It's a pretty sad spiral that ends with you creeping towards the bottle of a bottle of vodka, yeh? Vodka has traditionally been the liquor of thoughtfulness, for me. It's what I reach for, when I want an accounting of what I've done. Vodka pries the truth out of you.
As a side note, I'm planning a trip to Texas. That aside, plenty of Mass Effect, a new girlfriend, and the usual drama.
Carry on.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Another Learning Experience
Strike's not on yet. I say yet, because I suspect it's more a matter of time. Later on in the semester means more pressure.
Medicine, and the practice thereof, is a reminder to people of their own weaknesses. Their phobias. Their squeamishness. I was in class today, mooching medical supplies from the Old Soldier, Reservist, and the Failed Paramedic Student. It's one part single-minded obsessiveness as a kit weasel, one part it's a good idea to get as much medical training as possible. So, I roll up on my homies, and start mooching for anything they're not using. I offer coffees, beer for kit that's not being used, old, that sort of thing. They give suggestions- old WWII style triangle bandages, triangles, that sort of thing. I ask about SAM splints, and we get into a discussion about splinting the femur. Goes something like this:
Failed Medic: Why do you want SAM splints? They suck!
Me: What? Why?
FM: You can't splint a femur, for one thing.
(about here, Fat Chick leans in and starts listening)
Me: If I have to splint a femur, I'm so fucked. I'd need Death Pants.
FM: Death Pants?
Me: Those pneumatic pants.
FM: Get a Seager splint.
Me: Those are too big and heavy, plus the femur'll prolly move around. Hell, I don't even want the pants. What's are the stats for femur fractures going compound?
Fat Chick: Compound?
Me: When the fracture separates and comes out the skin.
FM: Pretty low.
Me: What about internal lacerations?
(fat chick starts turning a little green)
FM: Not sure.
Me: What about causing internal lacerations?
FM: Oh, good point.
Me: Me, I figure that if you end up with a broke femur, you're all kinds of fucked. Like, need an ER yesterday kinda fucked. Too many big arteries and nerves near that bitch.
FM: What do you expect to cause the break?
Me: Hey, I was good working with simple extremity breaks. I got a lot of hemorrhage stuff, and I wanna learn more before I start working the airways.
Fat Chick: Why do you want to learn about this stuff?
Me: Because some day, it might be someone I care about all lain out or perforated or something. And I'd rather do something to help than stand around and wring my hands.
FC: But you're not a doctor! I wouldn't trust you to help me.
Me: You're not in NASCAR, and somehow they let you on the road. I wouldn't trust you to drive.
About then, she just shook her head, rolled her eyes and turned away, and I asked whether or not there were spare Nasalpharangeal Airway Tubes lying around, because that's about all I know how to do. I woke up this morning, and I thought about it. This person is an emergency manager, or hopes to be. She is overweight, undermotivated, disinterested and sarcastic in far greater amounts than even I. She has no interest in saving lives. She is the person you are relying on to funnel beans, band-aids and bodies to you in a disaster. Remember that.
And make sure everyone you care about is prepared.
Deschain
Medicine, and the practice thereof, is a reminder to people of their own weaknesses. Their phobias. Their squeamishness. I was in class today, mooching medical supplies from the Old Soldier, Reservist, and the Failed Paramedic Student. It's one part single-minded obsessiveness as a kit weasel, one part it's a good idea to get as much medical training as possible. So, I roll up on my homies, and start mooching for anything they're not using. I offer coffees, beer for kit that's not being used, old, that sort of thing. They give suggestions- old WWII style triangle bandages, triangles, that sort of thing. I ask about SAM splints, and we get into a discussion about splinting the femur. Goes something like this:
Failed Medic: Why do you want SAM splints? They suck!
Me: What? Why?
FM: You can't splint a femur, for one thing.
(about here, Fat Chick leans in and starts listening)
Me: If I have to splint a femur, I'm so fucked. I'd need Death Pants.
FM: Death Pants?
Me: Those pneumatic pants.
FM: Get a Seager splint.
Me: Those are too big and heavy, plus the femur'll prolly move around. Hell, I don't even want the pants. What's are the stats for femur fractures going compound?
Fat Chick: Compound?
Me: When the fracture separates and comes out the skin.
FM: Pretty low.
Me: What about internal lacerations?
(fat chick starts turning a little green)
FM: Not sure.
Me: What about causing internal lacerations?
FM: Oh, good point.
Me: Me, I figure that if you end up with a broke femur, you're all kinds of fucked. Like, need an ER yesterday kinda fucked. Too many big arteries and nerves near that bitch.
FM: What do you expect to cause the break?
Me: Hey, I was good working with simple extremity breaks. I got a lot of hemorrhage stuff, and I wanna learn more before I start working the airways.
Fat Chick: Why do you want to learn about this stuff?
Me: Because some day, it might be someone I care about all lain out or perforated or something. And I'd rather do something to help than stand around and wring my hands.
FC: But you're not a doctor! I wouldn't trust you to help me.
Me: You're not in NASCAR, and somehow they let you on the road. I wouldn't trust you to drive.
About then, she just shook her head, rolled her eyes and turned away, and I asked whether or not there were spare Nasalpharangeal Airway Tubes lying around, because that's about all I know how to do. I woke up this morning, and I thought about it. This person is an emergency manager, or hopes to be. She is overweight, undermotivated, disinterested and sarcastic in far greater amounts than even I. She has no interest in saving lives. She is the person you are relying on to funnel beans, band-aids and bodies to you in a disaster. Remember that.
And make sure everyone you care about is prepared.
Deschain
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Purpose.
Purpose is the cornerstone of discipline. I'm pretty sure that a lack of purpose is why my generation is so absolutely fucked. A liberal upbringing has taught that working with your hands is something akin to slavery, and the purpose of warriors is to oppress or be expended in brushfire wars in Godforsaken countries that should, for all intents, be allowed to wallow in hellish conditions. We're brought up to chase cars, whores, materialism instead of purpose. Self-gratification over self-fulfillment. So what's left for most people? Hocking shit, or being a cog in some giant corporate machine? Hell, that's something to give your third-best at!
When I joined the military, life became simple. Enjoyable? Maybe not in a conventional sense, but I felt I had a purpose. I was the Smart Guy. I had a role in my platoon. I had buddies who I would fight and kill for. Die for, if need be. My purpose was clear- give advice, and overall help those I could. If that meant killing bad guys, all the better. Now, I'm out in the world, going to school to learn how to deal with whiny and spineless politicians, beg for money in a budget, and deal with a media whose primary purpose is to entertain, not inform. I look around and all I see is wasted potential. One of my best buddies is lead vocal in an above-average metal band. He's not all that bright, but I suspect that has a lot to do with extensive weed abuse and quite a few blows to the head. I mean, the guy is a talented singer, decent lyricist. Better than decent, from what I can hear.
He bounces at night and drives a school bus by day. He's fucking Otto from the Simpsons.
If there was something worth working towards for him, he probably would have done it. He can run a warehouse (and more or less did at times, before he got owned at the beginning of the recession) without too much trouble. Problem is, there's no jobs for him and he doesn't see much point in looking. There a hundred dozen people with more experience and better records fighting him for a job that's more work at half the pay. I can see why he gives up before he even starts. And that's what it largely comes down to, across the board. People my age and bitter and purposeless. There's not a whole hell of a lot of jobs that don't involve paper hats for them. They're competing against older returning students for spots in colleges and universities.
I know the general attitude is 'sink or swim, bitches!' across the board. Hell, I don't have a lot of sympathy for the people who give up and slink back into mama's basement with the Xbox. I'm thinking, though, that once you get a certain concentration of disaffected youth, society as a whole starts to suffer. Once people lose purpose, discipline goes. Then goes drive, and so forth. People go from asking 'what the hell am I doing with my life?' to 'who the hell's fault is all this shit?'. And that's shitty all around.
Deschain
When I joined the military, life became simple. Enjoyable? Maybe not in a conventional sense, but I felt I had a purpose. I was the Smart Guy. I had a role in my platoon. I had buddies who I would fight and kill for. Die for, if need be. My purpose was clear- give advice, and overall help those I could. If that meant killing bad guys, all the better. Now, I'm out in the world, going to school to learn how to deal with whiny and spineless politicians, beg for money in a budget, and deal with a media whose primary purpose is to entertain, not inform. I look around and all I see is wasted potential. One of my best buddies is lead vocal in an above-average metal band. He's not all that bright, but I suspect that has a lot to do with extensive weed abuse and quite a few blows to the head. I mean, the guy is a talented singer, decent lyricist. Better than decent, from what I can hear.
He bounces at night and drives a school bus by day. He's fucking Otto from the Simpsons.
If there was something worth working towards for him, he probably would have done it. He can run a warehouse (and more or less did at times, before he got owned at the beginning of the recession) without too much trouble. Problem is, there's no jobs for him and he doesn't see much point in looking. There a hundred dozen people with more experience and better records fighting him for a job that's more work at half the pay. I can see why he gives up before he even starts. And that's what it largely comes down to, across the board. People my age and bitter and purposeless. There's not a whole hell of a lot of jobs that don't involve paper hats for them. They're competing against older returning students for spots in colleges and universities.
I know the general attitude is 'sink or swim, bitches!' across the board. Hell, I don't have a lot of sympathy for the people who give up and slink back into mama's basement with the Xbox. I'm thinking, though, that once you get a certain concentration of disaffected youth, society as a whole starts to suffer. Once people lose purpose, discipline goes. Then goes drive, and so forth. People go from asking 'what the hell am I doing with my life?' to 'who the hell's fault is all this shit?'. And that's shitty all around.
Deschain
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Drama for the loss.
So, personal drama aside, I'm talking about something that really pisses me off: my college is striking. The numbers I got were as follows:
76% voting attendance
57% overall support for the strike
67% at my college specifically supporting the strike
Thank you for fucking your students, who are largely young (and therefore unemployable in the current market, with more than a third of people my age unemployed last time I checked). And thank you for fucking the older students who have been downsized out of the current economy. Both those groups are relying on their teachers and education to ensure their careers don't begin and end with 'Would you like fries with that?', and you're using them as bargaining chips against a province that is already out of money. They have none more to give. They're 25 billion dollars in debt already. We're the fucking California of Canada.
Great.
Well, good news, blog people. At least I'll be able to post more.
76% voting attendance
57% overall support for the strike
67% at my college specifically supporting the strike
Thank you for fucking your students, who are largely young (and therefore unemployable in the current market, with more than a third of people my age unemployed last time I checked). And thank you for fucking the older students who have been downsized out of the current economy. Both those groups are relying on their teachers and education to ensure their careers don't begin and end with 'Would you like fries with that?', and you're using them as bargaining chips against a province that is already out of money. They have none more to give. They're 25 billion dollars in debt already. We're the fucking California of Canada.
Great.
Well, good news, blog people. At least I'll be able to post more.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A Whiff of the Grapeshot
It occurs to me that the children of the west are so spoiled with liberty, that they've perverted it. The word has traditionally meant 'freedoms and associated duties', but now apparently means 'I do what I want, when I want, and if you don't like it, or believe how I believe, you're a fascist!'
Little history lesson: Until about 1920, riots and other public disturbance were met with gunfire. And horsemen with truncheons, who would brain you. Hell, you could be singing 'God Save the Tsar' and asking for bread and they'd gun you down. Hell, they'd send men with sabers after you. Here in the West, we've broken away from the murder model of riot control, and there are still complaints. Let me break it down for you:
1. 'Freedom of speech' does not equate to 'burning down a Starbucks'. As soon as you start assaulting people or busting up property, your freedom of speech is revoked, because you forgot about the duty part of your civic liberties.
2. You do have the right to peaceful assembly. Emphasis on the 'peaceful'. As a general rule, the police could care less about peaceful protests. Hell, I once came across a marijuana legalization sit in. There were cops standing around, a bunch of very high people sitting there, and no problems. Hell, I even watched one hippie light a fat joint and OFFER IT TO A NEARBY OFFICER. Know what happened? The cop just smiled and said "No thank you, ma'am." She shrugged, smoked her joint. The cop stood there and watched and didn't care.
3. In just about any other place in the world, the cops would run you over (Iran), use machetes and riot shields (Africa), or burn down your slum (South America). You're complaining about having more freedom and less consequences for abusing it, because you want to smash up a store or knock down hydro towers? How selfish and spoiled are you, exactly?
I mean, in Napoleon's day he was considered a humanitarian for firing grapeshot over the heads of angry mobs, as compared to into them. It just boggles my mind when I see people saying we're not free, or calling the police Gestapo, or shit like that. We have more freedom than anyone, ever. You want change? Why not, umm, do something a reasonable and rational person won't call a riot?
Deschain
Little history lesson: Until about 1920, riots and other public disturbance were met with gunfire. And horsemen with truncheons, who would brain you. Hell, you could be singing 'God Save the Tsar' and asking for bread and they'd gun you down. Hell, they'd send men with sabers after you. Here in the West, we've broken away from the murder model of riot control, and there are still complaints. Let me break it down for you:
1. 'Freedom of speech' does not equate to 'burning down a Starbucks'. As soon as you start assaulting people or busting up property, your freedom of speech is revoked, because you forgot about the duty part of your civic liberties.
2. You do have the right to peaceful assembly. Emphasis on the 'peaceful'. As a general rule, the police could care less about peaceful protests. Hell, I once came across a marijuana legalization sit in. There were cops standing around, a bunch of very high people sitting there, and no problems. Hell, I even watched one hippie light a fat joint and OFFER IT TO A NEARBY OFFICER. Know what happened? The cop just smiled and said "No thank you, ma'am." She shrugged, smoked her joint. The cop stood there and watched and didn't care.
3. In just about any other place in the world, the cops would run you over (Iran), use machetes and riot shields (Africa), or burn down your slum (South America). You're complaining about having more freedom and less consequences for abusing it, because you want to smash up a store or knock down hydro towers? How selfish and spoiled are you, exactly?
I mean, in Napoleon's day he was considered a humanitarian for firing grapeshot over the heads of angry mobs, as compared to into them. It just boggles my mind when I see people saying we're not free, or calling the police Gestapo, or shit like that. We have more freedom than anyone, ever. You want change? Why not, umm, do something a reasonable and rational person won't call a riot?
Deschain
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Arg, my lungs
So, New Year's Day I saw my girlfriend's Cop Dad. We all went out, had Chinese buffet food, enjoyed ourselves. Her mother even restrained her glaring. We all had a good time, and by the time I got homes, I wasn't feeling great. By the time the ball dropped, I was too drunk to care, but the next couple of days had me coughing up a lung. So far, this year has started off nothing short of horrible. I've got the bronchitis, and oh, I forgot to mention, some asshole comprimised the local Wal-Mart and took all the money out of my chequings and savings. I mean, it wasn't much, but Goddamn it, I needed it! So, now you know why I've been a little...absent. Well, more so than usual. It's balls. Tomorrow, I head to the doctor and pay out some money for meds and hope that the bank refunds me the money in the next couple of weeks.
Happy shitty new year, folks.
Des
Happy shitty new year, folks.
Des
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Anvils, revisited.
Here is the final version of the story I posted in "For My Next Trick, Anvils" post. Thanks to Sigboy for all the help!
"You sure you want to do this?" Keith asked me. I nodded, more to myself than to him.
"Don't see any other way, to be honest."
He sighed, like an older brother watching his brother do something he didn't think was the brightest idea in the world. Leaning on the hood of his pickup, he stretched his shoulders a bit. My only gun and only holster were already hanging off my hip, and I was leaning against my idling Civic. The women were inside with a few other trusted friends, getting things ready for what looked like a long, rough haul. All those little things we put away for a rainy day got dusted off and dragged out of safes and closets.
"You're going whether or not I come, aren't you?"
"Yep."
He stared at me another moment as I loaded three speedloaders of .357 and dumped them in my left pocket. I could damn near hear the scales creak in his mind as he weighed everything out.
"Suppose you want help, too."
"Wouldn't mind it, homes," I said with a shrug. I had already made up my mind. I was going.
"She want to be rescued?"
I answered with a shrug.
"She didn't exactly ask for help, per se..."
Another sigh. He stared at the hood a moment. I flashed a cocky grin. I already knew the answer, before he reached for his Sig, made sure he had a round chambered.
"Alright, let's go save the girl who isn't your girl."
******************************************************************************
The streets were choked with cars heading the other direction. We could see black pillars of smoke rising into the sky. The first day the power had been out, nothing happened. The second, day, nothing. Third day, all hell had broken loose. The big Smith dangled in my hand as we drove past people running, screaming. I saw a coupla people who looked like they were sleeping, but it hardly seemed that they were napping in the middle of a suburb being looted. It all flashed by as we broke speed limits heading against the traffic. I felt a lot better about riding to the rescue with his truck compared to my little Civic.
"Call her."
I nodded, dialed her number. My thumb shook a little, not from heading towards what was at best rioting and chaos. Her phone rung and rung, and I prayed my cell battery held out.
"H-hullo?"
"Hey Jess, you alright? Still at home?"
"Yeah, I'm scared. They're lighting fires-"
"I'll be there in twenty, pack your bags."
"Alright, how-"
"Cell's going, I'll see you in twenty, Jess."
I hung up on her. I needed the battery to last as long as it could. I looked at Keith, but he was unreadable behind his Oakleys. I looked down at the 870 between my legs, holstered up the .357.
"What do you think, man?"
"This is dumb. Your girlfriend would kill us if she had any idea what you were doing."
"So? Never stopped us before."
"Yeah, I got the door, don't worry about it."
He lapsed into a stern silence. He didn't like coming along for this adventure- I could understand that. A wife and kids makes a man rethink that nonsense. But I was young enough to believe in it yet. He flipped on a CD, and I heard the beats pound. I grinned, thumbed shells into the shotgun- his competition gun, on loan just in case things went bad. Fat red three-inchers, all 0000. I heard the lyrics, smiled. He didn't. Nope, he was pumping himself up, drawing out that bit of him that wanted to murder rapists. That wanted mayhem. That wanted to be the righteous, gauntleted fist of justice.
"Forged in the fire lit long ago, stand next to me, you'll never stand alone!
I'm last to leave, but the first to go
Lord, make me dead before you make me old!
I feed on the fear from the devil inside..."
Oh, I was definitely nerved up. I could feel my heart beating faster, that seductive strength that adrenaline gives you. Keith's loaner shotty was appreciated, I'll give him that. But the song was worth of a dozen of them. I felt my heart beat faster, head nodding to the lyrics.
"Right at the lights," I said, seeing a familiar intersection.
"Not that we have much choice. Look about two blocks down."
I squinted, trying to see past the bumper to bumper cars. Just barely above the roof of a Windstar I saw the first lick of flame rising, then a puff of oily black smoke. A Third World roadblock. Great. He made the turn, dodging a stalled Prius. The windows were broke.
We pulled up in the parking lot of Jess's building. It was one of those apartments above a set of stores, overlooking the street. There were actually five or six apartments in the building, none of them particularly nice but particularly affordable to young folk who didn't mind the odd shady customer, the odd loud noise in the dead of night. Semi-gentrified, she called it. Better than the barrio, worse than your average place. There were only a couple of other cars in the lot, all smashed except two. The door was closed, didn't look to be damaged. We both scanned the lot as we picked a spot close to the door. He turned off the engine, took a deep breath.
"Destiny has brought us together, I wonder where fate will lead us?" Keith finally said, after a pause.
"Way to gay up some thrilling heroics, yo," I responded, my voice a little choked. We bumped fists, coming out of the car on the bounce. I scanned the area behind the strip, Keith the area we came from.
"Hey," he said, still watching his zone with his gun at the low ready, "get the kit out of the bed."
I dropped the gate, saw what he meant. There was an AR and two H-harnesses. I dragged it close to us, tapped him on the shoulder.
"Nice," I said as he turned away from the street, "Expecting a small war?"
He turned around, grabbed the rifle and the webbing with the mag pouches, slinging it on with practiced ease as I stood watch. Then, he charged the bolt, and let me struggle into my rig. Well, his rig. I had worn it shooting a couple of times, felt the weight settle onto my hips.
"Alright," he said, "Let's do this."
We took up positions on either side of the door, backs to the wall. It didn't seem like anyone was paying attention to us, which was nice. I took a deep breath as soon as he put his hand on the knob, looking at me for the cue for him to open it. I nodded, and he heaved it open. It was dark in there, with the power out. The only light came from a window up two flights of stairs, filtering down an off yellow dimness we could just barely see by. As soon as we burst in, I hear a door next to us slam shut. Keith flicked his muzzle towards it, but we heard the bolt slam home before he got there. We heard something else, too.
“Open up, bitch!” someone called mockingly from above. We started up the stairs quietly, listening. I flinched when I heard the first thump of impact, flesh on wood. Muffled female voice.
“We're gonna get in sometime, Jess!”
And after that, I don't remember much of what happened. Looking back in the car, I broke into a run. I came up, and saw two guys, big tattooed white guys with an axe and a baseball bat. The axe was up to the eye in Jess's door, the bearded idiot grinning with malicious glee. It was simple, just like the drills. I lined them up over the bright green front sight, and squeezed the trigger mechanically. One, rack, two, rack, three, rack, four, rack, scan. There was a ringing sound, and I heard Keith shout behind me.
“Room clear!”
Numbly, I got into position on the far side of Jess's door.
“Jess, it's Des!”
Ringing.
“Jess!”
I heard the clink of the chain, a little dragging noise, and then the deadbolt. The door opened a crack, and there she was. Long purple hair pulled back into a ponytail, pale skin stained with smeared mascara. Brown eyes, tears, beauty silhouetted between the door and the axe handle. Keith glanced at her, then at me. A smile ghosted across his face, and he turned to cover the hall. I smiled at her, and she opened the door some more. I walked in, shaking a little. I had never been in her new apartment- it was all thick paint, small pictures, bright and cheery. I smiled at her awkwardly, stepping carefully in blood-spattered boots.
I scanned the apartment, saw a tuft of black hair on the other side. The shotgun came up again, and Jess yelped.
“Hands on your head! Come out where I can see you!”
A raggedy man...boy...thing emerged from the kitchen, black bangs obscuring half his face. He trembled as he stood where he was, hands in the air.
“Des! That's Aaron!” she said to me, like I should know who he is. I imagine I looked pretty weird- a high school friend in a Team Realtree hat, World of Warcraft t-shirt, cargos and H-rig holding her boyfriend or whatever at gunpoint and rapidly turning red to boot. I lowered the shotgun, tried to look busy pulling shells from the rig and topping up the tube. I didn't look up.
“Keith's outside, ready to go. Got your stuff, Jess?”
“But Aaron...”
“He can come with.”
“But...”
“But we need to get moving.”
She sighed, rolled her eyes, went around back. I saw her cross my line of sight, and looked up. Aaron was leaning on her counter, looking at the floor.
“I don't have much...”
“Shut up.”
I walked over and halfheartedly covered the door for a few minutes while Jess grabbed her bag.
“Ready,” she announced, clearly a little unhappy with the situation. I looked back over my shoulder at her. She had an old knapsack over one shoulder, tight jeans and a baggy Misfits shirt on. Hardly what you're call practical, but I gave her half a smile anyways. Aaron stood off to the side, head down and hands jammed in pockets.
“Three comin' down.”
“Gotcha, come on down.”
It was just like drills, like I said. I didn't look down, just stepped over the bodies, covered the hall. Aaron apparently turned pale and ran down the stairs, while Jess retched. Not just retched, threw up violently at the sight of the two men who had probably wanted to rob and rape her. Buckshot does nasty stuff to a man, yeah. But it wasn't anything they didn't deserve. She still didn't need to see it.
“C'mon, keep moving!” Keith called from the bottom of the stairs, never taking his eyes off of his irons. I didn't even have to look. Me and Keith go way back, seen a lot of combat classes and competitive shooting together. Hell, you might as well say he's the one who got me into three-gun. I pulled back down the stairs in good order, looked at him briefly.
“Alright, let's go home.”
“You're gonna have a hell of a time 'splaining this one, man. I mean, I can see why you did it, she's gorgeous...”
“Don't I know it. Take Jess in the cab, I'm play trunk monkey with Captain Douchebag there.”
He nodded, and I covered the street as he walked back over to his truck, swung into the driver's seat and opened the door for her.
“So...like Brooks and Dunn?” I heard him rumble as I slung myself into the bed. I sat there a moment, fishing around before finding what I was looking for. The Wiley X sunglasses slid on easily. I turned to see Aaron just standing there, hands in pockets, not moving.
“Comin' or not?” I barked, with probably a little too much anger.
“Is that safe?”
“Hey, if you want to take your chances explaining those two bodies to the cops, or better yet, their hombres, be my guest.”
His eyes widened, and he scrambled inside, sitting close to the cab. I laid the shotgun across my lap, muzzle to the aft. I slapped the side of the truck twice, and wondered what in the hell I had been thinking riding the rescue of a girl who didn't see me as more than a passing acquaintance. I kept my eyes on the road behind us the rest of the way home, and tried not to think about it, or the girl in the cab.
It had worked a coupla years before, but like Georgia...she had always been on my mind. And I couldn't just leave her there, could I?
"You sure you want to do this?" Keith asked me. I nodded, more to myself than to him.
"Don't see any other way, to be honest."
He sighed, like an older brother watching his brother do something he didn't think was the brightest idea in the world. Leaning on the hood of his pickup, he stretched his shoulders a bit. My only gun and only holster were already hanging off my hip, and I was leaning against my idling Civic. The women were inside with a few other trusted friends, getting things ready for what looked like a long, rough haul. All those little things we put away for a rainy day got dusted off and dragged out of safes and closets.
"You're going whether or not I come, aren't you?"
"Yep."
He stared at me another moment as I loaded three speedloaders of .357 and dumped them in my left pocket. I could damn near hear the scales creak in his mind as he weighed everything out.
"Suppose you want help, too."
"Wouldn't mind it, homes," I said with a shrug. I had already made up my mind. I was going.
"She want to be rescued?"
I answered with a shrug.
"She didn't exactly ask for help, per se..."
Another sigh. He stared at the hood a moment. I flashed a cocky grin. I already knew the answer, before he reached for his Sig, made sure he had a round chambered.
"Alright, let's go save the girl who isn't your girl."
******************************************************************************
The streets were choked with cars heading the other direction. We could see black pillars of smoke rising into the sky. The first day the power had been out, nothing happened. The second, day, nothing. Third day, all hell had broken loose. The big Smith dangled in my hand as we drove past people running, screaming. I saw a coupla people who looked like they were sleeping, but it hardly seemed that they were napping in the middle of a suburb being looted. It all flashed by as we broke speed limits heading against the traffic. I felt a lot better about riding to the rescue with his truck compared to my little Civic.
"Call her."
I nodded, dialed her number. My thumb shook a little, not from heading towards what was at best rioting and chaos. Her phone rung and rung, and I prayed my cell battery held out.
"H-hullo?"
"Hey Jess, you alright? Still at home?"
"Yeah, I'm scared. They're lighting fires-"
"I'll be there in twenty, pack your bags."
"Alright, how-"
"Cell's going, I'll see you in twenty, Jess."
I hung up on her. I needed the battery to last as long as it could. I looked at Keith, but he was unreadable behind his Oakleys. I looked down at the 870 between my legs, holstered up the .357.
"What do you think, man?"
"This is dumb. Your girlfriend would kill us if she had any idea what you were doing."
"So? Never stopped us before."
"Yeah, I got the door, don't worry about it."
He lapsed into a stern silence. He didn't like coming along for this adventure- I could understand that. A wife and kids makes a man rethink that nonsense. But I was young enough to believe in it yet. He flipped on a CD, and I heard the beats pound. I grinned, thumbed shells into the shotgun- his competition gun, on loan just in case things went bad. Fat red three-inchers, all 0000. I heard the lyrics, smiled. He didn't. Nope, he was pumping himself up, drawing out that bit of him that wanted to murder rapists. That wanted mayhem. That wanted to be the righteous, gauntleted fist of justice.
"Forged in the fire lit long ago, stand next to me, you'll never stand alone!
I'm last to leave, but the first to go
Lord, make me dead before you make me old!
I feed on the fear from the devil inside..."
Oh, I was definitely nerved up. I could feel my heart beating faster, that seductive strength that adrenaline gives you. Keith's loaner shotty was appreciated, I'll give him that. But the song was worth of a dozen of them. I felt my heart beat faster, head nodding to the lyrics.
"Right at the lights," I said, seeing a familiar intersection.
"Not that we have much choice. Look about two blocks down."
I squinted, trying to see past the bumper to bumper cars. Just barely above the roof of a Windstar I saw the first lick of flame rising, then a puff of oily black smoke. A Third World roadblock. Great. He made the turn, dodging a stalled Prius. The windows were broke.
We pulled up in the parking lot of Jess's building. It was one of those apartments above a set of stores, overlooking the street. There were actually five or six apartments in the building, none of them particularly nice but particularly affordable to young folk who didn't mind the odd shady customer, the odd loud noise in the dead of night. Semi-gentrified, she called it. Better than the barrio, worse than your average place. There were only a couple of other cars in the lot, all smashed except two. The door was closed, didn't look to be damaged. We both scanned the lot as we picked a spot close to the door. He turned off the engine, took a deep breath.
"Destiny has brought us together, I wonder where fate will lead us?" Keith finally said, after a pause.
"Way to gay up some thrilling heroics, yo," I responded, my voice a little choked. We bumped fists, coming out of the car on the bounce. I scanned the area behind the strip, Keith the area we came from.
"Hey," he said, still watching his zone with his gun at the low ready, "get the kit out of the bed."
I dropped the gate, saw what he meant. There was an AR and two H-harnesses. I dragged it close to us, tapped him on the shoulder.
"Nice," I said as he turned away from the street, "Expecting a small war?"
He turned around, grabbed the rifle and the webbing with the mag pouches, slinging it on with practiced ease as I stood watch. Then, he charged the bolt, and let me struggle into my rig. Well, his rig. I had worn it shooting a couple of times, felt the weight settle onto my hips.
"Alright," he said, "Let's do this."
We took up positions on either side of the door, backs to the wall. It didn't seem like anyone was paying attention to us, which was nice. I took a deep breath as soon as he put his hand on the knob, looking at me for the cue for him to open it. I nodded, and he heaved it open. It was dark in there, with the power out. The only light came from a window up two flights of stairs, filtering down an off yellow dimness we could just barely see by. As soon as we burst in, I hear a door next to us slam shut. Keith flicked his muzzle towards it, but we heard the bolt slam home before he got there. We heard something else, too.
“Open up, bitch!” someone called mockingly from above. We started up the stairs quietly, listening. I flinched when I heard the first thump of impact, flesh on wood. Muffled female voice.
“We're gonna get in sometime, Jess!”
And after that, I don't remember much of what happened. Looking back in the car, I broke into a run. I came up, and saw two guys, big tattooed white guys with an axe and a baseball bat. The axe was up to the eye in Jess's door, the bearded idiot grinning with malicious glee. It was simple, just like the drills. I lined them up over the bright green front sight, and squeezed the trigger mechanically. One, rack, two, rack, three, rack, four, rack, scan. There was a ringing sound, and I heard Keith shout behind me.
“Room clear!”
Numbly, I got into position on the far side of Jess's door.
“Jess, it's Des!”
Ringing.
“Jess!”
I heard the clink of the chain, a little dragging noise, and then the deadbolt. The door opened a crack, and there she was. Long purple hair pulled back into a ponytail, pale skin stained with smeared mascara. Brown eyes, tears, beauty silhouetted between the door and the axe handle. Keith glanced at her, then at me. A smile ghosted across his face, and he turned to cover the hall. I smiled at her, and she opened the door some more. I walked in, shaking a little. I had never been in her new apartment- it was all thick paint, small pictures, bright and cheery. I smiled at her awkwardly, stepping carefully in blood-spattered boots.
I scanned the apartment, saw a tuft of black hair on the other side. The shotgun came up again, and Jess yelped.
“Hands on your head! Come out where I can see you!”
A raggedy man...boy...thing emerged from the kitchen, black bangs obscuring half his face. He trembled as he stood where he was, hands in the air.
“Des! That's Aaron!” she said to me, like I should know who he is. I imagine I looked pretty weird- a high school friend in a Team Realtree hat, World of Warcraft t-shirt, cargos and H-rig holding her boyfriend or whatever at gunpoint and rapidly turning red to boot. I lowered the shotgun, tried to look busy pulling shells from the rig and topping up the tube. I didn't look up.
“Keith's outside, ready to go. Got your stuff, Jess?”
“But Aaron...”
“He can come with.”
“But...”
“But we need to get moving.”
She sighed, rolled her eyes, went around back. I saw her cross my line of sight, and looked up. Aaron was leaning on her counter, looking at the floor.
“I don't have much...”
“Shut up.”
I walked over and halfheartedly covered the door for a few minutes while Jess grabbed her bag.
“Ready,” she announced, clearly a little unhappy with the situation. I looked back over my shoulder at her. She had an old knapsack over one shoulder, tight jeans and a baggy Misfits shirt on. Hardly what you're call practical, but I gave her half a smile anyways. Aaron stood off to the side, head down and hands jammed in pockets.
“Three comin' down.”
“Gotcha, come on down.”
It was just like drills, like I said. I didn't look down, just stepped over the bodies, covered the hall. Aaron apparently turned pale and ran down the stairs, while Jess retched. Not just retched, threw up violently at the sight of the two men who had probably wanted to rob and rape her. Buckshot does nasty stuff to a man, yeah. But it wasn't anything they didn't deserve. She still didn't need to see it.
“C'mon, keep moving!” Keith called from the bottom of the stairs, never taking his eyes off of his irons. I didn't even have to look. Me and Keith go way back, seen a lot of combat classes and competitive shooting together. Hell, you might as well say he's the one who got me into three-gun. I pulled back down the stairs in good order, looked at him briefly.
“Alright, let's go home.”
“You're gonna have a hell of a time 'splaining this one, man. I mean, I can see why you did it, she's gorgeous...”
“Don't I know it. Take Jess in the cab, I'm play trunk monkey with Captain Douchebag there.”
He nodded, and I covered the street as he walked back over to his truck, swung into the driver's seat and opened the door for her.
“So...like Brooks and Dunn?” I heard him rumble as I slung myself into the bed. I sat there a moment, fishing around before finding what I was looking for. The Wiley X sunglasses slid on easily. I turned to see Aaron just standing there, hands in pockets, not moving.
“Comin' or not?” I barked, with probably a little too much anger.
“Is that safe?”
“Hey, if you want to take your chances explaining those two bodies to the cops, or better yet, their hombres, be my guest.”
His eyes widened, and he scrambled inside, sitting close to the cab. I laid the shotgun across my lap, muzzle to the aft. I slapped the side of the truck twice, and wondered what in the hell I had been thinking riding the rescue of a girl who didn't see me as more than a passing acquaintance. I kept my eyes on the road behind us the rest of the way home, and tried not to think about it, or the girl in the cab.
It had worked a coupla years before, but like Georgia...she had always been on my mind. And I couldn't just leave her there, could I?
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