Dark Recollections (10 page)

So once topped off I got back in and skedaddled. I passed a few more cars than would be considered normal on the road that leads directly to the school here.
 
You can always tell when there’s a shift change because the employees and parents are always coming and going at the same time. It’s like a school of fish, moving in concert at all times. This time though it was all expensive snooty cars booking it out.
 
Easy guess was that the rich parents who shipped their kids off to the school were picking them up to take them away. I couldn’t make out all the plates in the dark, but a few I did see were from out of state.

So up until that point my assumption had been that campus would be a quiet place, where I could set up shop pretty easily that night. I could not have been much more wrong. I remember crossing the bridge to get into campus and saw half a dozen cars parked at the admissions house. In the little yard I could see maybe ten folks all gesturing frantically, clearly agitated and alarmed. I pulled my car over, grabbed my sword and .22 and got out to check out the situation.

Amy, one of the admissions women was trying to calm down about 8 parents. I took a roundabout path to come up sort of behind her so I could not only back her up, but so I could also hear better what was going on. It was hysterical. I guess these parents couldn’t find their kids. Anyone who has ever worked at a school, especially a private school knows that missing kids are a big deal. I was listening intently while scanning the campus surroundings. Everything was a nightmare. I could see at handful of cars all clearly crashed into random places. A few crashed into the sides of buildings, a few into guardrails, and a few into parked cars. Not sure what caused the crashes but you can use your imagination to figure that out.

I could see other cars zipping through the campus getting the fuck out as fast as they could, nearly hitting other cars and some students and staff doing the same thing. It was a solid minute though of silence before I realized that everyone had stopped talking and was staring at me. Amy had turned to face me and the parents were giving me the stink eye. Rich fuckers.

Amy’s comment got a laugh out of me. “What the fuck happened to you?”
 
I remember just shaking my head confused at her. I had no idea what she was talking about. She was kind enough to point out my current blood soaked clothing and generally disheveled appearance. I remember looking down and being shocked at my own appearance. I was fucking covered in zombie goo. I had streaks of blood all over my sweatshirt, my jeans, and apparently my face. I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror all day. You know, in retrospect, it might’ve been the fact that I looked like a blood-soaked, shotgun toting maniac that the girl at the gas station was weirded out. Live and learn I guess.

I shook my head at her and told her it wasn’t very good out there. I think I told her I had had a “long day.” The parents look mortified, and Amy not much different. She filled me in as the parents started to build up speed and fervor in their yelling again. From what she had gathered school had started as normal that day. (incidentally, “that day” was a Wednesday) As the first few hours went on, school officials realized shit was going down, and entered into lockdown mode. The kids were sealed into a few of their classrooms with their teachers, and the campus was more or less shut down. Locking the students into classrooms caused a few problems that were unexpected. A few of our kids were diabetic, and had insulin reactions or “sugar attacks” as my grandfather used to call them. One of our kids had epilepsy, and apparently he had a seizure due to missing some meds. These problems just compounded everything making it a very rough place to be.

Some staff just plain old walked the fuck out. Can you blame them? If I were working that day I would’ve been gone in a heartbeat. Parents started calling and streaming into the campus, causing total havoc. Most just kicked in random doors looking for their kids. Apparently there had been many altercations throughout the afternoon between staff and parents, as well as parents and parents, and in three cases, someone had been hurt seriously. As in, would probably die. There was no emergency response to any of their 911 calls. I knew why.

One of the parents arrived armed with a weapon only an hour prior and was “taking it into his hands” to rescue the kids. This guy seemed to be the one causing most of the trouble at the present. The parents were worried he would hurt more people. There was still one more pivotal fuck up to this story.

The eight parents here were trying to pick up eight kids that were still in a classroom, locked down on the top floor of the main classroom building. Amy told me that our resident off-beat English teacher Mrs. Goodell had sealed the door shut, barred it, and wasn’t allowing ANYONE in. Our intrepid armed hero-parent was currently on his way to said classroom to, and this is a direct quote from Amy to: “fix this bitch.”

I think it goes without saying that someone who would say something like that is generally the kind of person who does less “fixing of bitches,” and more, “totally fucking up of things.” Amy also said that she had heard multiple gun shots over the last 20 minutes or so heading in the general direction of the school house. No one there knew what to do.

Well Mr. Journal… I do not think of myself as a hero. It is my distinct belief that courage is not the lack of fear, but the will and fortitude to do what is necessary in spite of that fear. That night, I knew I had to make the campus safe or I could be totally fucked over by this guy.

I told Amy and the parents to get safe inside a car, or the admissions building, and that I would take care of it.

I was off to “fix that bitch.”

-Adrian

Phil’s Story

Growing old is no fun. Ask anyone who has done a lot of it, and you’ll find that out. Once you get to a certain age you stop building up that head of steam that youth gives you, and you wind up starting to sputter out. The moments where you sputter out tend to come pretty regularly too. They come after a long day at work, one when you’ve spent too much time on your feet. Or they come to you when you’ve spent a little too much time horsing around with your two grandkids, who you adore more than life itself. For Phil Stevens his moments came most often and most regularly when he woke up in the morning.

Phil was 58 years old, and looked every moment of it. His hair was grey enough that you couldn’t call it black anymore, but just black enough that it looked disheveled no matter what he did to it. His wife Marcy had been on his ass for two years now about buying some of that “greekian formula” as she called it to get it back to at least one color, but Phil didn’t give a shit anymore. He just wanted to go to work, come home for a decent dinner, if possible play with his grandkids, and watch football on Sunday. Everything else was peanuts.

Phil’s creaking back tormented him all the way to the bathroom in his small house where he downed a handful of arthritis pills. By the time he’d gotten done washing his crotch and feet the pills were kicking in, and he started to feel like today could be a pretty good day. After toweling off, applying deodorant to pits and balls, he put on his trusty Moore’s Sporting Goods polo shirt, and his khaki pants. His work uniform for the past 16 years.

His empty tummy and his nose told him that Marcy had the bacon and eggs ready and waiting, so after he got his shoes on, he shuffled his way into the kitchen and sat down to eat. Marcy was a big fan of The Morning Shows on all the big networks, so Phil and her put a small television set on the counter so she could watch them while she made breakfast every morning. Creatures of habit, these two. Phil grunted appreciatively at Marcy, spooned a thick wad of salsa on his scrambled eggs, and dug in.

Marcy paid Phil no attention while he ate, which was unusual. Normally she sat down with him and ate her eggs beside him. (always sunny side up on toast) But today she leant over the counter and was glued to the morning show she had on.

“Marcy? What’s so interestin’ you letting your eggs get all cold for?” Phil spooned another mouthful of eggs in as he finished talking.

“Phil I think something is wrong out there.” She didn’t even turn to him say it. That wasn’t like her at all.

“Well could you move so your husband can see what’s so wrong?” He absently slid a whole piece of bacon into his mouth as he gestured for her to move aside. Marcy obliged immediately, still without taking her eyes off the television. She turned the volume knob on the old set up so Phil could hear it.

“So reports are now telling us that overnight in about 80 to 100 locations there were very violent attacks by people who appeared to be on some form of sedatives, or perhaps sick with some form of rabies. Authorities are unsure what the root is of this strange occurrence, but the global nature of the attacks has authorities on alert everywhere.” The perfectly dressed and primped morning show host said in his mild baritone voice.

The other host, this one a far too artificially beautiful blonde lady chimed in and added, “Well Chuck, reports from Bangkok, Chicago, London, St. Petersburg, Bogota, and Sydney are all the same. These people are reaching a near-death catatonic state, and then suddenly becoming violent, biting and scratching anyone near them. It’s almost like one of those terrible zombie movies that have been so popular on late night television lately.” She giggled on the last delivery. The male news guy smiled awkwardly and played along with her joke.

“Authorities here in the United States are advising all people to be attentive to anyone acting suspicious, especially anyone who appears to fall asleep, or go into a trance. The Department of Homeland Security is investigating what exactly is causing this, but the CDC is now circulating information that it’s likely a form of virus. Perhaps some form of worldwide biological attack by extremists.”

“Bullshit. It’s Al-Qaeda.” Phil mumbled angrily. “Ain’t no fucking bird flu.” He scraped the last bit of egg off his plate and downed the last mouthful of his black coffee.

“I don’t know Phil, it’s on all the stations. I think this could be real serious.” She finally tore her eyes off the television set and looked at him worriedly. Her hazel eyes could say more in one glance than an hour of her talking. Phil paused the rant he about to give and swallowed it. He’d be a good husband and worry along with her.

Phil put his dishes in the sink and gathered his wife of 35 years up in a bear hug, “Well you just stay here in the house all day like normal, and I’ll go to the shop, and have a normal day there, and tonight we’ll start a fire in the fireplace, and that’ll be the end of it. Okay?” He kissed her warmly on the forehead. Her body relaxed a bit against his, pushing his potbelly in a little.

“Okay baby.” She smiled up at him and they kissed each other goodbye.

*****

Phil and Marcy’s house was about three quarters of a mile down the same street that Phil’s place of work was. This meant he didn’t drive to work ever, and it meant he got to fire up one of his cigarettes without driving her up a wall. She’d quit years ago when they found out they were going to be grandparents. It was a warm morning, a good June day. Phil didn’t feel like it was going to get too hot either, which was always nice.
 
Warm but not hot and humid. To hell with humidity Phil always said.

Moore’s Sporting Goods was the only real gun shop in town. Of course three towns over there was a Walmart, and a couple sporting good stores, but Moore’s was small town owned and small town operated and you couldn’t beat that. In fact, Moore’s was opened by the Chief of Police 20 years ago, and his son was Chief of Police right now too. Two generations of locals, proud to serve the hunting and outdoors needs of its residents.

Moore’s was still locked up when Phil got there, but he let himself in with the key. He was 15 minutes early, as he always was, and beat everyone there. He trudged himself inside, turned off the security alarm before it called the cops as he always did, and started getting the shop ready.

Soon as Phil had the window shades up and the register turned on the rest of his work buddies rolled in. Mr. Moore himself was next, dressed just the same as Phil, though he came with his .45 on his hip in a holster. No one would ever rob his store, at least not without killing him first. Phil didn’t strap his piece on until he got there, which he presently did. Bobby, Mike and Ben all rolled in right after that. No matter how much Mr. Moore yelled at them they just couldn’t seem to beat him there in the morning. Phil always suspected that Mr. Moore would just wake up 5 minutes earlier anyway if they did, just to make sure he had something to yell at them about. Part of Mr. Moore’s charm Phil always thought.

“Gentlemen, gather around.” Mr. Moore said as all his men poured themselves cups of the coffee Phil had brewed earlier.
 
They stopped bullshitting and quieted down.
 

“If you all have seen the news, there’s some weird shit happening out there today. I suspect this might be like 9/11 again. So we need to be ready. Phil, how’s our inventory looking? We got a lot of spare firearms in stock? What about ammunition?” Mr. Moore was all business, serious as a rattlesnake.

Phil thought about it for a few seconds before replying, “Well, we got normal shelf stock, plus we got that order of extra Ruger and Mossberg stuff in the gun vaults in the back. No extra pistols really. Ammunition is normal. Next week we got the first batches of the hunting season supply coming in though.”

“Hm. Well if it’s at all like 9/11 we’ll be sold out of shotguns and rifles by dinnertime. Don’t forget to run background checks and make sure that anyone who buys a pistol along with another gun doesn’t walk out with the damn thing. Waiting period, remember guys?” Mr. Moore stared intently at Mike, who had sold two pistols to customers over the past year and let them walk out with them the same day. A really big no-no. Mr. Moore had managed to hide the incidents, and they’d gotten lucky, but he couldn’t risk losing his gun license. Mike kept his eyes rooted firmly on the floor while Mr. Moore made his point.