pretty badass, but I had no idea what that meant until we started our long trip to the Central Coast of California. Okay, I am getting ahead of myself again.
As each day went by, things got more and more out of hand. The big retail and hardware stores were getting hit hard. On day one, people were arguing about supplies, but as soon as they saw our uniforms and weapons, they backed off pretty fast. We saw cars and trucks drive by us packed with supplies. I couldn’t help but hope that my family was doing the same as those people.
A few days later, there was no more politeness and no more shying away from uniformed authority. The masses had begun to carry unconcealed weapons, which was still within their rights there. Arizona’s gun permit laws were known to be some of the most lenient in the country. They made sense to me, before the war that is.
Collins, Long and I were trying to uphold the laws, but the lines were getting blurry. The cops were not able to keep up with everything that was going down, so we began to get more involved in public disputes, and that’s when we found ourselves in the middle of a gun fight in downtown Phoenix. We went into battle mode. I never thought that this would happen in the United States; citizens getting into battles over a two-gallon jug of water. But we were trained for fighting, and so that’s what we did.
Long was behind a dumpster that sat in a parking lot outside of a grocery store. Collins had made his way to the top of the building, and I was across the street, crouched behind a civilian Humvee that just happened to be parked there.
I had never seen anything like what happened that day.
Bullets started to fly from a gun that had just crashed through a window at the grocery store. Some were coming in my direction, and I could hear bloodcurdling screams coming from inside. This went on for minutes, maybe. Time had no reference point; no beginning and no end. The ear-piercing screaming finally subsided.
Two white men dressed in old fatigues ran from the building pushing and pulling two baskets each. The baskets were filled with food and water. They had several rifles each, strapped over their shoulders. A third man wearing all black came running from behind them with gun drawn, looking for a place to aim.
I looked up to see Collins on the roof. He didn’t have a clear shot and neither did Long. Someone not far from me began firing, and when I heard a rush of air just over my head, I opened fire.
The first man I ever killed was one of the camo-guys with the baskets. He slumped over his hard-earned rewards. His blood poured over the contents of the basket, as if claiming his prize.
I turned and saw Long run out, firing. She was not following any of our training; she was just shooting, emptying her gun like a character in a video game.
The man dressed in pure black turned and fired at the roof. Collins came hurtling down before coming to rest on a red SUV. The firing of the guns wasn’t quite enough to cover the blaring car alarm that was triggered by Collins’ impact.
The gunman in black turned and looked me straight in the eye. I took the shot milliseconds before he did. As he fell to the ground, he fired high into the air, creating an arch of bullet spray. His finger must have been stuck on the trigger, because it didn’t stop. The sound of his high powered rifle blended with the car alarm in a symphony of death.
From behind me came more people dressed in black; this time they wore bulletproof vests with “SWAT” written in white letters on the front and back.
With that, my butt fell to the ground and landed on the sharp curb.
Sweat poured down my face and mixed with the salt of my tears.
After I confirmed that Long and Collins were both dead, I looked for my command in the building where they were set up, but they were gone. I probably wouldn’t admit this out loud, but for hours I searched, like a little kid lost in a supermarket, running up and down the
As each day went by, things got more and more out of hand. The big retail and hardware stores were getting hit hard. On day one, people were arguing about supplies, but as soon as they saw our uniforms and weapons, they backed off pretty fast. We saw cars and trucks drive by us packed with supplies. I couldn’t help but hope that my family was doing the same as those people.
A few days later, there was no more politeness and no more shying away from uniformed authority. The masses had begun to carry unconcealed weapons, which was still within their rights there. Arizona’s gun permit laws were known to be some of the most lenient in the country. They made sense to me, before the war that is.
Collins, Long and I were trying to uphold the laws, but the lines were getting blurry. The cops were not able to keep up with everything that was going down, so we began to get more involved in public disputes, and that’s when we found ourselves in the middle of a gun fight in downtown Phoenix. We went into battle mode. I never thought that this would happen in the United States; citizens getting into battles over a two-gallon jug of water. But we were trained for fighting, and so that’s what we did.
Long was behind a dumpster that sat in a parking lot outside of a grocery store. Collins had made his way to the top of the building, and I was across the street, crouched behind a civilian Humvee that just happened to be parked there.
I had never seen anything like what happened that day.
Bullets started to fly from a gun that had just crashed through a window at the grocery store. Some were coming in my direction, and I could hear bloodcurdling screams coming from inside. This went on for minutes, maybe. Time had no reference point; no beginning and no end. The ear-piercing screaming finally subsided.
Two white men dressed in old fatigues ran from the building pushing and pulling two baskets each. The baskets were filled with food and water. They had several rifles each, strapped over their shoulders. A third man wearing all black came running from behind them with gun drawn, looking for a place to aim.
I looked up to see Collins on the roof. He didn’t have a clear shot and neither did Long. Someone not far from me began firing, and when I heard a rush of air just over my head, I opened fire.
The first man I ever killed was one of the camo-guys with the baskets. He slumped over his hard-earned rewards. His blood poured over the contents of the basket, as if claiming his prize.
I turned and saw Long run out, firing. She was not following any of our training; she was just shooting, emptying her gun like a character in a video game.
The man dressed in pure black turned and fired at the roof. Collins came hurtling down before coming to rest on a red SUV. The firing of the guns wasn’t quite enough to cover the blaring car alarm that was triggered by Collins’ impact.
The gunman in black turned and looked me straight in the eye. I took the shot milliseconds before he did. As he fell to the ground, he fired high into the air, creating an arch of bullet spray. His finger must have been stuck on the trigger, because it didn’t stop. The sound of his high powered rifle blended with the car alarm in a symphony of death.
From behind me came more people dressed in black; this time they wore bulletproof vests with “SWAT” written in white letters on the front and back.
With that, my butt fell to the ground and landed on the sharp curb.
Sweat poured down my face and mixed with the salt of my tears.
After I confirmed that Long and Collins were both dead, I looked for my command in the building where they were set up, but they were gone. I probably wouldn’t admit this out loud, but for hours I searched, like a little kid lost in a supermarket, running up and down the
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