretta.”

  “Right.” He pointed out the charging handle at the back end, above the butt.

  Riley hooked her fingers on it and struggled to pull it back. It slipped her grip and rammed forward. Dad pointed at a paddle shaped button above the trigger guard on the left side. “Push that down and pull the handle back.”

  With the rifle tucked between her legs, she strained to get the handle back and push on the button at the same time. After a grueling battle of strength, she locked it open and gasped. “Guess I’m weak.”

  “Maybe a little.” He winked. “I’ve got heavy duty springs in this one.”

  She sighted over the empty rifle, adjusting her grip for a while before lowering it. Maybe this could get fun. When she eyed the loaded magazine, Dad nodded. Riley put her earplugs back in.

  With the rifle in one hand pointed straight up, she grasped the magazine, wandered to the left around the table, and went down on one knee. It took her a moment to line it up and load the rifle, though Dad remained quiet and close. She slapped the underside of the mag to seat it, and lowered herself onto her belly without prompting. Dad crouched at her side.

  The paddle thing locked it back. It would probably let it go too. She pushed it and the sound of the bolt slapping forward rewarded her assumption. Dad smiled. She aimed at the next can, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing.

  “Duh. Safety.” Riley sighed.

  Dad grinned.

  She found it in short order, noting it had only two positions. “No full auto?”

  “I haven’t modified it yet. It’s a new one, haven’t run more than a hundred rounds through it.”

  “Oh.” She aimed again, cheek pressed to the warm metal. “This looks just like the game when you push the button to zoom.”

  How did I go from gamer geek/beach bum to a gun freak?

  Anger washed over her as Doctor Farhi’s voice echoed through her mind.

  For all intents and purposes, the woman she was died immediately.

  Riley growled.

  Blam. Blam. Blam.

  Canmageddon. Once there were no more victims, she went for the paper targets.

  “Riley?” yelled Dad when the bolt locked open.

  “Huh?” She pulled out one earplug.

  “What’s on your mind? You look pissed.”

  Careful to keep the empty rifle pointed in the direction of the targets, she rolled around, sat up, and stood. She looked from him down to a few stray pieces of brass in the dirt. “Mom wasn’t supposed to die. She was only forty. Do you really think there’s a God that got mad at her?” She glanced at the table full of weapons.

  Overcome by the sudden need to feel safe, she tried to grab on to him, but he shot a purposeful look into the clouds and ran inside. Riley’s arms closed, hugging nothing, leaving her staring with tears streaming down her cheeks at the man sprinting inside as if his bowels were about to explode.

  I hate that radio. How did he hear it from out here?

  She sat/leaned on the table of firearms and bullets, uneasy at being alone with them. All around her the wind whistled, though she felt no breeze. Emptiness everywhere. No one will touch the guns. She quick-walked to the patio door and ducked inside, creeping through the kitchen to Dad’s bedroom door.

  “I understand, sir. What I’m asking is if any of the information Simmons and Lawry collected indicate FSB involvement in Lily’s death. My daughter just brought up a good point. The woman was only forty. She shouldn’t have had an aneurysm… With everything else going on here, it seems… too convenient.”

  Riley’s intention to walk in died. She stopped, clinging to the doorjamb out of sight.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense, sir. They’re Russian. When does anything they do make sense?”

  Dad nodded at no one.

  “How should I know what they’d gain from it? Lily wasn’t involved in my work. Maybe they’re trying to get to me.” He paused. “No, sir. If they wanted Riley as leverage, they would’ve grabbed her in Jersey before I got there. I think someone pulled a Litvinenko on my wife, sir.” He paused again, this time mumbling. “I’m well aware that was polonium-210, but they hit him in 2006. This is 2016. Who knows what they have now.”

  Riley backed away, shaking. Was Mom murdered? She silenced angry sobs with her arm as she stormed outside and back to the table. No fear remained as she grabbed the empty Beretta mag and stuffed it full of bullets. After replacing her earplugs, she slapped it into the gun, racked the slide, and aimed at the second paper target.

  The sound of her opening up on it got Dad sprinting outside. He raced over, but at her apparent safe handling of the weapon, remained motionless until she’d run the mag dry.

  “Riley.”

  She looked at him.

  “I don’t want you shooting unless I’m with you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” She put the gun down. “This is serious, isn’t it?”

  He wrapped her in a hug and kissed her on the temple. “Yes.”

  “Did they kill her?” She sniffled. “A-are they going to try to kill me?”

  His embrace grew tight to the point of painful for a moment. “I don’t know, Riley. I don’t think so.”

  “The doctor said stress and drinking could cause aneurysms.” She pulled her face out of his flannel shirt. “Mom had a lot of stress and she drank.”

  “Assassinations work best when the circumstances seem likely to be natural.” He glanced at the Beretta. “It’s not much of a gift, I know, but I want you to consider it yours from now on.”

  “‘Kay.” She swallowed. “Dad? How come I never hear the radio go off?”

  “It didn’t ‘go off.’ I called him. I had to ask the Colonel about your mother. I never thought they’d go after her.”

  Riley shivered at the cold, analytical tone in his voice. The only emotion he showed came out in the tightness of his fingers pressed against her back. Mom hadn’t been much of a ‘hugger,’ but her voice could smile.

  She held on to her father and bawled like a girl young enough to be called Squirrel.

  The crunch of tires on gravel about fifteen minutes later made Riley hide against him. Her first thought was the guy with the white van had decided to come back for revenge. Dad pivoted to look, forcing her to adjust her grip on him to stay out of sight.

  “You know anyone with a… blue Trans Am?”

  Kieran. Oh, shit. “Y-yeah.”

  She kept her head down to conceal her face between her hair and Dad. The car stopped, the engine cut out, and the sound of footsteps on dirt approached.

  “Hi, Mr. McCullough,” said Kieran. “Sorry for just showing up here, but I couldn’t find a phone number.”

  “Hello, Kieran.” Dad sounded like Mr. Business again. “We don’t have a phone. No lines. Working on the Internet thing. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask if Riley could have dinner at the house tonight. My mother would like to welcome her to town.”

  Don’t let him see me like this. The idea Mom might’ve been murdered settled like a giant weight on her tear reserves, pushing them out. She fought to collect herself. How could she leave her dad here alone after that? Maybe he
was right. Maybe they weren’t interested in her at all. She’d spent three days in that horrible shelter. Someone who wanted to kidnap her had ample opportunity. That place was meant to keep angry, abusive drunks away―not foreign spies. She looked up at her father. Maybe he’s overdoing the worry a bit. Colonel Bering didn’t seem to think the Russians were involved with Mom’s death.

  “Uh, it’s up to my dad.”

  Tense silence lingered for a moment. Dad clasped her shoulders and held her out to arm’s length. Her face got warmer.

  “Are you sure, Riley? If it’s what you really want…”

  What’s the big deal? It’s just dinner with the parents, not like I’m marrying him tonight. “Uh, yeah.”

  Disappointment drooped his face, but he nodded. “Alright.”

  Riley looked down at her clothes, covered in dirt, and her hands reeking of gun. “I need to clean up.”

  Kieran smiled. “Great.”

  Riley ran to the house before he could get a good look at her red eyes. She did not want to send the wrong signal to Dad―or Kieran―and picked a Metallica tee shirt and black, skinny (full-length) jeans. She rushed through cleaning herself, showing up in the living room not quite twelve minutes after turning the water on. Dad and Kieran stood in the kitchen, both with a glass of iced tea. From the looks on their faces, their conversation had been civil, almost pleasant. Between her outfit and her sneakers, the only part of her not covered by black cloth were her head, neck, and arms below the bicep.

  Dad smiled at her, holding up the puffy raspberry jacket Mom got her for her thirteenth birthday. “I assume you’ll be coming home after sundown. It gets cold.”

  She took the jacket, surprising herself at not breaking down in tears at the memories of the party. Mom, me, and Amber… some party.

  “I’ll make sure she’s back by ten, sir.” Kieran set the glass in the sink.

  “I trust you. I know where you live.” He winked. “Have a good time, Riley. I’ve missed my SpaghettiOs.”