The following takes place between 5pm and 6pm
I pressed the send button on my phone and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”
A recorded voice on the other end said “Clark gas station, twelve hundred eighty block of University.” My phone beeped, indicating a picture had arrived, and I opened it as I put the car in gear and sped out of the parking lot.
The picture appeared in Silverlight, and showed the location of the gas station relative to my location. Just a quick left up here, over a bridge, and I’d be on the right road…
Looking in my rear view for the turn, I saw a torrent of cars pouring out of the Sierra parking lot. They were spreading out, heading for their assigned tasks. Lots of them were following me.
Damn. I’d kinda hoped this’d be easy.
I waited through an interminable red light, and punched the accelerator into the floor when I got the green arrow. The camera store on the left whipped by, and then I was on a short elevated bridge. On the other side of the water were several massive buildings, a power company maybe. Huge elevated conduits snaked all over the property, and forklifts moved around on the blacktop between the buildings and the manicured water’s edge.
Then I was past, and since I didn’t see any speed limit signs, I held down the pedal, kept the car at forty. It was probably thirty or thirty-five. I didn’t care.
A red brick meat packing plant zipped by in the passenger’s window, and I caught a glimpse of bus station and fire department out the driver’s side before they were behind me as well.
Low income housing, run-down two and three story houses that might once have been nice ran along the left side of the street. I really, really hoped the games wouldn’t take me into that area.
I saw the blue and red Clark’s sign sticking up through the trees before I saw the station itself, and I whipped the wheel right to slot the car in between two cars in the turn lane, immediately reducing speed down to the standard thirty five so I didn’t plow headfirst into the forward car’s rear bumper. Almost as quickly I yanked the wheel right again, peeling out of traffic and into Clark’s parking lot.
I was expecting more. The concrete was cracked, sprouting weeds. The pumps were covered, and had an air of desertion about them. The station itself seemed more like a lean-to. Floor to ceiling glass windows angled outwards at the front of the store, the supporting walls and roof a Hot Wheels blue color. The glass front door was open. The interior was shadowy, a few white candy racks visible in the dimness.
Blue fifty-five gallon water drums stood next to each pump. Someone’s idea of a joke, I assumed.
I had a few seconds before others would start showing up. I checked that the pistol was jammed in my satchel, and got out of the car, the Pulse Master held by my side, the nozzle nearly dragging on the ground. It was a BIG gun.
As if on cue, 3 cars pulled into the parking lot, one from behind me, two from the road perpendicular to University. Here we go.
If I had to guess, most of the contestants hadn’t sprung for bottled water for their initial fill. They were probably planning on filling at the barrels. I wasn’t going to give them that chance.
A car door slammed behind me, and feet pounded the pavement, coming up towards me. I turned, lifting the soaker up to eye level, right elbow bent, left arm out straight, the top of the tank in line with my right eye. I hit the guy running past me in the side with a hard stream of water. The mist blowing off the splatter on his garish t-shirt felt good in the hot air.
“Hey, you can’t – “
I cut him off as I stalked towards the other cars. “Where’s that written?”
Momentarily I felt a twinge of regret. My first “kill” of the game, and they were unarmed.
Whoa. I was getting way too into this, and it was way too early.
I pumped as I walked, quitting when the gun squealed at me. One of the cars had its driver’s side window open, and I shot into the car as I walked past. Another unarmed combatant.
The two people in the last remaining car bolted as I approached, practically diving out of the doors and running for the sidewalk. Maybe they thought I’d give chase. They were wrong.
I walked calmly into the gas station and looked around. Counter on the left, the glass enclosure spider-webbed with cracks. A newspaper rack stilled contained one last newspaper. To my right, empty metal shelves and wire racks would’ve once held food and overpriced necessities. Now they just held dust.
I walked deeper into the gloom.
Glass display cases made up the back of the store, which was deceptively deep. I peered into the glass contemplatively. Walk-in freezer, they wheeled the racks of milk and soda up to the doors.
There was a hallway in one of the corners and I checked out both restrooms. The glass block window in the men’s room had been kicked, and newspapers were scattered in the corner, along with a surplus army mess kit and a change of clothes. The women’s room was in better condition, and a third door led to an empty, dusty office, which was connected to the walk-in freezer.
I wished the cooling element were still going. For a freezer, it had the same ninety five degree heat as the parking lot, and even less airflow. The wheeled racks made a maze in the dark, light from the outside struggling to find its way in.
Anyone, anything could be in here.
I felt no fear.
I felt my way around the room, gently pushing at the carts to get them out of my way. Whatever was in here was probably against the back wall, and once I was up against it, I pulled the Surefire flashlight from my satchel, and cradling the rifle in my arms, shown the brilliant light on the wall. Sure enough, an address was chalked onto the wall. Further up University. I turned the light out and slipped out the way I’d come.
I felt a twinge of irritation at my own forgetfulness as I walked into an ambush. The two I’d chased off earlier had been empty at the time, but I’d neglected to think that they might fill while I was inside. A man and a woman each pointed some large blue soaker at me from positions thirty degrees on either side of the door, each about twenty feet ahead. The guy I’d shot first was pacing the back of the parking lot, arguing into his phone.
Probably about me.
I pushed off to the right. They’d have to track further in that direction. Two steps, and I pointed the Pulse Master at the woman, just a few feet away and fired. I missed with the first stream, it went wide past her shoulder. Stupid pistol grip only weapons. Only good for saving space, not for actually engaging targets beyond contact range. I torqued a correction in my grip, and my next brief pull of the trigger splattered liquid against her collarbone. Those were thick, heavy streams, and they moved with some authority.
Then I was into the cover of a gas pump, and posted up next to it. A breath to compose myself, and I rotated out of cover and ran at a diagonal that would take me past the man who’s partner I’d just tagged out. He shot through where I had been, and I shot through where he was, pulling the trigger a bunch of times as I past. Four shots caught him in the stomach, and I stopped running.
The guy I’d shot first was still pacing with his phone by my Mazda. I walked around to the side and tossed the Pulse Master in on the passenger seat. I was about to get in when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned my head slowly to find myself staring into the eyes of Mr. Cell Phone, way closer than those eyes should’ve been.
The last time I stared into eyes this close, they were Tim’s, three months ago. He was saying “How could you?” right before he slugged me in the jaw. I had seen it coming, and could’ve blocked it. I hadn’t. Instead I worked my aching jaw around “I just couldn’t.”
These eyes were angry but they weren’t betrayed. And if they communicated anything heinous, I’d put him on the ground. “You don’t play fair.” He said.
“Take your hand off me, or I’ll break it off,” I stated simply.
I think he saw in the blankness of MY eyes that I wasn’t kidding.
“You don’t play fair,” he repeated. “I’m on the phone with the uSoak people right now. Hopefully they’re gonna kick your butt outta here.”
“They know where I’m going,” I told him, and pulled the Mazda out into traffic.
There have been a select few people that have called me an artificial girl before. I think the description is not completely unwarranted, but it goes a little too far. I like the color pink – when paired with black. I took ballet and ice skating for a decade before I recently switched to MMA and Krav Maga and rock climbing. I think purses are impractically small, but I do carry a messenger bag. I like pretty jewelry and expensive dresses, and the last three months were the longest span I’ve been without a boyfriend since I was fifteen. But I’m aggressive. Forward. Direct. I want something; see something I like, it’s mine. I take it or I find a way to get it. Life is too damn short for mind games and play acting. And paired with that attitude, I have little use for emotion. Lord only knew I’d been keeping mine wired tight for a while, but even before that, I took a ruthlessly cold and logical view of things. You don’t get anything if all you do dwell on how you feel. What are you going to do about it?
In other words, Hell yeah I look like a girl, but I’ve got the mind of a guy.
I put the pedal down and the world sped by. The address was way down on University; I was a couple hundred house-numbers back. Churches and low income housing and closed down stores blurred together, not due to speed, but because there were so many and they all looked the same. Tall church, three run down two story homes with a dozen cars in front of each, intersection, boarded up diner or Laundromat or printshop. Then a church, and the cycle started all over again.
It again confirmed my suspicions that Green Bay was just a hicktown with a football team. There was nothing here. No economy, no desire, no drive for anything better. Just people in a decaying holding pattern. Of all the places I’ve lived that I can remember, Las Vegas has been my favorite. There’s always something to do, always something to see, always something going on. You can just go walk the strip if you want to see a new world. It’s like Times Square in New York sometimes. And New Years Eve? Fuggedaboudit, just like New Yawk. One big party.
And contrary to The Hangover, little naked guys jumping out of your trunk and hitting you with a tire iron is fortunately not a common occurrence in Sin City.
These days though, Sin City was just a little too crowded. Like a dusty western town, there wasn’t room in it for my memories and me. I was looking forward to getting away from them, back to the City Of Angeles, studying, going to college. Maybe finding my way into the street racing culture. That was why I’d bought the car after all. You don’t need a race car to cart your books from the dorm to the classroom.
I patted the dashboard affectionately. “You and me, we’re going places.” It was infatuation, I knew. I was even starting to feel giddy again, after my Dad-induced episode of remorse. I had a purpose – such as it was, a skillset that would enable me to take a good shot at fulfilling that purpose, and a fast car to get me there. Today, what more did I need.
