Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“If we rush the van, she'll start shooting,” Ceepak says.

“Yeah. So what do we do?”

“Give me a minute.”

It's my turn to check my watch. Okay. Fine. We have about twenty-nine minutes left. Ceepak can have one. Maybe two.

A horn blasts.

I look to my right. The garbage truck. My friend Joey Thalken, who usually drives the sand-sweeper on the beach for Sea Haven Sanitation, is behind the wheel. He waves at me, sees Ceepak, waves at him, too. Guess Joey T. is picking up some heavy-duty overtime hauling garbage after the big party. The way he's bouncing up and down? I think he's listening to the concert simulcast on WAVY.

“Can you drive a truck, Danny?”

“No, I-”

“Stay here.”

Ceepak reaches into the back seat. Grabs the paintball rifle, checks to make sure it's charged and loaded.

“I could-”

“Stay here.”

Ceepak is out the door and working his way across the parking lot. Low. Crouching down and hiding behind cars whenever he thinks he might be visible to any rearview mirrors Natalia might've set up in her sniper nest.

He scuttles over to Joey T.'s garbage truck.

I flick on the radio just as the concert dies. I mean, it loses electricity.

“Looks like we're experiencing technical difficulties on the bandstand,” the deejay announces. “Maybe the town fathers forgot to pay the electric bill this month.”

Ceepak's at the garbage truck hunkered down under the driver-side door, talking up to Joey.

Joey nods.

Ceepak does a three-finger point toward the white van.

Joey nods again.

Ceepak and Joey T. worked together back in July. Got along great. Looks like they still do.

Chief Baines must have some of our guys working the crowd in front of the bandstand. It starts to thin out.

“Hey folks, now's the time to hit the beach,” the radio deejay says. “The mayor has just officially declared Pig Out Time!’ Right now, for the next thirty minutes only, all food down on the beach is free! So, while we wait for the juice to come back on, hit the pit!”

I guess some people on the boardwalk brought along radios, Walkmen. People seem to hear what I just heard and drift away in droves. I see some pushing and jostling as bodies bunch up near the staircases leading down to the beach on the far side of the boardwalk.

I look right and see Ceepak scramble towards the Pepsi truck. He carries the ray-gun-looking paintball rifle at his side like he's some kind of extraterrestrial deer hunter. There's no driver in the Pepsi truck. Ceepak yanks open the big door, crawls into the cab, pulls the door shut behind him. His head disappears under the dashboard. Seconds later, I hear the engine roar, see a chug of diesel fumes puff out its exhaust pipe. I guess hot-wiring is one of those valuable job skills you can learn in Today's Army.

I hear another engine start up.

Joey's garbage truck.

I look toward the boardwalk. The crowd is pushing against itself, heading down to the beach for the free food. Natalia will have a lot fewer targets to choose from come two P.M.

Then I see him.

In his wheelchair. Jimmy. Saltwater Tammy's son. He looks to be alone and, as the crowd thins out, he also looks like a sitting duck. The bull's-eye, smack dab in the middle of Natalia's line of fire.

I open my door and remember I left my bulletproof vest at home this morning. It was soaked with sweat so I hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry. Forgot to put it back on.

Jimmy is just sitting there.

I guess Tammy brought him to the concert, left him alone to enjoy the loud, noisy parts while she went down to the beach and fixed him a plate of pulled pork.

Jimmy is in serious trouble. Target number one.

Ceepak's busy. I'm not.

I hop out of the Explorer.

If Natalia sees me, she might start shooting. She'll definitely recognize me because she's already taken a couple of shots at my face. She might want to mow me down for old-times sake.

She might mow down Jimmy, too.

I make my way forward, try to stay wide of the sniper's eyeline, try to run and crouch and hide behind cars like Ceepak did.

I need to move faster.

Ceepak drives the lumbering Pepsi truck away from the service entrance where it was parked. He turns left and heads down the parking lot lane that will put him directly in front of the minivan.

Joey T. is on the move, too. He rumbles down the row that will put him behind the van.

I see what they're up to.

Ceepak will block any shots with his Pepsi truck; the paneled sides are about three feet taller than the minivan's cargo carrier. Joey T. will box in Natalia's rear. No one will have to storm the sniper nest.

I pick up my pace.

If Natalia gets a hint of what's up, she'll start shooting, whether it's two P.M. or not. I know it. She'll nail Jimmy.

I look up to the boardwalk, see him waiting patiently in his chair, watching everybody leave, head for the beach.

No time to crouch.

Need to run.

I glance over my shoulder. Ceepak is almost in front of the van. He drives slow, tries to look like an everyday, ordinary Pepsi truck just pulling on in to make a delivery. Joey T. keeps pace, parallels Ceepak's moves.

I need to get to Jimmy before Natalia is totally blocked. If she figures out what's going on, she'll definitely go ballistic.

I dart up the tiered stairs, take them two at a time.

Jimmy scans the thinning mob, looks for his mother.

I'm twenty yards away.

“Move!” I yell at these big muscle-bound guys blocking my path.

“Make me,” one of them yells.

So I barrel through them.

“Asshole!”

I stumble, scramble across the boards off balance, just waiting for a bullet to find my back.

Ten yards.

Five.

I'm huffing. My heart pounds. I leap the last three feet and grab on to the wheelchair handles.

My momentum pushes us forward.

Behind me, I hear what sounds like a string of firecrackers going off. Explosions. Fast.

Jimmy recognizes me.

I hear another quick burst of dull thuds. Something smacks me in the ribs. No. I just strained a muscle or something. I push the chair.

“Stop!” Jimmy freaks. I don't blame him.

I run and roll him up the boardwalk until we're safely in front of a store.

T. J. Lapczynski is standing there, licking barbecue sauce off his fingertips.

“Dude! Who's got the firecrackers?”

“Watch him!” I shove the wheelchair toward T. J.

“You got it.”

Jimmy's still freaking. I need to split.

“Easy,” I hear T. J. say. “Easy.”

I run back across the boards. Need to help Ceepak.

I race down the steps, tear across the asphalt.

I don't hear any more firecrackers. No more shots.

I make it to the stalled Pepsi truck, slip around to the side, duck down, almost crawl. I slide along the side, move past the rear tires. The blacktop is sticky. Wet. Something drippy hits me from up above.

Blood?

I look up. One panel of the truck is riddled with bullet holes. Brown foam gushes out like a hot Pepsi can somebody shook then pricked with pins.

I look at the white van.

The front of the Thule cargo carrier is glowing neon green.

From inside the tube, I hear muffled curses followed by a flurry of angry kicks.

Natalia Shevlyakova Weese must be inside, temporarily blinded by the paintballs Ceepak just fired down her peephole.

Monday night, I'm at the hospital with what's left of the Marshmallow Crew.

Jess, Olivia, Becca, and, of course, Katie.

Nobody's talking much. We're just sort of being there for each other, like they say. I guess everybody's thinking about the Mad Mouse. George Weese. What we did to him, back when we called him Wheezer. What he did to Katie and, of course, Mook. What he almost did to a bunch of total strangers.