Rumble

by Ellen Hopkins

  tendencies in a while. I prefer neat

  to train wreck. I go ahead and clean

  up, and, man, does it feel great to brush

  my teeth, something I haven’t done since

  yesterday. I’ll take my toothbrush with

  me, along with two changes of clothes.

  It strikes me that sometimes the little

  things can mean a whole lot. Maybe if

  I focus on those for a while the big stuff

  will rectify itself. Okay, maybe not, but

  it’s better than stressing over crap

  beyond my ability to change. I grab

  my cell phone charger and laptop, too.

  I might need some entertainment

  if things happen to be slow. On my way

  out of town, I stop by the grocery store,

  grab a frozen pizza, some lunch meat,

  and bread. Self-sufficient, that’s what I am,

  not to mention suddenly ravenous.

  I happen to arrive at the range just

  behind a UPS truck, which pulls right up

  to the office door. The driver waits

  for me to meet him and sign for the long

  narrow package. There’s a rifle inside,

  that much is obvious. Turns out it’s Gus’s

  old gun—Fiona!—returned from the smith,

  almost as good as new. He’ll be one happy

  camper when he sees it again, that much

  I know. I lock it in the rifle cabinet,

  close up the office, and head to the house

  to feed my aching belly. While the pizza

  bakes, I call Alexa, who’s already home

  from school. The sound of her voice stirs

  something inside. I really want to see her.

  We Talk

  Until the pizza browns, while

  it cools, while I wolf it down.

  I tell her Uncle Jessie should

  pull through fine, about

  the likely upcoming wedding.

  “You’re invited, of course.”

  You’d better be careful. Weddings

  tend to bring out the romance

  in people. Then again, I’d kind

  of like to see you romantic.

  Good thing she can’t see me

  blushing. “What do you mean?

  I am the most romantic guy

  I know. You just wait.

  I’ll show you romantic.”

  She laughs that deep, husky

  laugh of hers. Awesome. It’s a date.

  Hey. I’ve got some news for you.

  The school board voted to retain

  Perks. Mr. DeLucca is livid and

  vowed to reopen the challenge

  when he’s elected. Dictator.

  We extend the conversation

  for almost an hour, talking about

  everything from books to our families

  to guns to politics—most of which

  we happen to agree on, thankfully.

  I really don’t want to argue with her,

  or anyone, and she makes that easy.

  The few things we don’t see eye

  to eye on matter hardly at all.

  Eventually, she gets called

  to dinner, and I’m sorry we have

  to sign off. “Unless Uncle Jessie

  happens to take a turn for the worse,

  I’ll be out here all day tomorrow.

  Come out, I’ll let you touch my weapon.”

  More lovely laughter. Excellent.

  Practice makes perfect, I hear.

  Hey, Matt? I love you.

  As soon as I hear the click,

  I say, “Hey, Alexa? I love you, too.”

  Because I realize I do.

  In True OCD Fashion

  I clean up the kitchen.

  Quin should be very pleased.

  Then I fill the dog bowls.

  Where are those mutts, anyway?

  They’re usually waiting

  on the step come dinnertime.

  But when I open the door

  to call them, I hear furious

  barking in the distance.

  I step out into the yard to try

  and tune in to their location.

  I think they’re down by the office.

  There’s a thin, sharp crack.

  Gunshot? No doubt. I start

  toward the truck. Change my mind,

  go inside, grab my phone, dial 9-1-1.

  Then I head downhill on foot.

  When the parking area comes

  into view, I recognize the car.

  It belongs to Gus. Neither he

  nor the dogs are anywhere in sight,

  but when I circle to the front

  of the building, I can see

  he’s broken his way inside.

  An Intelligent Person

  Would stay put.

  Wait for the cops.

  But like an idiot,

  I push through the door.

  The lights are on—did he stop

  to turn them on or did I leave

  them on before? “Gus?

  That you? What are you

  doing here? We’re closed.”

  Don’t want to startle the fool,

  who’s rummaging around

  in the gun locker room.

  ’Course it’s me, asshole.

  But don’t you fucking

  come back here! I mean

  it! I’m gonna do this.

  But first I want Fiona.

  She’s mine, goddamn it.

  Come ’ere, you bitch!

  He’s totally out of his mind

  wasted. Uncle Jessie could talk

  him down. Not sure I can.

  But for some odd reason,

  I think I should try.

  “Hey, Gus. If you chill,

  I’ll open the rifle cabinet for you.

  I’ve got the key right here.”

  He stops his thrashing,

  and the sudden silence is eerie.

  All right then. ’S only fair.

  ’S my grandpa’s gun an’ I want

  her. That damn Jessie thinks

  he can keep Fiona, I’ll kill him.

  Where is that fucker, anyway?

  I make my way cautiously

  to the locker room door.

  “I’m coming in, okay?

  Uncle Jessie’s in the hospital.

  He had a heart attack.”

  Gus, whose attention

  has been directed toward

  the rifle cabinet, turns

  to face me. They say certain

  sights make your blood run

  cold. Mine freezes solid.

  I force my voice steady.

  “What are you doing, Gus?”

  He’s Wearing a Vest

  And strapped to it are what

  appear to be explosives. On his hip

  is a holstered gun. He smiles,

  his eyes fill with crazy, and

  suddenly I can’t breathe.

  Hey, Junior. Didn’ you know

  I’m a dee-mo-lition expert?

  Goddamn army taught me a thing

  or two. Goin’ blow this place

  to kingdom come, and I’m goin’

  along for the ride. Ain’t nothing

  left to hang on for anymore.

  Think, think, think. Where are

  those damn cops? “Take it easy,

  okay? Why this place, Gus?

  I thought you liked it out here.”

  I thought I did, too. Thought I liked

  that sonofabitch Jessie. Then he went

  and sold me out to that lawyer.

  Bastard took all my money. Every

  red cent. Then he tells me he don’

  think he can help me. That whore’s

  gonna take away my kids forever.

  Just talking about it starts him

  twitching
. He lifts up and down

  on his toes, his hand moves

  toward his pocket, and one word

  comes to mind. Trigger.

  Inhale. Exhale. Palms up, palms

  down won’t help me now.

  “Come on, Gus. There are other

  lawyers. If it’s money, maybe

  we can hel—”

  No! No more lawyers. No more

  money. No one can help me now,

  so I’m going out with a bang. Ha-

  ha. Bang, get it? My only regret

  is your uncle isn’t catching

  this freight train with us.

  Us? Holy shit. He means to take

  me with him! I start backing up

  slowly, but when I see his hand

  move again toward his pocket,

  I turn and run and

  Where Am I?

  I’m awake,

  at least I think I am.

  Everything’s dark.

  Everything’s silent.

  Dead silent. Dead.

  Wait. Am I dead?

  The last thing I remember was . . .

  Percussion! An incredible

  blast of noise and a mad

  thrust of energy. It was . . .

  Gus. I must be dead.

  But I can’t be dead.

  I’m conscious.

  Concentrate.

  I’m lying on something.

  Firm, not hard.

  Not the ground.

  Bed?

  Try to move.

  Can’t, not much, but now

  I’m aware of my hands.

  I can feel my fingers.

  Pretty sure they’re all there.

  I’m breathing. Yes. Inhale.

  There’s a smell, familiar,

  but not of home. Antiseptic.

  Bleach. The odd scent

  of oxygen. Hospital.

  That’s it! I’m in the hospital.

  Awake. Aware. In the hospital.

  I can feel. I can think.

  So why can’t I see?

  Am I blind? Oh, God,

  did he make me blind?

  And why can’t I hear?

  No chatter. No footsteps.

  No whoosh of machines.

  No squeak of bedsprings.

  What else did he take from me?

  I try to move again,

  but I must be strapped down.

  Either that or all that’s left

  of me is my fingers. No pain.

  That’s good. I can unhinge

  my jaw. But when I open

  my mouth, no sound comes out.

  At Least, I Don’t Think

  Any sound came out, because now

  there’s movement around me.

  Someone touches my hand,

  and I know it’s Mom, the feel

  of her skin so familiar, plucked

  from recollection. “Help me,”

  I want to say, and maybe I do.

  But I can’t hear my voice,

  can’t see Mom’s face. I’m desperate

  to know what’s wrong with me,

  but all she can do is stroke my arm,

  and I imagine her talking to me,

  telling me everything will be okay,

  be calm. And I try. For her.

  But I’m scared. So scared.

  Do I have legs? I work real hard,

  and my right foot jerks.

  Oh my God, is there a left one?

  “Help me, Mama.” Instead,

  I feel her move away, replaced

  by someone else, and now

  comes a rush of contentment.

  Not quite pleasure, but close.

  At least they’ve got good drugs

  in here. Going, going . . .

  Time Has No Meaning

  Not in this place.

  I rise up into soundless,

  sightless consciousness.

  Have no clue how long

  I’ve been in suspended

  animation. I find I can lift

  my hands and I bring them

  to my face, most of which

  seems to be covered with

  gauze. Bandages swaddle

  my head, cover my eyes.

  Maybe I won’t be blind

  when those are removed.

  Or maybe I’m still going to die.

  I lie as motionless as possible

  so they don’t put me back

  under. I swear if I make it,

  the first thing I’m going to do

  is tell Alexa I love her.

  I think she’s been here.

  I can smell her perfume

  afloat the antiseptic.

  Will I ever see her face

  again? Damn. Popped

  my own bubble. Why would

  I think Alexa—or any girl—

  would want a sightless me?

  I consider life minus eyes.

  I could never drive again,

  never shoot, never ride

  my bike along the river.

  And that makes me think

  of Hayden on a blanket . . .

  No. Not Hayden. Alexa.

  My sweetest Alexa, hot and

  luscious in my bed. I’m crazy

  with need for her. Kissing

  her face, her neck, down

  over her belly, close to that

  special spot between those

  beautiful legs, and almost there

  when “Back in Black” interrupts

  us. Now it’s Luke I see and

  always will, with or without

  functioning eyes, his own eyes

  forever sightless, and I know

  redemption is lost to me. . . .

  And I Ascend

  From the depths again.

  Up, up, into awareness.

  But there’s something

  different this time,

  somewhere in the darkness.

  Sound. A slight vibration.

  a-a-a-a

  I focus, give it my complete

  attention, and it grows into

  a low rumble.

  A-a-a-a.

  It’s the first sound of any

  kind I’ve heard since . . .

  whenever, and I rejoice.

  A-A-A-A.

  What is it? Not mechanical,

  I don’t think. More vocal.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  Can you hear me if you are?

  A-A-A-l

  I wish I could see. “Can you

  come closer?” I do think

  the rumble is a voice. A man’s?

  A-A-A-l-l-f

  Low. Familiar. I know it.

  Dad? No. Uncle Jessie? No.

  Younger.

  A-A-l-l-f-f-a

  And suddenly it sinks in.

  “Luke?” I’ve either gone crazy

  or they’re upping my meds.

  Alphatryptonites

  It can’t be! “Luke? Where

  are you? I can’t see you.

  It’s too dark. Luke! What

  is it? What do you want?”

  Everything falls completely

  silent again. “No! Don’t go!”

  Comes a whisper,

  Alphatryptonites forgive.

  Stunned

  I can only pretend to process

  what just occurred—or didn’t.

  I don’t believe in otherworldly

  anythings. There was no Luke.

  So why did I call out to him?

  I’ve got some major shit embedded

  in my psyche, that’s for sure.

  Who knows what opiates might

  dislodge? On the other hand,

  a low haze of pain shimmers.

  When was the last time they gave

  me anything? I need answers,

  damn it, not hallucinations. “Luke?”

  But of course, no answer will come.

  Whatever that was h
as deserted me.

  Although, wait. If that was, indeed,

  a piece of my psyche, I hope it left

  the good stuff behind. Is there good stuff?

  As I lie here, surrounded by suffocating

  darkness digesting possibilities,

  I may not be able to see, but a couple

  of things have become very clear.

  I can hear something, and not some

  inexplicable thing, but some external

  corporeal noise. It’s muffled, almost

  a whisper of conversation or maybe

  a television. I’ve exited the well

  of total silence. The other thing is

  even more important. No, it’s vital.

  Either some ghost of my little brother

  just traveled light-years, traversing

  the wilderness of death to forgive me,

  or I have forgiven myself.

  After

  It’s been three months since Augustus

  Lee Swanson went out to the Turner

  Shooting Range looking for some

  warped form of justice. Experts have

  profiled him, and while they might

  have argued exactly what set him off,

  they all agreed post-traumatic stress

  disorder was a contributing factor.

  I could’ve told them that. What

  saved most of the building—and me—

  was his triggering the device while

  still inside the locker room, containing

  most of the shrapnel and much of

  the explosion’s force. Had I not chosen

  to run in the opposite direction, well,

  who knows? That’s the good news.

  Not so good? Major mistake, and

  one I’ll remember in case I’m ever

  again hauling ass away from a bomb,

  was glancing back over my shoulder

  just about the exact second everything

  blew. I remember none of this, of course,

  but when shards of wood and metal

  went flying, my face became a target.

  Small splinters hit my left eye, while

  a larger projectile punctured my right

  cornea. With a transplant, my vision

  will improve immensely, at least

  that’s the promise. Right now, it’s like

  peering through sheer dark curtains.

  As for my hearing, I’m not completely

  deaf. I mean, if you shout at the top

  of your lungs, I can pick out a few

  key phrases. It may get better with time,

  but maybe not. But, hey, technology

  has done wonders with hearing aids.

  So what if I look like a decrepit old man

  when I’m barely old enough to vote?

  I’m slowly getting used to the idea

  that I’ll never exactly be normal again.