He pulled out the Channel Master 14 transistor radio, which would be handy for monitoring the response by the local authorities. Notebook and pen, in case he needed to leave any more notes. Light green towel, white jug of water, red jug of gasoline, rope and clothesline, and that terrific Nabisco toy compass he’d sent away for when he was thirteen. Of course the boy snatched that up right away and Chuck had to snatch it back with a scolding.
Canteen, binoculars, matches and a lighter with extra fluid. He had a vague idea he might have to turn the gas jug into a bomb but wasn’t sure if he could do it right. Anyways now would be a good opportunity to try that out.
Alarm clock to wake him up when he needed to rest, pipe wrench and flashlight and two rolls of tape, gloves and earplugs. Also that Mennen spray deodorant—he didn’t know whether he should use it now or not. He just didn’t want people saying he’d smelled bad. The boy picked up the toilet paper and started running around the deck with it. Chuck wondered if he might have to throw the boy off the tower at some point.
He wasn’t sure if he had enough food. He’d brought twelve cans of it, plus a couple cans of Sego condensed milk, bread, honey and Spam, some sandwiches he’d already made, Planters Peanuts and raisins. Sweet rolls. But maybe he’d be way too busy to eat.
And of course he had a goodly selection of firearms. His favorite was the scoped 6 mm Remington—that’s what he was best with. He’d also packed a 700, an M1 carbine, .357 Magnum, Luger, and a Galesi-Brescia. He hoped to use them all, but you never could tell. You had to stay flexible.
He was feeling more mellow now that it was almost time. He placed his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and guided him around the deck, explaining to him how they were going to go from shooting station to station, firing a few times from each so that the people below would think there were more snipers up on the deck than just the two of them.
Back at the starting point Chuck looked at the boy and nodded. Then he raised the Remington, gazed down the scope at the figure crossing the South Mall of the campus, let go of his breath and pushed back the trigger. He expected to feel something—excitement, elation, completion—but he felt nothing when the girl fell. Then he shot the fellow leaning over her.
He aimed for the center of the chest with each one. He didn’t want to risk missing with a head shot. He moved his targets east, to the Computation Center. He glanced at the boy, dressed identically to him with his white bandana and brown khakis, also shooting from the rainspouts around the deck. Chuck went westward and sighted along Guadalupe Street. He shot a fellow off a bicycle and started checking out the store windows. He shot somebody coming out of a newsstand, someone else hiding behind a construction barricade. He was perfection at last.
Suddenly people were shooting back at him. He peered through one of the rainspouts—he saw Texans hiding behind trucks and cars, rifles raised, firing his way, chipping the concrete all around him. It was just like the Alamo. He almost laughed. All them good ole Texas boys, taught by their fathers from an early age how to use them guns. He switched to the carbine and returned fire. Killing America, one bullet at a time.
He heard the drone of the small engine, looked up in amazement as the small plane approached and a man leaned out and opened fire. King Kong all over again. Chuck shot back as if he was waving off a mosquito and the plane retreated.
He shot a few more figures, maybe—now he wasn’t so sure. Before he was like God raining down bullets. Now he was just struggling to take back control. It was proving harder to get off an accurate shot. But on the south side he picked off someone who had stood up behind a car.
Maybe if Daddy had just spanked him more. Some of them would say he got off easy. He’d kept telling himself to be gentle with Kathy. He’d written it right down in his notebook:BE GENTLE.
He tried to let everything leave his head. He had nobody left to worry over him, nobody left he owed a thing to. There was nothing he need worry about anymore. Finally, he could escape himself. Erase himself.
The people down there, they had no idea. They had no idea as to whether they were safe or in danger. They had no idea of his range.
Someday people would just walk down the street, and they’d have a hundred different rifles pointed at them. Someday that’s the way it was going to be everywhere.
Two men ran into range, Chuck tracking them. He missed the first, and the second jumped out of range before he could pull the trigger again.
An old man bobbed into view. Chuck squeezed the trigger with a groan. But the old man had changed his mind, fell back just in time. Chuck began to weep. He squeezed the trigger again and again and each bullet erased a portion of his name.
Four roaches rode past on a four‑seated bicycle. Chuck blasted the back wheel apart and the roaches tumbled haphazardly. He took more shots but the bullets bounced harmlessly off their armored hides.
There were neighbors and relatives, and people he was only barely acquainted with, and those were blasted too, taken apart shot by shot, squeeze by squeeze, spirited away.
Chuck looked up into the clear blue sky. He thought he’d heard another plane. He heard the sound, the drone starting somewhere deep inside his belly, but he didn’t see the plane. Still he tracked the sound moving overhead with his eyes, smiling.He just couldn’t smile enough today. Then the black plumes of smoke came drifting overhead. He noticed the blue highlights, smelled the faint trace of phosphorous in the air. And as the ghost of himself pulled away from his skin, leaving it sore to the touch, he remembered that his name was Daniel, and that he was in Ubo.
The policemen came around the corner, guns blazing. There was a misfire, and Daniel changed position. He looked around for the boy but he couldn’t find him. Good.
Something slapped him in the head. He looked up, trying to figure out which of the men had shot him. Then the next one took him out.
3
DANIEL WOKE UP staring at the ceiling. Oddly hung over, he was convinced he’d done something terrible, but not sure of the details. His head was full of images of people falling. He had an urge to wake Elena up and tell her about his complex dream. Then he started crying, because he’d begun to remember the scenario, and all the people he’d killed.
The paint on the ceiling blistered and stains spread, mold-colored and rust-colored like some exotic soup. He heard a rapid panting, and he thought to ask her to get the dog out of the bedroom. But they’d had to give away the dog, because Gordon was allergic to dog fur and the smallest thing might set off a respiratory attack. He reached out to touch her, as he always did when awakened in the middle of the night, in the darkness needing confirmation that she was real and that she was alive. But this time he could not find her.
He sat up. The motion sickened him, constricted his breathing. There was a skim of filth on his skin he couldn’t wash off. Sourness slathered his tongue. He began to choke, turned to throw up into the plastic basin attached to the side of every bed. He splashed the running water onto his face and rubbed it into his eyes.
But he could still hear the panting. Several bunks away a man sat hunched over the side of his bed, chewing at his wrist and then using his teeth to strip threads of skin from his blood-slicked forearm. The man was insanely focused, pushing his teeth forward and attacking the flesh aggressively. The pattern didn’t look random—a stark, tribal design was emerging—an expressionistic face—it certainly could be accidental, and he could be seeing patterns where they didn’t exist. That’s what human beings do, he thought. He looked around for the roaches, saw several dark heads in the observation window, their antennae waving.