Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO ASHLYN’S SKIN
One day, by God, you’ll have a car. Not that you know how to drive. But how hard can it be? Hit the gas to go, the brake to stop. Turn the steering wheel right to go right; left to go left. You don’t want a beater, though.
Bartering for a decent ride
will take forethought and a lot of work,
Ashlyn, some of it distasteful.
But you’re a clever girl.
when the time comes.
Public transportation is a pain. It takes you forever to get anywhere with all the stops, people getting on and off, sometimes struggling to find the right change. Babies crying. Old dudes farting. Couples arguing. Or making out. Okay, that can be interesting to watch. Built-in entertainment.
It’s not as bad if you’re just trying to get around the city, but today you’re headed into a northern neighborhood, and once you get close to your destination you’ll have to do the last leg on foot.
You could’ve waited for Silas to pick you up, but he had to work until four, and then he called to let you know he’d probably be late because the QuikTrip had been robbed. One of the employees was shot, the second woman in two days. The other was at Denny’s, and the cops think it was the same two guys. There’s a citywide manhunt underway for those crazy fucks.
As you exit the bus, a question flashes. What if those guys turned up at the rally tomorrow? Okay, that would be stupid, considering the whole of Tucson law enforcement is currently searching for them. But other dudes with itchy trigger fingers might very well be there. You’re pretty sure there will be plenty of guns in evidence. A state-sanctioned open-carry show of force.
Don’t worry about the risk.
Feed on it.
Truthfully, you might even attract danger. It seems to find you, so what’s the point of working too hard to avoid it? As if to prove the theory, you dive straight into a sketchy part of town, which is between you and the decent neighborhood that is your destination. Can’t get there any other way, however, so off you go. On the map it looked like maybe a half mile. Not so far.
The matchbox houses boast sagging fences and faded paint, and the people relaxing outside sit on flat cement rectangles, rather than porches. Heads turn and strange eyes assess you, obviously not a regular here.
“Woot. Hey, mami!” calls some random man, chugging beer with a buddy.
You ignore him, refuse to engage.
“Got some crystal,” offers a scraggly guy standing on a quiet street corner.
You try really hard not to look in his direction, but you must pass by him to cross, and you have to wait for a slow-moving car to clear the intersection.
“Try a little taste. You’ll like it.”
The way he leers makes you wonder if he’s talking about the meth or himself. You suspect the latter.
“Gave it up for Lent,” you try.
His grin reveals teeth in dire need of repair, not to mention brushing. “Huh. You don’t look like the religious type.”
Suddenly, you’re aware of his smell—sweat, soaked with whatever chemicals the crystal was cooked with. Kind of sweet. Kind of rancid. Luckily, you can chance the crosswalk now. You veer wide around him, step off the curb.
“Hey,” he calls after you. “Where you goin’?”
Halfway across, you become aware of footsteps behind you. A glance over your shoulder confirms it’s Meth Mouth. Scanning the landscape, you can see other people, but they’re not close, and anyway there’s no guarantee that they would come to your aid if this guy gets out of line.
He’s right behind you.
Challenge him.
“Are you following me?” you yell, your voice sharp and loud.
He slows but doesn’t pause. “Just watching out for you. This is a rough hood.”
“Stop right there. Do not come any closer. Thanks for your offer of help, but I’m fine on my own.”
You reach into your bag, hoping he’ll take the hint. The first thing your hand closes around is your phone. Dialing 911 might be prudent, but unless a cop is cruising real close, no way could he get here in time. No, you’ll have to deal with this by yourself.
The guy hesitates. “Whatcha got in there? Money?”
Hurt him.
“Dude, if I had any money I wouldn’t be walking. See? I’d be a shit customer anyway.”
He takes a step forward. “Let me look.”
Fucking dopers. More balls than brains, at least what brains they’ve got left.
“Take one more step and you’ll wish you never laid eyes on me.”
The guy, who’s three or four inches taller, and despite his drug-wasted frame still outweighs you, lunges. You sidestep and momentum carries him into the curb, tripping him forward. He catches himself before face-planting, but as he attempts to recover, you extract a couple of self-defense mechanisms from your bag.
“Fuck off or I will cut you.” You flash the switchblade, now open, in your right hand.
The thing about meth is it’s like rocket fuel for the kind of rage that defeats any semblance of logic. The dude jumps to his feet, comes straight at you. If he manages to bulldoze into you, things could get ugly.
Hold your ground.
You grit your teeth, and when he’s close enough so you know you can’t miss, you dose him with enough pepper spray to drop him back down on his knees. “Fucking bitch! You blinded me.”
Suddenly, you’re aware of people moving toward you on the sidewalk, and a car not so far down the block. Time to make a hasty retreat. As you hurry away, you understand that the whole scene probably took less than three minutes. Good thing you never leave home unprepared for situations exactly like that.
You should have stabbed him.
Adrenaline pumping, you jog for a while, not that you’re worried about the meth head, but rather as a way to alleviate the desire to turn around and demonstrate the proper way to use a switchblade against a deserving reprobate. You’ve done it before, and would have no problem with a repeat performance.
Fact is, you’re a tough girl, and that has as much to do with your innate personality as it does with the circumstances of your childhood. Some kids faced with similar situations would simply fold up and check on out. Not you. You’re a fighter. That could very well be a trait you inherited from your bastard father, so maybe it’s one thing you can thank him for.
A knife might not be a gun, but it can be a valuable weapon. And unfortunately, there will always be the random man who believes it’s his right to take a woman by force. You decided early on that would not happen to you.
It wasn’t a switchblade that time. It was a critically sharp boning knife you borrowed from Aunt Lou’s kitchen. She never missed it. Her idea of meat is Spam. You can cut that with a fork.
You were a high school sophomore, and you’d gone to a post-football-game party. The guy who was supposed to take you home—you couldn’t rightfully call him your boyfriend, more like an acquaintance with a car—wasn’t ready to call it a night. Despite your protest, he drove to a construction site, of course deserted at that time.
“Take me home, please,” you tried.
“Sure. After we have some fun.”
“Look, I don’t give sex away, and you’ve got nothing I need.”
“I’ve got this.”
He unzipped his pants, freeing his erection, then pushed you down on the seat, forcing himself between your legs. You were wearing a skirt, putting nothing between him and you but thin panties. Your purse, however, was in reach on the floor, and you knew exactly where to find the aptly named boning knife. Him, you didn’t warn. In one swift motion, you brought the blade down into his shoulder at the same time your foot caught his groin. Neither his arm nor his dick was going to work very well for a while.
The power you exhaled in that moment!
Resurrect it whenever you can.
He jumped off like you were on fire, giving you the chance to escape his car. You ran, but he didn’t follow. And when he saw you at school on Monday, he never said a word, at least not to you. A few of the guys looked at you differently after that. There was a titillating blend of fear and respect in their eyes, and that was okay by you. They had nothing you needed, either.
You’ve been to Tim’s house a couple of times, so you recognize it when you turn down his street. It’s big and handsome, nothing like the one you live in. His mom must have married well. Her side of the family—your side—does not come from money.
As you start up the walk, a girl comes out the door and hustles over to her Honda Civic, scoots in and drives away. She shoots you a curious look as she passes. Probably not a whole lot of females visit Tim.
Tim, who’s still at the door, stands back to let you in. He reeks of weed and his eyes are bloodshot. Bet you can guess what he and that girl were just smoking. “Smells like good shit.”
“It is.”
He does not offer to share, and that’s fine. That’s not why you’re here. You get straight down to business.
“How are things shaping up?”
“It’s been a couple of hours since I last checked in. Let’s go to my room.”
Okay, that’s vaguely discomfiting.
“Is your mom home?”
“Not yet. I expect her around dinnertime.”
“Does she know about tomorrow?”
“Only what she’s seeing in the news.” He leads the way up a long flight of stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. “Shut the door, okay?” He goes over to his desk, fires up his computer, a fancy desktop Mac. Then he pulls up a web page detailing tomorrow’s rally.
There’s a list of organizations planning to show a united front against illegal immigrants flooding into the country. That’s especially important here, in a state bordering Mexico. Together, you and Tim peruse the list.
“Check it out,” he says. “Oath Keepers and Three Percenters will be there, so we’ll have militia backup.”
“A heavy open-carry presence, you mean.”
“Oh, yeah. Those dudes will come armed to the teeth.”
Your skin tingles.
“What about us? Are we arming?”
Tim turns away from the computer, eyes you suspiciously. “Some of us might be. Why? Do you own a firearm?”
“Maybe.” No use giving away all your secrets.
“Long gun? Because those are much more impressive.”
“Can you shoot one accurately? Even under extreme pressure?”
“Absolutely.”
Again he stares, not quite able to believe you. “Where did you learn to shoot?”
“ROTC.”
“You mean Junior ROTC, right?” He snorts.
“I’m still in high school, so yeah, that would be it.”
“True. Same general marksmanship principles, however. And I happen to be good.”
Damn straight you are. Competition-level good. Not only that, but you ace your matches.
“You joining up?”
“Thinking about it, yeah. First I thought army, but now I’m considering the air force. The big decision is whether to let them send me to college. I don’t have a military commitment with JROTC, but I would if I join ROTC.”
“I don’t know, man. The world is a crazy place. If you do it, don’t go army. Too big a chance of boots on the ground.”
You’ve considered that. “I’m not afraid to fight. I’d rather die with honor than spend my whole life working at a shit job. At least I’d join as an officer. Better pay. Better opportunities.”
“Personally, I’d rather not die at all, but when I do, I doubt it will be honorable.”
As tough guys go, he’s kind of a wuss. Maybe you should start a female-centric alt-right organization. White Women Unite, or something. An all-girl armed militia would be an amazing sight.
“So, are you going to carry tomorrow?” Why is it you doubt it?
But he surprises you. “Of course. Taking an AR-15.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’ll show you.”
You follow him down the hall to a small bedroom, now used as an office. A big bookcase hogs an entire wall. Tim trips a switch hidden behind an encyclopedia and a panel swings out, revealing a chamber stockpiled with guns. It’s a huge collection, everything from antique pistols to semiautomatic rifles.
“Holy shit. You expecting the apocalypse?”
He laughs. “Nah. My dad was a collector. Some people would call him a gun nut, I guess. He loved the damn things. Interestingly, though, I can only remember him actually shooting any a few times. He just wanted to own them.”
And you just want to caress them. Probably should ask. “Can I touch?”
“Yeah. They’re not loaded. We keep the protection pieces where we can reach them quickly if we need them.”
The antiques are in display cases. You examine them from behind the glass. But the ones you’re most drawn to are housed in simple locked racks attached to the walls. These are military models or knockoffs. M16s. AK-47s. AR-15s. Even at rest, they’re intimidating. Powerful. Deadly.
So much potential sleeping
within them. Go on.
Touch them.
Stroke them.
Honor them.
“Beautiful. Which one are you taking tomorrow?”
He walks over, unlocks the bar holding the guns in place, picks up one of the assault rifles. “This one.” He strokes the barrel like he might a lover’s arm. “Here. See how she feels.”
Tease.
You heft the proffered gun, a Bushmaster AR-15. “It’s lighter than I thought it would be.”
“Yeah. They replaced aluminum and steel with some space-age polymer. Keeps it from corroding, too. Hey, check out this one.”
He takes the rifle, replaces it with another. They look almost the same, except this one is more compact. “What is it?”
“Bushmaster Carbon 15 pistol. Awesome, yeah?”
“It’s brilliant.” What if? Nah, he wouldn’t. Would he? “Don’t suppose you’d let me carry this one tomorrow?”
That stops him. You can actually see the wheels turning. Finally, he asks, “What’s in it for me?”
Pig.
Make him squeal.
Fade Out