Some staff just plain old walked the fuck out. Can you blame them? If I were working that day I would’ve been gone in a heartbeat. Parents started calling and streaming into the campus, causing total havoc. Most just kicked in random doors looking for their kids. Apparently there had been many altercations throughout the afternoon between staff and parents, as well as parents and parents, and in three cases, someone had been hurt seriously. As in, would probably die. There was no emergency response to any of their 911 calls. I knew why.
One of the parents arrived armed with a weapon only an hour prior and was “taking it into his hands” to rescue the kids. This guy seemed to be the one causing most of the trouble at the present. The parents were worried he would hurt more people. There was still one more pivotal fuck up to this story.
The eight parents here were trying to pick up eight kids that were still in a classroom, locked down on the top floor of the main classroom building. Amy told me that our resident off-beat English teacher Mrs. Goodell had sealed the door shut, barred it, and wasn’t allowing ANYONE in. Our intrepid armed hero-parent was currently on his way to said classroom to, and this is a direct quote from Amy to: “fix this bitch.”
I think it goes without saying that someone who would say something like that is generally the kind of person who does less “fixing of bitches,” and more, “totally fucking up of things.” Amy also said that she had heard multiple gun shots over the last 20 minutes or so heading in the general direction of the school house. No one there knew what to do.
Well Mr. Journal… I do not think of myself as a hero. It is my distinct belief that courage is not the lack of fear, but the will and fortitude to do what is necessary in spite of that fear. That night, I knew I had to make the campus safe or I could be totally fucked over by this guy.
I told Amy and the parents to get safe inside a car, or the admissions building, and that I would take care of it.
I was off to “fix that bitch.”
-Adrian
Phil’s Story
Growing old is no fun. Ask anyone who has done a lot of it, and you’ll find that out. Once you get to a certain age you stop building up that head of steam that youth gives you, and you wind up starting to sputter out. The moments where you sputter out tend to come pretty regularly too. They come after a long day at work, one when you’ve spent too much time on your feet. Or they come to you when you’ve spent a little too much time horsing around with your two grandkids, who you adore more than life itself. For Phil Stevens his moments came most often and most regularly when he woke up in the morning.
Phil was 58 years old, and looked every moment of it. His hair was grey enough that you couldn’t call it black anymore, but just black enough that it looked disheveled no matter what he did to it. His wife Marcy had been on his ass for two years now about buying some of that “greekian formula” as she called it to get it back to at least one color, but Phil didn’t give a shit anymore. He just wanted to go to work, come home for a decent dinner, if possible play with his grandkids, and watch football on Sunday. Everything else was peanuts.
Phil’s creaking back tormented him all the way to the bathroom in his small house where he downed a handful of arthritis pills. By the time he’d gotten done washing his crotch and feet the pills were kicking in, and he started to feel like today could be a pretty good day. After toweling off, applying deodorant to pits and balls, he put on his trusty Moore’s Sporting Goods polo shirt, and his khaki pants. His work uniform for the past 16 years.
His empty tummy and his nose told him that Marcy had the bacon and eggs ready and waiting, so after he got his shoes on, he shuffled his way into the kitchen and sat down to eat. Marcy was a big fan of The Morning Shows on all the big networks, so Phil and her put a small television set on the counter so she could watch them while she made breakfast every morning. Creatures of habit, these two. Phil grunted appreciatively at Marcy, spooned a thick wad of salsa on his scrambled eggs, and dug in.
Marcy paid Phil no attention while he ate, which was unusual. Normally she sat down with him and ate her eggs beside him. (always sunny side up on toast) But today she leant over the counter and was glued to the morning show she had on.
“Marcy? What’s so interestin’ you letting your eggs get all cold for?” Phil spooned another mouthful of eggs in as he finished talking.
“Phil I think something is wrong out there.” She didn’t even turn to him say it. That wasn’t like her at all.
“Well could you move so your husband can see what’s so wrong?” He absently slid a whole piece of bacon into his mouth as he gestured for her to move aside. Marcy obliged immediately, still without taking her eyes off the television. She turned the volume knob on the old set up so Phil could hear it.
“So reports are now telling us that overnight in about 80 to 100 locations there were very violent attacks by people who appeared to be on some form of sedatives, or perhaps sick with some form of rabies. Authorities are unsure what the root is of this strange occurrence, but the global nature of the attacks has authorities on alert everywhere.” The perfectly dressed and primped morning show host said in his mild baritone voice.
The other host, this one a far too artificially beautiful blonde lady chimed in and added, “Well Chuck, reports from Bangkok, Chicago, London, St. Petersburg, Bogota, and Sydney are all the same. These people are reaching a near-death catatonic state, and then suddenly becoming violent, biting and scratching anyone near them. It’s almost like one of those terrible zombie movies that have been so popular on late night television lately.” She giggled on the last delivery. The male news guy smiled awkwardly and played along with her joke.
“Authorities here in the United States are advising all people to be attentive to anyone acting suspicious, especially anyone who appears to fall asleep, or go into a trance. The Department of Homeland Security is investigating what exactly is causing this, but the CDC is now circulating information that it’s likely a form of virus. Perhaps some form of worldwide biological attack by extremists.”
“Bullshit. It’s Al-Qaeda.” Phil mumbled angrily. “Ain’t no fucking bird flu.” He scraped the last bit of egg off his plate and downed the last mouthful of his black coffee.
“I don’t know Phil, it’s on all the stations. I think this could be real serious.” She finally tore her eyes off the television set and looked at him worriedly. Her hazel eyes could say more in one glance than an hour of her talking. Phil paused the rant he about to give and swallowed it. He’d be a good husband and worry along with her.
Phil put his dishes in the sink and gathered his wife of 35 years up in a bear hug, “Well you just stay here in the house all day like normal, and I’ll go to the shop, and have a normal day there, and tonight we’ll start a fire in the fireplace, and that’ll be the end of it. Okay?” He kissed her warmly on the forehead. Her body relaxed a bit against his, pushing his potbelly in a little.
“Okay baby.” She smiled up at him and they kissed each other goodbye.
*****
Phil and Marcy’s house was about three quarters of a mile down the same street that Phil’s place of work was. This meant he didn’t drive to work ever, and it meant he got to fire up one of his cigarettes without driving her up a wall. She’d quit years ago when they found out they were going to be grandparents. It was a warm morning, a good June day. Phil didn’t feel like it was going to get too hot either, which was always nice. Warm but not hot and humid. To hell with humidity Phil always said.
Moore’s Sporting Goods was the only real gun shop in town. Of course three towns over there was a Walmart, and a couple sporting good stores, but Moore’s was small town owned and small town operated and you couldn’t beat that. In fact, Moore’s was opened by the Chief of Police 20 years ago, and his son was Chief of Police right now too. Two generations of locals, proud to serve the hunting and outdoors needs of its residents.
Moore’s was still locked up when Phil got there, but he let himself in with the
key. He was 15 minutes early, as he always was, and beat everyone there. He trudged himself inside, turned off the security alarm before it called the cops as he always did, and started getting the shop ready.
Soon as Phil had the window shades up and the register turned on the rest of his work buddies rolled in. Mr. Moore himself was next, dressed just the same as Phil, though he came with his .45 on his hip in a holster. No one would ever rob his store, at least not without killing him first. Phil didn’t strap his piece on until he got there, which he presently did. Bobby, Mike and Ben all rolled in right after that. No matter how much Mr. Moore yelled at them they just couldn’t seem to beat him there in the morning. Phil always suspected that Mr. Moore would just wake up 5 minutes earlier anyway if they did, just to make sure he had something to yell at them about. Part of Mr. Moore’s charm Phil always thought.
“Gentlemen, gather around.” Mr. Moore said as all his men poured themselves cups of the coffee Phil had brewed earlier. They stopped bullshitting and quieted down.
“If you all have seen the news, there’s some weird shit happening out there today. I suspect this might be like 9/11 again. So we need to be ready. Phil, how’s our inventory looking? We got a lot of spare firearms in stock? What about ammunition?” Mr. Moore was all business, serious as a rattlesnake.
Phil thought about it for a few seconds before replying, “Well, we got normal shelf stock, plus we got that order of extra Ruger and Mossberg stuff in the gun vaults in the back. No extra pistols really. Ammunition is normal. Next week we got the first batches of the hunting season supply coming in though.”
“Hm. Well if it’s at all like 9/11 we’ll be sold out of shotguns and rifles by dinnertime. Don’t forget to run background checks and make sure that anyone who buys a pistol along with another gun doesn’t walk out with the damn thing. Waiting period, remember guys?” Mr. Moore stared intently at Mike, who had sold two pistols to customers over the past year and let them walk out with them the same day. A really big no-no. Mr. Moore had managed to hide the incidents, and they’d gotten lucky, but he couldn’t risk losing his gun license. Mike kept his eyes rooted firmly on the floor while Mr. Moore made his point.
“Alright boys. Let’s have a good day. Bobby and Mike why don’t you get all the new guns in the vault prepped up, and get some extra gun cleaning kits and supplies out there on display. Let’s try to move all those goddamn boots I ordered by accident last month too. Thanks men.” Mr. Moore nodded and headed back to his office.
The guys all exchanged looks with Mike, who finally looked up. They all laughed briefly, sharing in Mike’s shame. After that they patted him on the back, and went to work.
Mr. Moore called the day almost perfectly. No sooner than when the men left from their little meeting, customers began coming in. It was always the same kind of people who came in on days like this. Phil had seen it happen countless times over his 16 years. People tend to get nervous when bad things happen. They think that whatever bad thing has happened, or is happening, is going to happen to them too. As Americans, purchasing a firearm is a constitutionally approved way to alleviate anxiety, so that’s what some people do. It’s always the indoors folks that do it though. The hunters don’t, they don’t have to. They already own guns. The veterans are the same. They either own a gun already, or don’t freak out when bad things happen.
The customers that come in on days like this are the people who’ve never shot a gun before. Bankers, IT nerds, psychologists, moms afraid for their kids, you know the type. The pocket protector posse. They’re the people who make a rushed decision that having a gun is now necessary because the world has changed so much overnight. Phil thought these people were idiots, but if they had cash, or a credit card, he’s sell them bazookas if he had them in stock.
Normally Phil and Mike ran the gun counter but Mike was currently banished with Bobby in the backroom. That left Ben to help Phil, and he wasn’t ready for the constant stream of customers. By noon Phil pulled Mike back to the counter, and by one Mr. Moore was up front as well. They had Bobby stand at the door holding an empty shotgun to make sure none of the panicked customers did anything stupid. By 2pm though, Mr. Moore had had enough of the crowd, and called his son to send a patrol car over.
Phil was up to his neck in uneducated gun buyers for so long he forgot to eat lunch. He had dealt with assholes who didn’t know about the wait for pistols, and he dealt with the assholes who wanted the biggest hand cannon magnums money could buy. He’d dealt with the moms, holding their babies and toddlers while they “tested the feel” on a .38 special. He’d also watched as one baby threw up on a $800 Benelli shotgun. Italian walnut goddamit, all fucked up.
He was hungry, sweaty, and frankly getting a little scared as things got busier and busier. The crowd did get a little more courteous after the officer showed up though, and when Bobby came back inside to help, Phil got a break to eat the frozen dinner he had in the fridge. Of course he took it out to the counter to eat it, and fortunately they had a little break in the flow of customers at the same time.
The four men all took a seat wherever they could find one, and hung their heads in exhaustion. So much state paperwork filled out, guns handed over, and ammunition boxes sold, and believe or not, Mike had managed to sell four pair of boots to one worried housewife that was afraid her family’s footwear wouldn’t survive this outbreak of the bird flu. The cop came inside at about the same time, and Phil noticed it was Officer McGreevy, the town’s largest cop. McGreevy nodded to Mr. Moore, and gave a little wave and a nod to the others.
“Danny, what is all this bullshit? Is this shit for real?” Mr. Moore asked him as he took a bite out of a Danish.
“Well sir, I can assure you this is no hoax.” McGreevy rested his thumbs in his belt and kicked absently at the dirt on the floor. The men exchanged amused glances.
“Elaborate son.” Mr. Moore chewed his Danish.
McGreevy was icy in his delivery, “well we got the call from the State Police early, early this morning that this was legit. We even heard from the FBI and got a few calls from the state health department too. Apparently State Police have blockades on all the interstates and routes coming in. They’re stopping and turning around everyone that’s sick, especially those folks that are bitten or scratched. I guess a few of the blockades have seen some pretty bad shit too. Few cars ramming through the cruisers, a couple of officer involved shootings. Shit is terrible Mr. Moore. Ain’t no joke.”
The men all had to remember to breathe after hearing that. Murmuring of all forms of curses were uttered, and the quiet was only disturbed by the cop’s radio going off, “McGreevy come in, this is Chief Moore.”
McGreevy reached up and thumbed his radio transceiver on his collar, “go for McGreevy.”
“Hey is my father there? Can you go to him?” The Chief said over the walkie.
“I’m in his presence Chief, anything you say him and his guys will hear.” A few more customers came in just then and Mike and Ben got up to take care of them. Mr. Moore moved closer to the officer to hear his son.
“Dad, I just got the call from the FBI and the ATF that we have the local authority to suspend firearm background checks. What do you think of that?” The Chief’s voice was filled with doubt, Phil could hear it straight through the walkie.
Mr. Moore scratched his balding head and furrowed his brow, “shit son I don’t know. Is this all that bad? We need to put that many guns out on the streets today?”
“Dad the FBI just called and said that some of the larger hospitals in major metro areas are now quarantine zones. I guess Los Angeles is under martial law already. Apparently down south in Mexico City the military is doing purges of the ghettos it’s so bad. I guess there are thousands of these sickos attacking randomly all over the world.”
Mr. Moore exhaled, and rubbed his face. The customers who just entered had stopped asking about guns, and were listening intently to the conversation. The men, Mr. Moore included sat quietly for a b
it. “Son, we’re the only shop in town. We can be judges of character. If we think someone can buy a gun without the check, then we’ll let ‘em. If we think they’re shady, then they go through the process as normal. Sound good?”
The radio was silent for a few seconds, then it squawked, “that’d be great Dad. Be safe there you guys. McGreevy, if you see anyone that’s bit, you put bracelets on them immediately, you understand? State Police have authorized that if an officer sees a wounded person and they don’t respond to immediate verbal commands, we are to put them down, understand?”
McGreevy looked at the people around him, suddenly even more somber and serious than before. Absently, he scratched his smooth scalp. The officer thumbed his radio once more, “Roger that Chief. Put them down if uncooperative.”
“Uncooperative and hurt, they have to be visibly hurt, otherwise follow normal protocol.”
“Roger that.”
*****
That was at 2pm. Mr. Moore had Bobby write up some signs telling folks that they could only buy a few guns, and Bobby used his faintly superior magic marker skills to make a few signs to put up. At 3pm the store picked up dramatically again. Apparently the two or three large businesses in town had dismissed their entire workforces to go home and make preparations for whatever the night would bring. From Phil’s perspective it seemed like every person in town was coming in there to give him a hard time, and to try and buy a gun after that.
At just shy of 4pm Mr. Moore told his men to let the folks start taking pistols home with them if they bought them. Further, Mr. Moore said that if the people who had pistols on hold from earlier in the day didn’t come and get them by 5, to put those guns back on the shelf to sell again. He said he had a bad feeling about this. Mike brought out a radio and turned it on so they could listen to the reports coming in. News from all over kept getting worse and worse. Occasionally Officer McGreevy would poke his head inside and tell the men about another shoot out somewhere in the state. There were lots of gun stores being robbed, grocery store fights, and car accidents. People apparently forgot how to drive and act like humans in the span of 6 hours. Terrible world we live in Phil thought to himself.
Dark Recollections Page 8
