Steve Tem: Ubo

As Daniel perspired he felt Whitman’s growing presence in his skin, the sweat spreading from one part of his body to another as Chuck Whitman travelled with it, cooling suddenly, chilling him, and leaving Daniel’s flesh dusty‑feeling, soiled. A strange sensation. Then he felt the thoughts, the desires, the long‑dead rages taking over.

Chuck remembered reading comic books as a kid and thinking how great it would be to have super powers. Maybe you could just point your finger and a building would blow up ten miles away. Or you could look up at a plane flying high overhead and reach out with your mind and bring it down.

But you didn’t need any super powers if you had the right firearm and the necessary skills. You could remove a pigeon’s eye at a hundred yards, stop a heart at five hundred. Add to that the proper stronghold, a fort or a tower, and you could accomplish practicallyanything. Just two weeks ago he and Kathy had visited the Alamo in San Antonio. What those brave men did from that half-assed fort he could do far better from the top of the UT tower. One skilled man could hold off an army from up there, for an indefinite length of time.

He would never say that he loved his guns. His dad probably did—in fact Chuck was sure he did. But Chuck appreciated what a gun could do for you. A gun was the great equalizer. It made you as good as any other man. He felt pretty fabulous about that. What was his was there waiting for him to make the right move. Let somebody dare think he didn’t deserve it.

People weren’t going to understand why he killed his mother. They were going to think that he resented her, that some of his dad had rubbed off on her in some way in his mind, but nothing could be further from the truth. That woman was a saint, and deserved being turned back into energy. Matter could neither be created nor destroyed. It could only be transformed. Looked at in that way, even destruction seemed comforting, simply the means to a greater end. Mayhem had a holy purpose—it could turn you into a superhero, maybe even a god. A God of Mayhem, now that was a thing to be.

His mom was in heaven now, part of the vast source of energy that fueled every human being. Wasn’t that a better place to be than this Hell on Earth?

And he loved his wife, he really did. She was a good person, and he was sorry that she had to work so hard to make enough money to support them both. Over and over he had recommitted himself to treating her better and controlling his temper and not hitting her. He only stabbed her as many times as he did to make sure he got the job done. Better that both his mother and his wife be in a better place of pure energy than to be ashamed of him and what he was going to do that day.

“Can we rest ?” the little boy pushing the footlocker whined. Chuck hated whining and he hated the scrunched up face the boy made when he whined.

“No. We’ve got one more floor. Then we’re going to do what we planned to do. Don’t be a quitter, boy. I’ll throw you down those damn steps if you quit on me.” The boy didn’t say anything but he went back to pushing the footlocker up the stairs. Chuck rubbed the back of his neck. The crisscross of insect scratches like stitches in his skin ran straight up his neck and across the back of his scalp. The sweat oozed into the scratches and made them burn like his head was on fire. He pulled out the white bandana and tied it around his forehead. It would keep the sweat out of his eyes so he could shoot better. He tossed a second bandana to the boy so they would match. He was feeling impatient now but he waited while the boy fumbled with it and put it on. He had it on crooked but there was no time to fix that now.

Chuck’s shirt was soaking wet. He probably stank by now. He’d put some spray deodorant into the footlocker but he couldn’t take the time just then, so he reminded himself to use it later. He also couldn’t take the time to make an actual physical note about it so he hoped he would remember. He’d been very distracted lately.

He hoped that later, when they wrote about it, they’d put down that he’d been an altar boy. Also that at 12 he was the youngest boy in the country to make Eagle Scout. That was important. Maybe he’d have time later to write that down in a note. And maybe he should mention his piano playing.

Of course he’d wanted to be more. He’d wanted to be lots more, but sometimes you have to work with what you’re given. Thank God he was a great shot.

He didn’t have to worry about a job anymore, or good grades, or what his mother wanted today, or what his father would say, or if he could be a good enough husband to Kathy or not.

And Kathy, she’d been Queen of the Fair in Needville, Texas. Maybe he’d write that down, too. Probably the prettiest girl around.

Hated his father, of course. Old C.A. Maybe he’d put that down, just to make sure they knew why he was probably doing this, even though he wasn’t completely sure himself.

“Hurry up, boy!” he shouted down to the kid. “We’ve got a schedule to keep! Don’t you dare make me late!”

Daniel came out of it for a second. Had Chuck almost passed out? The stairwell was empty, cold. But there was still a kind of ghost here, a memory that was more than a memory. Chuck Whitman was a ghost of a memory that still haunted this place. He’d left his stain behind in the air.

Daniel felt insect legs scrabbling, an oily smell as they tried to regain control. Mandibles clicked against his flesh damp with a cold sweat. The ghost drifted in and out of his skin as his breathing grew ragged. Daniel became more excited as Chuck—large and again in charge—re-exerted himself and marched up the steps of the tower.

Daddy had been a self-made man. Chuck had wanted to be, had started out to be, but Daddy just couldn’t leave it alone, couldn’t stop picking at him. Not that Chuck didn’t want to be perfect—he just had to get there his own way.

“Pick it up! Pick it up!” he shouted at himself and the boy struggling to lift the end of the footlocker. They had a schedule to make. “Don’t make me throw you in the pool!” Chuck had just turned eighteen when Daddy did it to him, for celebrating drunk. Chuck’d almost drowned. Sometimes he thought that would have been a better way. But you go with what you’ve got. Chuck knew he was going to be famous for doing a terrible thing. Imagining the press grilling old C.A. about what his son had done made Chuck smile.

He had to get that receptionist out of the way before he did anything else. A rifle butt to the back of her head and a crack across the eye put her down so he could drag her behind the couch. That couple came down from the observation deck while he was standing by the couch. The surprise of it shook him a little, but then they left—they hadn’t seen anything. He barricaded the stairway. The boy kept jabbering at him about more people coming up.

Chuck took the sawed-off 12 gauge and shot the two boys trying to open the door. Then he fired a few more times through the grates at the other people. He was annoyed—none of this was planned. He barricaded the door to the reception area. He started out onto the observation deck, stopped, walked over to the receptionist lying behind the couch, took aim and shot her in the left side of the head.

He was proud of how well he’d outfitted his footlocker. He could hold out for two days easy with all those supplies. As he went through the items and laid some of them out the boy got more and more excited, clambering around like a monkey until Chuck had to give him the back of his hand. That shut the boy up some, made him move a little more cautiously, but clearly he was no less enthusiastic than before.

Chuck’d packed that Randall knife with his name on it, a Camillus hunting knife and the Nesco machete in its scabbard, and even a hatchet, if it came down to it. It would take him at least a couple of days to go through the 700 rounds of ammunition he’d brought, but then they’d send somebody to pull him off the tower unless they decided to blow up the tower with him in it, which would be spectacular, but foolish and unlikely. Maybe they’d even send some fellow Marines in to do the job. Then he’d have to go at it hand-to-hand. He wasn’t as good with a blade, but a knife fight made a cool picture in his head.