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LJ Idol 7.1: No worse than—dragons!
Nov. 4th, 2010 10:39 amAfter driving carefully into town to run some unavoidable errands, Everett Sack parked his late model Volvo sedan, unbuckled his seat belt, and looked both ways before crossing the street to the bank. A creature of habit—for his mother had taught him that habit was the best way to avoid the uncertainties of the world—he knew that the bank would be nearly empty at that time of day, which meant quick service and minimum exposure to the germs of others.
The bank door closed behind Everett just as a man stepped out of an alley a few steps away from the entrance. He, too, looked up and down the empty street, then pulled a nylon stocking over his head and took a sawed-off shotgun out of a paper bag. He moved purposefully to the bank door and went inside.
“Everybody freeze!” shouted the man, and pointed his stubby weapon at the gray-haired guard near the door. “You, hands up!” As the guard complied, the stockinged head turned toward the service counter. “You! Teller! Don’t you move—don’t even breathe! The rest of you, get on the floor. Now!”
Everett needed no further prompting, buckling quickly onto his buttocks, but a woman and a little girl—mother and daughter, no doubt, and the only other customers in the bank—did not move quickly enough for the bandit. “I said now!” he screamed, punctuating his cry by pointing his shotgun in the woman's face. The little girl grasped at her white-faced mother, pulling her more quickly to the floor and safety.
Everett’s flailed his legs to squarely drive his torso back against the partition below the service counter and protectively wrapped his arms around his head. Through the gap between his forearms he watched in horror as the bank guard lowered a hand toward his holstered automatic. Somehow sensing the movement, the bank robber swung his weapon back around and shot the guard at point-blank range.
Blood gushed from the guard’s chest as his body hit the ground and the sound of the shot died away. As Everett stared at the guard’s lifeless eyes, he heard an echo of his mother’s voice: “Stay away from guns. They kill people.”
Everett wet himself.
A car came to a too-sudden stop in the street outside the bank. The bandit stepped to within a few feet of the door and, through the glass, saw a car with markings and a set of lights on the roof. The car door had opened and a police officer was getting out.
“You called the cops!” yelled the robber, turning to face the teller and bringing his weapon to bear.
“No! I swear! I didn’t,” cried the teller, extending his hands forward. “Don’t shoot!” As the shotgun came level, Everett felt as if he was looking directly down the barrel, despite the fact the weapon was being aimed at the teller above and behind him. He closed his eyes tightly and so didn't see the barrel jerk slightly as the bandit pulled the trigger.
A second blast reverberated in the bank’s lobby, and the teller fell to the ground, wounded, where he began moaning in pain. Given the distance between the bandit and his target, the shot pellets had spread too much to allow an effective killing shot. Moreover, because the robber’s aim had been off, most of the shot pellets had hit the counter and partition. Quite a few had also struck Everett's arms, which were still wrapped around his head.
“My God!” he thought, “I’ve been shot!”
Over the next few milliseconds, Everett’s mind focused on key events of his life. The news of his father’s death in a bar at the hands of a knife-wielding drunk and his mother’s resulting breakdown, when Everett had been nine. Her subsequent unceasing efforts to keep him safe at all costs: withdrawing him from the Cub Scouts (“All those knives, and axes, and learning how to start fires—you could get hurt!”); quelling his interest in amateur radio (“Electricity can kill you and antennas attract lightning!”); forbidding him to study about airplanes (“They fall out of the sky all the time, don’t you know?”).
When he was bullied in the ninth grade, his mother had insisted he not stand up for himself and that school authorities take care of the situation, whereupon the bullying had only gotten worse. And Everett went along with all of it, uncomplaining, for he had come to fear the unknown hazards of his world and had sought to flatten his profile whenever possible. Like the ancients who avoided traveling to climes where dragons were said to roam, Everett lived a very circumscribed life.
And now, though wounded, Everett felt no pain. Inexplicably, the next thought through his distracted mind was: “And it’s no worse than this?” He lowered his arms and watched as a few drops of blood—his blood—fell onto the vinyl tile of the bank’s floor. He would feel pain later, when the shock wore off, but for now—
“All those years,” said Everett, “and it’s no worse than this!” He looked at the gunman, who was only now realizing that a sawed-off shotgun—while an intimidating close-range weapon—needs to be reloaded after both barrels have been fired.
Everett giggled suddenly and, gathering his legs under him, gained his feet. With newborn thoughts of mayhem dancing in his head, he screamed “ALL THOSE YEARS!” and flung himself at the would-be robber.
The bank door closed behind Everett just as a man stepped out of an alley a few steps away from the entrance. He, too, looked up and down the empty street, then pulled a nylon stocking over his head and took a sawed-off shotgun out of a paper bag. He moved purposefully to the bank door and went inside.
“Everybody freeze!” shouted the man, and pointed his stubby weapon at the gray-haired guard near the door. “You, hands up!” As the guard complied, the stockinged head turned toward the service counter. “You! Teller! Don’t you move—don’t even breathe! The rest of you, get on the floor. Now!”
Everett needed no further prompting, buckling quickly onto his buttocks, but a woman and a little girl—mother and daughter, no doubt, and the only other customers in the bank—did not move quickly enough for the bandit. “I said now!” he screamed, punctuating his cry by pointing his shotgun in the woman's face. The little girl grasped at her white-faced mother, pulling her more quickly to the floor and safety.
Everett’s flailed his legs to squarely drive his torso back against the partition below the service counter and protectively wrapped his arms around his head. Through the gap between his forearms he watched in horror as the bank guard lowered a hand toward his holstered automatic. Somehow sensing the movement, the bank robber swung his weapon back around and shot the guard at point-blank range.
Blood gushed from the guard’s chest as his body hit the ground and the sound of the shot died away. As Everett stared at the guard’s lifeless eyes, he heard an echo of his mother’s voice: “Stay away from guns. They kill people.”
Everett wet himself.
A car came to a too-sudden stop in the street outside the bank. The bandit stepped to within a few feet of the door and, through the glass, saw a car with markings and a set of lights on the roof. The car door had opened and a police officer was getting out.
“You called the cops!” yelled the robber, turning to face the teller and bringing his weapon to bear.
“No! I swear! I didn’t,” cried the teller, extending his hands forward. “Don’t shoot!” As the shotgun came level, Everett felt as if he was looking directly down the barrel, despite the fact the weapon was being aimed at the teller above and behind him. He closed his eyes tightly and so didn't see the barrel jerk slightly as the bandit pulled the trigger.
A second blast reverberated in the bank’s lobby, and the teller fell to the ground, wounded, where he began moaning in pain. Given the distance between the bandit and his target, the shot pellets had spread too much to allow an effective killing shot. Moreover, because the robber’s aim had been off, most of the shot pellets had hit the counter and partition. Quite a few had also struck Everett's arms, which were still wrapped around his head.
“My God!” he thought, “I’ve been shot!”
Over the next few milliseconds, Everett’s mind focused on key events of his life. The news of his father’s death in a bar at the hands of a knife-wielding drunk and his mother’s resulting breakdown, when Everett had been nine. Her subsequent unceasing efforts to keep him safe at all costs: withdrawing him from the Cub Scouts (“All those knives, and axes, and learning how to start fires—you could get hurt!”); quelling his interest in amateur radio (“Electricity can kill you and antennas attract lightning!”); forbidding him to study about airplanes (“They fall out of the sky all the time, don’t you know?”).
When he was bullied in the ninth grade, his mother had insisted he not stand up for himself and that school authorities take care of the situation, whereupon the bullying had only gotten worse. And Everett went along with all of it, uncomplaining, for he had come to fear the unknown hazards of his world and had sought to flatten his profile whenever possible. Like the ancients who avoided traveling to climes where dragons were said to roam, Everett lived a very circumscribed life.
And now, though wounded, Everett felt no pain. Inexplicably, the next thought through his distracted mind was: “And it’s no worse than this?” He lowered his arms and watched as a few drops of blood—his blood—fell onto the vinyl tile of the bank’s floor. He would feel pain later, when the shock wore off, but for now—
“All those years,” said Everett, “and it’s no worse than this!” He looked at the gunman, who was only now realizing that a sawed-off shotgun—while an intimidating close-range weapon—needs to be reloaded after both barrels have been fired.
Everett giggled suddenly and, gathering his legs under him, gained his feet. With newborn thoughts of mayhem dancing in his head, he screamed “ALL THOSE YEARS!” and flung himself at the would-be robber.
