J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

Before I take a step forward the ground spits up dirt and grass a few feet to my right.

“Go back inside!”

A man’s voice, coming from deep within the same woods I want to enter.

I backpedal, firing blindly into the trees, wasting two bullets. I press my back against the wall, not too far from my bedroom window.

The next shot eats into the brick less than a foot in front of me, digging out a chunk big enough to stick my hand into.

“I told you to get back in the house!” the man yells. “Go get your rifle, or I’ll shoot you where you stand! I ain’t asking again!”

I think about running in the opposite direction, toward the front of the house. Less cover there, but maybe I can make it to my neighbor, up the road.

Probably not smart. My shooting has assuredly caught the attention of the other two snipers. They’ll be waiting for me.

Not seeing any other choice, I go back to my bedroom and climb through the window, careful not to step on any glass.

“Jacqueline!” Mom.

“I’m okay!” I call back.

My eyes trail down, to the rifle. Why did the sniper give it to me? Some kind of trick or trap?

I reach over slowly, like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike, and wrap my fingers around the barrel. I pull it close, see a piece of paper rolled up in the trigger guard. I unroll the note and read the semi-legible words scrawled on it:

There are three of us.

You have three bullets.

Let’s play.

These assholes actually think this is a game.

I holster the Kimber and check the rifle. It’s a Browning, bolt action, walnut stock, a twenty-inch barrel, weighing about seven pounds. No scope, no sights. I open the ammo tube and find three.22 LR hollow point rounds. Much smaller than the ammo the snipers are using, but still potent enough to drop a deer. I roll them between my fingers, shake them next to my ear, give them each a sniff. They seem like the real thing. I feed them back into the tube, yank the bolt, and chamber a round.

If they want to play, I’m happy to oblige.

MUNCHEL WATCHES the split-tail climb back through the window, and he feels every hair on his arms stand at attention. He isn’t tired. He isn’t scared.

He’s electrified.

This has been the greatest day of his life. And when that cop returns fire, it will take everything up to the next level. He imagines this is the desert, hot wind blowing in his eyes, sand in his teeth, his platoon pinned down by enemy fire, and Private Munchel – no, Sergeant Munchel – is called to take them out with extreme prejudice. But the insurgents have a sniper of their own, a famous Taliban bitch who’s a dead shot at a thousand yards, and only Sergeant Munchel has the skill to-

“Where in the hell are you?”

The radio startles Munchel, jolting him out of his reverie. He swears, unclips the radio, then presses the talk button.

“What’s the problem now, Swanson?”

“The problem is that you disappeared for an hour, and when you come back there’s gunfire. Loud gunfire, not our silenced rifles.”

“They’re suppressors, not silencers.” Pessolano, cutting in.

Swanson sighs like a drama queen. “I don’t give a shit what they’re called. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The woman cop,” Munchel says. “She had a gun in the house, shot at me through the window.”

“I already killed her,” Pessolano says.

“You must have missed, because she was shooting at me just a minute ago.”

“You sure it was her?”

“’Course it was her. Looked just like her.”

“Could of been her twin.”

“Her what?”

“Her twin sister. Like that Van Damme movie.”

“It wasn’t her goddamn twin, Pessolano. You just goddamn missed.”

“Enough!” Swanson cuts in. “Her gun is too loud. Someone is going to hear it and call the cops.”

Munchel grins. “Well, it’s about to get even louder, boyo, because I gave her a rifle.”

He pictures Swanson’s face turning bright red with anger. It amuses him greatly. Ever since they first got together, Swanson has been playing leader. But he sucks as a leader. He’s too scared of everything, and has zero creativity.

And what is this shit Pessolano is talking about twins? That guy has been bragging and boasting about his war record nonstop, but he can’t even confirm a kill.

Munchel knows that he’s the alpha male of the group. He proved it earlier, in Ravenswood. And he’s about to prove it again.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Swanson probably thinks pausing between each word makes him sound tough.

“I gave her Pessolano’s Browning, and three bullets. Make this a little more interesting.”

“I better get that gun back,” Pessolano says. “Or you owe me seven hundred bucks.”

“You’ll get it back.” Munchel laughs. “Might have to wash the blood off it first.”

Another sigh from Swanson. “We need to finish this shit up, and get out of here before more cops come.”

“How?” Pessolano asks. “Everyone is hiding. We can’t get any shots.”

“Then we get closer.”

Munchel nods. That’s the first thing Swanson has said all night that he agrees with.

He clips the radio to his belt, picks up the rifle, and creeps closer to the house.

THE FIRST THING I need to do is minimize my disadvantages.

And there are many.

They’re three people. I’m just one.

They have cover. I have people to protect.

They have unlimited bullets. I have three.

They have scopes, both normal and night vision. I have a head injury.

But I do have one advantage. Never underestimate a woman fighting for her life.

I stick my head into the hall and shout.

“Latham! We’re going to get you in the bathroom with Mom and Harry. It’s the safest place in the house.”

“Don’t risk it, Jack. Too many windows.”

“I’ve got an idea about that. Be ready to move when I get there.”

I crawl over to the flashlight in the corner of my room, then get into a crouch. The Tylenol has kicked in, taking my headache from excruciating down to merely agonizing.

Don’t think. Just act.

I point the flashlight out the window and run out the door, through the hall, into the laundry room. I tug open the fuse box door, hit the main breaker, and the house lights come back on. I assume the snipers still have their night-vision scopes on. Now they’ll be all lit up.

I hurry back into the hall, flipping off lights as I go.

“Hold this,” I tell Harry, passing up the bathroom. He takes the rifle.

“Santa come early this year?”

“Scissors,” I say.

Mom hands me the scissors.

I squeeze past the fridge, run into the living room, catch a quick glimpse at Latham still by the sofa, but head straight for the front door instead. I turn on the outside lights – front porch, garage light, driveway lights – and kill the lights inside the room. I also kill the flashlight. That leaves only one light on in the house. The kitchen.

I creep over to it, reach for the switch while keeping my eyes on Alex. She’s still on the floor, handcuffed to the pipe under the sink. She regards me.

“I’m a better shot than you,” she says. “Let me go and I’ll take care of those snipers.”

I flip the kitchen light off. Then I jog over to Latham, kneeling next to him, seeking out his face in the dark.