I hung up and stared down at the Chicken King, who was mumbling something into the carpet.
“You say something, Happy Roy?”
“I should have stayed single.”
“No kidding,” I said. “Relationships can be murder.”
Body Shots
Amazon.com introduced a program in 2005 called Amazon Shorts, where customers could download short stories for 49 cents. I wrote this story specifically for Amazon. It was an attempt to really take Jack to the brink, by making the situation get worse and worse no matter how hard she tried to fix things. It's as dark as Jack has gotten, so far…
“And can you mega-size that meal deal?”
I reach over from the passenger seat and give my partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, a poke in the ribs, except I don't actually feel his ribs because they're encased in a substantial layer of fat—the result of many years of mega-sizing his fast food meals.
“What?” he asks. “You want me to mega-size your fat-free yogurt?”
“No. You told me to point it out whenever I saw you overeating.”
“How am I overeating?”
“You just mega-sized a triple bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate shake.”
Herb shrugs, multiple chins wiggling.
“So? It's just one meal.”
“The mega-size french fries come in a carton bigger than your head. The shake is the size of a rain barrel.”
“Be realistic here, Jack. It's only 49 cents. You can't buy anything for 49 cents these days.”
“How about another heart attack? How much is that—”
My words are cut off by two quick pops from the drive-thru speaker. Though October, Chicago has been blessed with unseasonably warm weather, and my passenger window is wide open, the sound reaching me through there as well. It's coming from the restaurant.
Only one thing makes a sound like that.
Herb hits the radio. “This is Car 118, officer needs assistance. Shots fired at the Burger Barn on Kedzie and Wabash.”
I beat Herb out of the car, pulling my star from the pocket of my jacket and my .38 from my shoulder holster. I'm wearing flats and a beige skirt. A cool wind kicks up and brings goosebumps to my legs. The shoes are Kate Spade. The jacket and skirt are Donna Karan. The holster is Smith and Wesson.
As I near the building, I can make out screams, followed by another gunshot. A spatter of blood and tissue blossoms on the inside of the drive-thru window, blocking my view of the interior.
I hold up my pinky—my signal to Herb that there are casualties—and hurry past the window in a crouch, stopping before the glass doors. I tug the lanyard out of the badge case and loop it over my head. On one knee, I crane my neck around the brick jamb and peek into the restaurant.
I spot a single perp, Caucasian male, mid-thirties. I can't make out his hair color because he's wearing a black football helmet complete with face gear. Jeans, black combat boots, and a gray trench coat complete the ensemble. And under the trench coat...
An ammo belt.
Two strips of leather crisscross his chest, bandolero style. Instead of bullets in the webbing, I count eight clips. Four more clips are stuck into his waistband. I assume they're for the 9mm Beretta in his hand, currently pointed at a family cowering under a plastiform table.
A mother and two kids.
Before my mind can register what is happening, he fires six times. The bullets tear through the table and into the mother's back. Blood sprays onto the children she's been shielding, and then erupts from the children in fireworks patterns.
I tear my eyes away from the horror and scan for more hostiles, but see only potential victims—at least twenty. Behind me, I hear footfalls and Herb's labored breathing.
“At least four down. One perp, heavily armed.”
“You want to be old yeller?”
I shake my head and swallow. “I want the shot.”
“On three.”
Herb flashes one, two, three fingers, then I shove through the door first, rolling to the side, coming up in a shooting position just as Herb yells, “POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!”
The gunman swings toward Herb, I let out a slow breath and squeeze—angle up to discourage ricochets, aiming at the body mass, no ricochet because the shot is true, squeeze, the perp recoiling and stepping back once, twice, dropping the green duffle bag that's slung over his shoulder, squeeze, screams from everywhere at once, Herb's gun going off behind me, squeeze, watching the impact but not seeing blood—
Vest.
I scream, “Vest!” and roll to the side as the gunman takes aim, firing where I was, orange tile chips peppering the side of my face like BBs.
I come up in a kneeling position behind a rectangular trash can enclosure, look at Herb and see that he's out of the line of fire, gone to ground.
I stick my head around the garbage island, watch as the perp vaults the counter, shooting a teenaged cashier who's hugging the shake machine and sobbing. The back of the teen's head opens up and empties onto the greasy floor.
“Everybody out!” I yell.
There's a stampede to the door, and I glance back and see Herb get tackled by a wall of people, then I take a deep breath and bolt for the counter.
The gunman appears, holding a screaming employee dressed in a Burger Barn uniform, using the kid as a human shield. Her face is streaked with tears, and there's a dark patch in the front of her jeans where she's wet herself. The Beretta is jammed against her forehead.
The perp says, “Drop the gun, Jack.”
His voice is a low baritone, and it's eerily calm. His blue eyes lock on mine, and they hold my gaze. He doesn't seem psychotic at all, which terrifies me.
How does he know my name?
I stand up, adopt a Weaver stance, aiming for the face shot.
The gunman doesn't wait for me. He fires.
There's a sudden explosion of blood and tissue and the girl's eyes roll up and the perp ducks behind some fryers before her body hits the floor.
Too fast. This is all happening too fast.
I chance a look at the door, don't see Herb among the panicking people. I can't wait—there are probably more employees in the back. I dig into my blazer pocket and find some loose bullets, jamming them into my revolver. When I leap over the counter, my gun is at full cock.
No one by the grill. I glance left, see a body slumped next to the drive-thru window. Glance right, see a dead man on his back, most of his face gone. Stare forward, see a long stainless steel prep table. There's a young guy hiding under it. I tug him out and push him toward the counter, mouthing at him to “Run.”
Movement ahead. The freezer door opens, and my finger almost pulls the trigger. It's another employee. Behind him, the perp.
The perp is grinning.
“Let's try this again,” he says. “Drop the gun or I shoot.”
I can't drop my gun. I'm not allowed to. It's one of the first things they teach you at the police academy.
“Let's talk this through,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“No talk.”
He fires, and I watch another kid die in front of me.
I aim high, putting two rounds into the gunman's helmet, where they make dents and little else. He's already running away, pushing through the emergency exit, the alarm sounding off.
