J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

Earlier to night, they wanted the gunshots to be heard. They wanted the media attention. Now, working as quietly as possible is the way to go, because they have no idea how long this is going to take.

“One…” Swanson says, “two…”

Someone fires before he reaches three. That asshole Munchel. Then Pessolano is firing too. Swanson takes aim and squeezes the trigger.

The shot is off. Way off. And it’s still pretty loud, even with the suppressor. He loads another round, searches for a target, and can’t find any. He seeks out the radio.

“We get them?”

“Negative,” says Pessolano.

But Munchel hoots, so loud he can be heard without the radio.

“I think I nailed me a grandmother!”

“W HEN ARE WE GOING to go shopping for drapes?”

Mom has been asking me that since we moved in. But whenever free time came along we used it to see a movie, go out to dinner, or catch up on the TV shows we recorded. I always assumed that Mom didn’t push the issue because she liked seeing woods on all sides of her.

Now I wish she had pushed the issue.

After the first two shots rip through the house, I tip Mom’s chair over, intent on dragging her into the hallway. While our house has a lot of windows, the hall bathroom boasts the smallest one, and the glass is frosted for privacy.

“Save Latham first,” Mom says.

I look at my fiancé, see he’s taken cover behind the sofa. The large bay window offers a wide view of the entire living room. I can’t get to him without making myself an easy target.

“He’s in the line of fire,” I tell her. Then I grab her chair leg and pull.

The chair doesn’t come easy. It keeps catching on the carpeting, and my movements are restricted by my bindings. But I find a rhythm and inch by inch I drag Mom out of the living room.

Halfway to the hall, all hell breaks loose. Bullets tear through the couch Latham is hiding behind. Windows shatter. Walls shake, the plasterboard throwing off powder like smoke. I cover Mom’s body with my own, realize that makes us a bigger target, and get on my knees and pull for all I’m worth.

I feel the impact vibration in my hands, know that Mom has been hit, and a moan/growl leaves my throat. Shots whistle past my head, and I tug Mom all the way into that bathroom, afraid to look at her, afraid not to look at her.

“Mom! Are you hit?”

Her eyes are closed. I can’t tell if she’s breathing.

I find scissors in the medicine cabinet, hack away at the duct tape, see the smoking bullet hole in the chair’s wooden seat.

“I think I’ve got splinters in my keister,” Mom says.

I cry in relief, give Mom a hug. The shooting stops.

“Latham!” At the top of my lungs.

“I’m okay!”

Thank God.

“I’m okay too!” Harry yells. “If anyone cares!”

I use a Dixie cup to get my mom some water from the sink. Then I holler at Harry, “Where’s Alex?”

“Don’t you care that I’m okay?”

I use the scissors on my legs, cutting away the tape.

“Dammit, Harry, do you see her?”

“I don’t see her. But her gun is in pieces.”

I stare down at my wrists. My handcuff keys are in my purse, in the kitchen. But I have extra handcuff keys, and an extra gun, in my bedroom. Unfortunately, it’s a handgun, and won’t help against the psychos outside. But it will help against the psycho in the house.

“Stay here!” I order my mother.

Then I rush out into the hallway, and bump right into Alex.

She stands there, hand bleeding, eyes wild, apparently unconcerned that she might get shot at any moment.

I still have the scissors. I thrust them at her, and she grabs my wrist with one hand and swings at me with the other, a round house punch. I bunch up and take it on the shoulder, then jerk my head forward, aiming for her nose.

I connect solidly, and Alex releases me, staggering back, hitting the hallway wall directly behind her. We face each other. A bullet whips through the small space between us.

“Lock the door!” I scream at my mother.

“Jack…”

“Dammit, Mom! Listen to me!”

I hear the door close, feel it press against my back. A bullet digs into the ceiling, raining bits of plaster on Alex and me. Her face twists in a half smile.

“What are you going to do with those scissors?” she asks. “Give me a haircut?”

I have other ideas. Gripping the scissors with both hands, I hold them before me like a sword, and feint a poke. She moves to dodge the fake attack, and I launch my real attack – a spin kick aimed at her ribs. Alex spins away and I miss, my foot making a dent in the wall.

“Jack!” Harry yells. “I think Alex is in the hall!”

I turn around, feel a breeze, and blink as a bullet passes in front of my face. Alex kicks my wrists and the scissors go flying. I throw myself at her, driving my shoulder into her side, using all of my 135 pounds.

Alex stumbles, falls. I sprint for my bedroom at the end of the hall. I open the door and see my cat, Mr. Friskers, sitting on the remains of a down pillow, surrounded by feathers. We keep him locked up in the bedroom because he has the tendency to destroy things and attack people. The shooting must have agitated him, because all the hair on his back is sticking straight up, as is his tail.

I keep one eye on the kitty – he isn’t an animal you turn your back on – and head for the closet.

Alex tackles me from behind, driving me to the floor. She lands on top, and she forces her arm under my chin, around my neck, and begins to squeeze.

It’s like having my head in a noose. I can’t take a breath and everything gets blurry. I look to my right, see Mr. Friskers staring. Apparently my looming death doesn’t interest him, because he trots out of the room. I look left, see a bunch of stuff under my bed, all of it covered with dust, none of it useful.

Alex lets up a bit on the choke hold – I guess she doesn’t want to kill me yet. I still can’t pull free, but I’m able to lower my chin just enough to clamp my jaws on her forearm.

She yelps. I bite. She pulls away. I twist onto my side, make my fingers stiff, and shove them into her kidney.

Alex grunts, rolling off of me. We both get to our feet, Alex cradling her bleeding arm. I’ve bitten pretty deep. Her eyes narrow to slits, and her scar tissue flushes bright pink.

“Is that what you got your black belt in?” Alex says. “Biting?”

“No.”

I pivot my hips, whip my leg around, and reverse-kick her upside the head. She staggers, but doesn’t fall. I follow it up with a flying kick, knocking her backward over my bed.

“Hey, Jackie!” Harry calls. “Is your cat friendly?”

My extra handcuff keys are in the jewelry box, on the dresser behind her. My gun is in the closet, zippered up in my shooting bag. If I go for the gun, there’s a chance Alex might wrestle it away from me before I get it out. But if I leave the room, she might go searching for it.

Alex stands up. I tug open the closet door, grab the bag, and head for the door.

“JESUS CHRIST! THE CAT HAS MY JOHNSON!”

A shot comes through my bedroom window, making a hole in my sleeve but missing my arm. Alex and I both drop to the floor. I take the opportunity to unzip my bag, and Alex gets onto all fours, poised to come at me. I toss the bag onto the bed, into the line of fire. The sniper proves my hypothesis by shooting the bag. Alex doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I. Instead, I scramble for the door.

“HE’S BITING ME! HE’S BITING ME!”

I feel her hand brush my ankle. I twist free and run in a crouch. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.