AINTRIGHT: AN IDIOT WITH A GUN (2 page)

“Aren't you the one that's always saying
'expect the unexpected?'” she asked making air quotes with her
fingers.

“I was applying that to crack-heads,
criminals and convicts where the unexpected is normal; not to life
in a small town.”

“Maybe life in this small town's not
normal,” she said.

“You may be right,” he said putting the
motorhome in gear, “but all I care about is gettin' settled in for
the night.”

“Just so you know, I'm always right,” she
said, shaking her finger in jest, “the problem is you never
listen.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Are you
sure you're not related to that contrary little British woman that
lives in our dash?”

“Watch where you're going! You're about to
hit the hook-up thing.”

“Oops, that was close,” he said turning the
wheel and coming to a stop in the RV slot.

“Idiot.”

Part Two: Tooters & Shooters

A shockwave of sound blasting from the horn
of a locomotive tore past his eardrums; its energy propelling
itself into his brain and forcing his eyes to flare open, their
lids widening over dilating pupils. Disoriented, he jackknifed his
body to a sitting position in the queen size bed. The rapid beating
of his heart could be felt pulsating through the veins of his
neck.

Throwing off the flat sheet and comforter he
snatched the Smith & Wesson, .357 magnum revolver, off the
nightstand next to their bed, swung his legs over the side and
instinctively pointed the handgun at the shaded window nearest him.
Another nearby blast from the train’s horn shook the glass in the
window and caused him to flinch but he did not fire. Feeling the
mattress move behind him he looked over his shoulder to see his
wife bouncing off the end of the bed onto her feet.

Throwing on her robe as she started to the
front of the motorhome she said, “You can shoot a train if you
want, but I’m heading for the door.”

“None of this makes sense,” he thought. “How
did our RV get on railroad tracks?”

Gun still in hand and dressed only in pajama
shorts he jumped in his boots and grabbed his cowboy hat off the
hook as he headed for the door. His wife was already out.

Skipping the first step he hit the bottom
one with his left foot and launched himself out the door. Hitting
the ground with both feet he felt another deafening blast of the
horn coming from the left. Jerking his head in that direction he
saw his wife marching toward the back of the Aintright public
school building.

She was in full stride of her
I ain't happy walk
,
clearing a path through a stream of about two dozen
students and staff making their way across the caliche parking lot,
before funneling through a single glass door to the school
cafeteria. Beyond the large glass panels that comprised the back
wall of the school were two dozen more seated around the tables,
shoveling in breakfast and spitting out words to their
neighbor.

“Wait a minute,” he thought, looking around.
“We didn't go nowhere. We're still parked behind the school.”

He tucked the .357 in his boot, the grips of
the weapon exposed. Hurrying across the unpaved parking lot to
catch his wife he realized she had already reached her
objective.

“Why are y'all blowing that horn?” she
asked, approaching two men standing near a tall pole behind the
school. They turned, looked at her, looked at each other, then back
at her.

Standing in front of them she pointed to the
top of the pole and asked, “Did you not hear me? Why are y'all
blowing that horn? Our RV is obviously parked by a school, but it
most definitely isn't in a railroad yard.”

Both men remained silent doing their best
not to laugh at the barefooted woman wearing a bathrobe turned
inside-out, disheveled pajamas and her hair tousled in early
morning cow-licks. The younger man was near forty and dressed in a
long-sleeved shirt, tie, Wrangler Riata pants, polished boots and a
Stetson hat. The other man looked old enough to have been a
childhood friend of Methuselah. He wore clean, striped bib
overalls, a matching stained engineer's cap and an ancient pair of
scuffed work boots.

The younger man took a deep breath to gain
his composure. Putting his hand on the other man's shoulder he
spoke.

“Ma'am to answer your question, Jon Luther
here sounds this horn three times a day, five days a week. Seven
forty-five in the morning to welcome the new day, eleven
forty-five, just before lunch, then four forty-five for another day
done. He's our town tooter. I'm Felipe Gonzalez, district
superintendent and principal.” He held out his hand.

Crossing her arms she said, “Your tooter
here, and his Viking war cry horn scared me close to a heart
attack. I thought our RV had rolled onto some railroad tracks.
Don’t look at me that way, I’ve read about that happening, and
believe you me there's nothing welcoming about running for your
life first thing in the morning.”

Felipe awkwardly stuck his hand in his
pocket. The older man removed his cap from his head before
speaking. “Dear lady my sincere apologies for frightening you.
Allow me to introduce myself, I am Jonathan Luther Jones, engineer
for the Illinois Central Railroad, retired. The people of Aintright
have been kind enough to allow me the pleasure of replicating the
whistle that was on my last train and sounding it three times
daily.” He waved at the pole, “Of course as there is no steam
available I had to fashion it from air horns.”

“Oh, of course,” she said raising one hand
in retort, but leaving her arms crossed.

The early morning sunlight floated through
the cool, dry air of the autumn morning, shrinking the shadows
behind the school building. A drifting aroma of bacon, eggs,
biscuits and gravy from the school cafeteria caused the mans
stomach to grumble as he stopped next to his wife.

“Hey babe, what's goin' on?” he asked.

Her arms still crossed she nodded her head
toward Felipe and Jon Luther. “These two gentleman...” The
“gentlemen” glanced at her husband and burst into laughter.

She turned and looked at him. “Oh no,” she
gasped, her eyes widening in embarrassment. “What are you wearing?”
She dropped her arms to her sides intent on staring an answer from
him.

“Oh crap,” he said, catching his reflection
in the glass wall, “I don't have clothes on.”

He was bare-chested, his straw cowboy hat
jammed down on his head. Below that a pair of pajama shorts covered
with pictures of the Looney Tunes character, Roadrunner; on his
feet cowboy boots with his .357 tucked in the right one. It was
then a blonde, high-school girl staring out from behind his
reflection, pointed and squealed, “He's got a gun!”

Felipe and Jon quieted their laughter. He
immediately raised a pair of empty hands when the glass in front of
the girl shattered. She crumpled onto the shard covered floor as
screaming bodies wildly scattered.

He didn't hear the noise of the glass
breaking as an instant before, his senses targeted a vaguely
familiar sound; a fully automatic, AK-47 rifle, spewing out 10
rounds per second. It was to his left. The nerves and muscles of
his body reacted swiftly. Shoving his wife aside he bent, drew the
.357 from his boot and stepped in front of her as the revolver rose
past his hip.

Scanning, he saw Felipe grab his wife and
dive for the ground as Jon Luther fell backward. Several bodies
were on the ground, others frantically running, looking more than
like a rugby scrum than a stampede. More screams, more yelling, and
breathing...his breathing.

“Threat located,” he thought, his mind in a
hyper-vigilant state, “black ski-mask, dark clothing, one-hundred
round drum, still firing...now closer to the back entrance of the
school. Remember bring up sidearm with a high two-handed grip to
minimize recoil. Remember, position thumb under thumb, rest finger
on the trigger, sight target center mass, use double-tap...breathe,
hold, incapacitate threat.”

A thunderous explosion of gas and fire
sparked by two near instantaneous taps on the trigger sent a pair
of .158 grain, hollow point projectiles spiraling from the barrel
of his gun and thudding into their target less than thirty feet
away. The shooter stumbled backward from the impact but didn't
fall. His finger squeezing the trigger of the AK-47 and sending a
burst of rounds up the wall, through the ceiling and into the sky
as his arms jerked up then down before he regained control of the
weapon and his balance.

Processing the frantic blurs of movement to
his left and right, the man with the .357 focused on the still
standing menace in front of him. A tornado of screams swirled
around him, dulled by the loud ringing in his ears. The smell of
burnt gunpowder overpowered the aroma of breakfast, his stomach
twisting in a knot.

“Body armor,” he thought. “Head shot,
acquire sight picture.”

A hailstorm of bullets sliced through the
caliche surface in front of him throwing up a broken wall of dirt.
He had counted on that. He knew from his training that most bad
guys using a fully automatic weapon tended to point and spray
instead of aiming. This meant he had one chance before the shooter
raised his sights, putting him in the middle of that hailstorm.

“Breathe, hold...incapacitate threat.” He
squeezed the trigger. A cool breeze flitted across the bristling
hairs of his chest and arms.

The fabric of the ski-mask barely moved as
the shooter's head jerked back; his body falling onto its left
side, his head bouncing off the sidewalk. The AK-47 silent, except
for the clanging sound it made hitting the ground. Scarcely 5
seconds had passed between the glass shattering and the last shot
he fired from his .357. At least 50 rounds fired by the shooter,
three well-placed shots delivered by him. He took a deep breath,
exhaled and relaxed his muscles letting the revolver drop, the
barrel hot against the bare skin of his leg.

Turning to find his wife he was knocked a
step backward by a body crashing into him. The body's arms grabbed
him around the waist and squeezed hard. It was her. She squeezed,
cried and talked at the same time. The colored blurs and distorted
sounds of this chaos slowed, taking the shape of normal people
horrified by the unthinkable.

“Thank God you're alright,” she blurted
out.

He put his arms around her, the .357
dangling from his hand. Lowering his lips to her ear, he pressed
his cheek against her hair. “I told you, too quick to kill baby.”
Pulling his head back he looked into her eyes. “I'm just glad
you’re okay. I was scared that, well, you know.”

“I love you too,” she said, leaning her head
softly against his chest. She took several quick breaths and wiped
the tears from her eyes, slowly reached up and twisted his bare
nipple hard.

“Owwwwwww!,” he howled, roughly pulling her
against him in reaction. “That stinkin' hurts. Why would you do
that?”

She clasped her hands around his back and
leaned away to look at him. “Why would you go against a machine-gun
with a revolver?” she demanded.

“It's what I doooo,” he quipped. “Figured I
had a better chance than those kids did.”

“Idiot,” she said softly, closing her eyes
and giving him another hug. When she opened her eyes her blood
turned cold. “There's another one behind you!”

Spinning out of her embrace he placed
himself between his wife and this new threat. He saw the familiar
silhouette of a Colt, AR-15 rifle, in the hands of a man running at
them. The .357 rose in his right hand, his left racing toward it.
He felt the metal of the trigger press into the meat of his finger
as instinct took over. “Three rounds,” he thought...

Thank you for reading Episode One of
AINTRIGHT, “An Idiot With A Gun.” The series continued in Episode
Two.