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Authors: Will McIntosh
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bucket over my head. It stank—it was piss, or sewage.
He took a step back, looked me up and down. “Where do you live?” he asked.
“East Jones Street,” I said quickly. I was relieved to know the answer. I wanted to cooperate. I craved his approval.
He raised the gas gun, held it to the side of my nose.
“How many steps is it from here to the Oglethorpe Mall?”
“I don’t know what the right answer is.”
“Are you ready to die?”
“I don’t want to die.”
The blast from the gas gun was coming. He was almost finished with the precursors, then he would push the black mask on the end of the gun over my face and pull the trigger. I tried to think of some way to stretch it out, to get him to ask me more questions, to switch to someone else, even if only for a moment. I didn’t want to die. Through my terror I found myself trying to grasp that this was real. There would be a very painful few moments of dying, and then my life would end.
“Eat this.” He held a plastic lid up to my face. There was a stringy, slimy, whitish thing on it, with lidded eyes, little arms curled in toward a torso. It was a fetus, maybe a rat fetus, or a cat. I lifted it off the lid with my tongue, and I ate it. It was horrible; it was chewy and slimy. I bit what may have been the head, and felt fluid squirt across my tongue. I swallowed dramatically, so he’d know that I’d done what he told me.
“How many cats prowl this city?”
“I’m not sure,” I whimpered.
He smacked me in the back of the head, hard. “Run away now,” he said. “We’re not killing mice in rags today.”
I was running before his words fully registered, my shoulders pulled toward my ears, waiting to feel bullets rip into my back. I sprinted out of the alley, turned down the street with the rush of wind in my ears and a horrible taste in my mouth. I was making some sound as I ran, a sound I didn’t recognize and before this moment wouldn’t have believed was within my vocal range.
A few blocks away I spotted two police officers on horseback. I waved and shouted to get their attention.
“They’re killing people, behind an art gallery!” I pointed back up Abercorn.
“Where?” a female officer asked.
I pointed. “Three blocks up, I think, then right—”
“That’s not our jurisdiction.”
“No, but three men with guns are lining people up in an alley and shooting them! Right now!”
“Get lost,” the officer said. She made a clicking sound, kicked her horse in the ribs. In a nonchalant tone she picked up the thread of whatever conversation they’d been having when I interrupted.
I looked back over my shoulder, heard distant gunshots. What could I do to help those people who’d only gone to look at art? Nothing. I could do nothing. I could save myself.
I was afraid to go back for my bike, so I ran as long as I could, then I walked. As I got close to home I stopped at a table set up in the alley off Drayton and bought a bottle of home brew with my three dollars. The guy didn’t ask why I was shaking so badly, or why I stank of piss. The alcohol washed some of the rancid taste out of my mouth.
Colin and Jeannie weren’t home. I didn’t want to be alone; I couldn’t even bring myself to go inside to change, because our apartment was dark and I was afraid. I headed toward Ange’s.
The pattering of water behind a wrought-iron gate caught my attention. I stopped and peered through the gate at a perfectly manicured garden. The shrubs were trimmed in perfect arcs; there was an oval reflecting pool in the center. In the pool was a statue of a woman perched on the edge of a fountain, drinking, sharing the flow with birds in flight. It was so calm, so beautiful. I would have given anything to spend an hour in there.
I kept going, swigging from my bottle every few steps.
When I reached Ange’s house I pounded on the door with the flat of my fist.
Chair, the guy in the wheelchair, opened it. He called to Ange. She took one
He took a step back, looked me up and down. “Where do you live?” he asked.
“East Jones Street,” I said quickly. I was relieved to know the answer. I wanted to cooperate. I craved his approval.
He raised the gas gun, held it to the side of my nose.
“How many steps is it from here to the Oglethorpe Mall?”
“I don’t know what the right answer is.”
“Are you ready to die?”
“I don’t want to die.”
The blast from the gas gun was coming. He was almost finished with the precursors, then he would push the black mask on the end of the gun over my face and pull the trigger. I tried to think of some way to stretch it out, to get him to ask me more questions, to switch to someone else, even if only for a moment. I didn’t want to die. Through my terror I found myself trying to grasp that this was real. There would be a very painful few moments of dying, and then my life would end.
“Eat this.” He held a plastic lid up to my face. There was a stringy, slimy, whitish thing on it, with lidded eyes, little arms curled in toward a torso. It was a fetus, maybe a rat fetus, or a cat. I lifted it off the lid with my tongue, and I ate it. It was horrible; it was chewy and slimy. I bit what may have been the head, and felt fluid squirt across my tongue. I swallowed dramatically, so he’d know that I’d done what he told me.
“How many cats prowl this city?”
“I’m not sure,” I whimpered.
He smacked me in the back of the head, hard. “Run away now,” he said. “We’re not killing mice in rags today.”
I was running before his words fully registered, my shoulders pulled toward my ears, waiting to feel bullets rip into my back. I sprinted out of the alley, turned down the street with the rush of wind in my ears and a horrible taste in my mouth. I was making some sound as I ran, a sound I didn’t recognize and before this moment wouldn’t have believed was within my vocal range.
A few blocks away I spotted two police officers on horseback. I waved and shouted to get their attention.
“They’re killing people, behind an art gallery!” I pointed back up Abercorn.
“Where?” a female officer asked.
I pointed. “Three blocks up, I think, then right—”
“That’s not our jurisdiction.”
“No, but three men with guns are lining people up in an alley and shooting them! Right now!”
“Get lost,” the officer said. She made a clicking sound, kicked her horse in the ribs. In a nonchalant tone she picked up the thread of whatever conversation they’d been having when I interrupted.
I looked back over my shoulder, heard distant gunshots. What could I do to help those people who’d only gone to look at art? Nothing. I could do nothing. I could save myself.
I was afraid to go back for my bike, so I ran as long as I could, then I walked. As I got close to home I stopped at a table set up in the alley off Drayton and bought a bottle of home brew with my three dollars. The guy didn’t ask why I was shaking so badly, or why I stank of piss. The alcohol washed some of the rancid taste out of my mouth.
Colin and Jeannie weren’t home. I didn’t want to be alone; I couldn’t even bring myself to go inside to change, because our apartment was dark and I was afraid. I headed toward Ange’s.
The pattering of water behind a wrought-iron gate caught my attention. I stopped and peered through the gate at a perfectly manicured garden. The shrubs were trimmed in perfect arcs; there was an oval reflecting pool in the center. In the pool was a statue of a woman perched on the edge of a fountain, drinking, sharing the flow with birds in flight. It was so calm, so beautiful. I would have given anything to spend an hour in there.
I kept going, swigging from my bottle every few steps.
When I reached Ange’s house I pounded on the door with the flat of my fist.
Chair, the guy in the wheelchair, opened it. He called to Ange. She took one
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