Robert Bigges sat in a large, comfortable reclining chair, directly in front of his television set. On the end table next to the recliner sat a bowl of popcorn, an unopened bag of potato chips and two cans of cold beer, waiting to be devoured. It was a Saturday and college football was his favorite past time. He watched it like it was the only religion that mattered: had his team’s jersey on, his alma mater’s, with cap and sweatpants. Black, gold, and red were the school’s colors. Robert’s jersey had gold numbers, and they sparkled when they hit the sporadic shafts of sunlight shooting through the windows. His wife, Claire, understood after 20 years of marriage that disrupting Robert’s time in front of the television on Saturdays in the fall was heretical.
He watched the opening kickoff with the eagerness of an animal killing its first meal of the day, sitting on the edge of his recliner, one leg bouncing up and down in an anxious twitch. Then the game was disrupted. The channel broke off the game to a newscast. And Robert punched the bowl full of popcorn, scattering it all over the living room floor.
“What now?’’ Robert screamed at the television set. He witnessed a lot of interruptions on the TV in the last week. News casts came on at odd hours throughout the evenings showing plane crashes, rioting and looting in most of the larger cities, and TV anchor people warning viewers to be cautious and to stay home whenever possible.
This newscast was closer to his home. A female news anchor reported a group of mass shooters appeared at various shopping malls and business districts throughout the city and suburbs. There were six shooters and multiple people were shot, but it wasn’t known if any were killed yet. Then an update came in stating that there were 11 shooters. And another update with 17 shooters. The city police chief gave an impromptu press conference and said there were now over 20 shooters but couldn’t give an exact number. Over 103 people were shot, but only eight or 10 were actually killed.
“That’s just so far,’’ Robert said about the casualties. He thought about his wife. She usually goes out shopping on Saturdays during the football season. He ran into the bedroom, grabbed his Smith & Wesson handgun, both magazines, and a box of cartridges. He ran out the door, tried to start the car but no sound came from under the hood. Just the click from turming the key. He saw three of his neighbors try the same thing and the same failure.
Robert sprinted down the street, hoping that his wife would be at the mall only a half-mile away. He tried using his cell phone to call her, couldn’t get a signal to reach her. One of the neighbors who couldn’t start his car ran up to Robert.
“Dave. Did your wife go with my wife?’’ Robert asked. “Claire didn’t tell me where she was going.’’
“Yeah. They went to the Springford mall. There’s a special on shoes.’’
“Shit. That’s another five miles up the road.
“Are you armed?’’ Robert asked.
“Yes.’’ Dave showed Robert a Ruger revolver in a holster under his jacket.
Both men ran but had to stop and walk before catching their breath. Then started running again. It took about 50 minutes to get to the Springford mall. Robert saw a news crew outside the mall, and inside he could hear more than one gun being fired in two different areas of the mall. He saw that glass was shattered at two of the entranceways.
The guy from the news crew yelled to Robert that the police didn’t go into the building yet. Robert said, “I don’t care,’’ and ran down the hill to the entrance. Dave lagged behind. Robert turned to him.
“We can’t hesitate. Follow me and stay low. Get your gun ready just in case you need to use it.’’
Both men stepped over shards of glass and saw a woman and child laying in a large pool of blood, soaked into the carpeting under a cluster of clothing racks. Dave turned so he couldn’t look at the bodies. The little boy was almost ripped into two pieces and the mother had half of her head gone. More shots went off and the acoustics made their ears ring. Dave had his back turned to the woman and child, facing the entranceway. Robert slapped him on the back, told him to focus.
“I can’t,’’ Dave said. He started gagging.
Robert told him to go back up to the news crew and find out any information that he can get.
“Tell the guy that cars won’t start and there’s no cell service.’’ Dave sprinted out of the building.
Robert’s hands began to shake. He could hear his heart beating and felt it pounding in his chest. He started to breathe deeper to keep a panic attack from taking over his body. He ran deeper into the store, stopped when he heard gun fire. He looked to find a shooter, moved forward, stopped again when he heard more gun fire. He strained and squinted his eyes to see something, but nothing came into view except mannequins, glass countertops and racks of clothes. He heard gun fire again, this time it was closer. A bullet ripped by tearing through a group of shirts like a strong wind blew through the store. Robert thought the shooter shot at him. He looked to his left, down an open corridor to see a shooter just shooting up the merchandise. Robert thought that he must be over confident, thinking that everyone is dead or too scared to try fighting back. He noticed that the shooter had an automatic rifle, was dressed in black with body armor, and had a mask over his head and face. The shooter kept his finger depressed on the trigger of the gun until the magazine was used up. The shooter was replacing one magazine with a fresh one when Robert stood up, shot the man in the head. He fell to the ground in a bloody mess with little left to his face. He grabbed the shooter by the arm and dragged him between the jewelry counter and some clothing racks, noticed there was a radio, and someone was talking, trying to get the dead shooter’s attention. Robert couldn’t make out the language but knew it wasn’t English or any indo-European language. It wasn’t Arabic either. It sounded like short syllables bursting out of the speaker’s mouth. He pulled the mask off what remained of the shooters head, stared for a moment at the facial features he could decipher.
“Suppose the media won’t be screaming white supremacy on the evening news tonight.’’
The voice on the radio sounded louder, like the person on the other end was screaming. It was constant, loud chatter, the same short syllables over and over again that Robert couldn’t understand. Then he heard more gun fire, and it lasted longer than with the shooter he just killed. It was getting closer. Robert buried himself deeper into the racks of clothes. He pissed his pants, but was relieved that he might not have to search for the other shooter. Shooting stopped, and now Robert can hear a few faint noises, sobbing sounds and a woman crying, as he tried honing in on the footsteps of the terrorist looking for his partner. Robert maneuvered himself backwards, wrapping the lower half of his body around a wall that led to the dressing rooms. The terrorist shot at the glass displays, and Robert saw the movement as he came down one of the corridors. But the terrorist ducked into the clusters of clothing racks. He wanted to shoot but couldn’t catch a long enough look at the terrorist’s feet. He heard a thud, a bouncing sound, out of his sight. Another wall and the cash register and counter blocked his sight. Robert started breathing heavier, unable to slow down his accelerating heartbeat. He couldn’t hear any movement from the terrorist, and he backed farther into the dressing room. The terrorist fired six more shots from his gun. Two of them ripped through the dressing room puncturing three stalls while the other flew over Robert’s head, hitting the wall he was laying against earlier. Robert could hear the man switch out his magazine, and he fought with himself on whether to shoot through the wall to hope he hit the man. He didn’t want to give away his presence. He crawled slowly to an open area next to the dressing stalls. It had a huge mirror mounted on the wall with a wide countertop underneath. Robert slithered under the countertop, laid flat on his back with his head leaning against one wall and the left side of his body tenuously protected by a long wall that shielded the entrance to the room. The terrorist would have to come around that wall to shoot. Robert waited, had his gun ready, held with both hands, finger on the trigger. Since he fired once, he knew he had 11 rounds to go and another full magazine. He was secure, drew breath long and slow. He heard a foot drag along the carpeting, but he couldn’t tell how close the terrorist could be.
The terrorist shot through the dressing room wall, but shot high. Robert got hit with some plaster dust and slivers of wood. He looked up from where he lay and saw that the bullet passed a good three feet above him. Robert thought the shooter was assuming he’s dumb and inexperienced. Robert was inexperienced, watched too many cop shows, but he assured himself that he was in the right position. Until the second shot passed through the wall. The plaster dust sprayed Robert on the chest and left shoulder, passing through the wall an inch above his lying body. The terrorist put three more holes into the dressing room wall while Robert laid quietly under the shelf. He kept saying to himself “patience.’’ He saw the muzzle of the terrorist’s gun poke beyond the wall at the opening to the dressing room. “This is it,’’ Robert thought. Then, seconds later, “I hope this is it.’’
Robert leaned slightly to his right, wanting to see if the terrorist’s gun was still in sight. He saw the tip of the muzzle – the front sight of the gun — then fired two shots through the wall. With the second shot, the terrorist spun into the opening to the dressing room. Robert fired another shot, but didn’t notice where the bullet struck. He fired again at the man’s chest, hit again. Each time the terrorist was pushed backward, the last shot pushed him out of sight. Robert slid on his right side closer to the opening, saw the terrorist, fired another time. He hit the man in the throat, then ducked back out of the shooter’s sight. The terrorist’s gun sprayed the rest of its magazine until it emptied, piercing the wall with a few bullets. Robert ducked back into the corner, crouching under the shelf. He could hear the clicking, but was still cautious.
He waited. He knew he hit the terrorist with four shots but wasn’t sure if he hit body armor. He still had six shots in the magazine of his gun, and hoped the terrorist would bleed to death. He heard noises but they weren’t coming from the terrorist. They were from far away, somewhere else in the store. Robert laid back down in the corner and waited.
He heard whispering. Robert hoped it might be police, so he yelled out to them. For the first time since he was in the mall, he heard people speaking English.
“Is he dead?’’ Robert yelled out.
The police officer said, “Yeah.’’ Robert warily looked around the wall, saw three police officers standing near the dead shooter, walked out from behind the wall.
All three policemen had their guns drawn. Robert held his hands in the air, his gun still in one of them.
“Put the gun down or holster it,’’ one of the policemen said.
“My wife is in this building somewhere,’’ he said while putting his gun away.
Robert was frantic. He ran out of the store and down the main corridor of the mall, looking at faces of dead people with blank stares in puddles of blood. He stopped to look at a particular face, ran again, stopped another time, and ran some more. He screamed his wife’s name out over again. He got close to the store with the shoe sale, and yelled out her name again.
He faintly heard a voice. “Rob?’’
“Yeah. Claire? Come on out. Everything is safe.’’
Claire stepped out from the back room of the shoe store with four other women, one of which was Dave’s wife.
He grabbed Claire by the arm and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you all okay?’’ he asked everyone. He started to pull his wife by the wrist out of the store. She stopped him.
“I was in the process of buying a pair of shoes.’’
“Electricity is out.
“I’ll buy you three pairs tomorrow. I want to get out of here right now.’’ He walked down the main corridor and out of the building as fast as he could while police and EMT units were running in to tend to the injured.
Robert and Claire walked up to the news crew. The reporter was still there and the van didn’t move. He told Robert that electricity was out throughout the whole city and suburbs. Rumors were spreading that a regional electromagnetic pulse brought down the grid for a 200-mile radius. Cars couldn’t move, cell service was out. The only vehicles on the street were police cruisers.
Robert and Claire lit candles at home. The refrigerator was off and meat was beginning to thaw in the freezer. He ran to the garage, grabbed a propane camping stove, cooked some of the steak and pork chops from the freezer. He knew it was going to be a quiet night, probably not a peaceful one as everyone in his neighborhood was edgy. Neighbors were knocking on doors to find out what happened earlier. Some of the people, including Robert, had a radio packed away, wrapped in aluminum foil in case of emergency. They listened. The news they were receiving was repetitious. The news crew said many of the same things earlier when they were at the mall. Newer reports came out hours later that the shooting had stopped, hundreds of people were injured, and over 300 were counted dead. Most of the shooters were killed while some got away. Overall, there were more than 60 shooters working in teams of two and three both inside city limits and suburbs. They were organized and heavily armed and had military backgrounds. None were domestic.
“You think they crossed the border?’’ Claire asked.
“I’d bet on it.’’
Someone knocked on the front door of Robert’s home. He grabbed his gun, looked out a window, saw that it was a police officer standing outside with a reporter.
“Hello.’’
“Mr. Bigges, sir? I need to get a report from you on what happened inside the Springford Mall,’’ the police officer said.
“Who’s that?’’ Robert asked, nodding his head at the other man.
“I’m a reporter from The Observer.’’
Robert let both men inside. The police officer wrote down everything Robert said in his summary. He gave all the details he could remember and his voice stammered at some of the more gruesome details. The reporter wrote down much of what he said and also recorded his statement on a mini tape recorder.
“How does that thing work?’’ Robert asked about the reporter’s tape player.
“My desk at the office is metal, so it acts like a Faraday cage.’’
“How are you going to print your newspaper?’’
“We’re sending this edition out to another facility later on.’’
“Are you guys finished?’’ Robert asked.
The police officer said he was finished, but the reporter was asking Robert to give more details on the events inside the mall. Robert didn’t want to answer them. He asked Robert how he gathered up the courage to go into the building, and what was going through his mind as he sneaked around the store and when he shot the terrorists. Robert didn’t say he pissed all over himself, but told the reporter he was scared.
“You know, you’re a hero, Mr. Bigges.’’
“No. That’s not true. There were people shot up and killed. Some of them looked like they were pushed through a meat grinder. And if my wife wasn’t in the building, I wouldn’t have gone down there. So, I’m nothing.’’
Robert stood up from the kitchen table, said to the men that he wanted to be alone. He escorted the two men to the door. The reporter asked if he can come by for a followup story tomorrow. Robert told him no. “I don’t want the publicity.’’
He packed a bag with clothes and told his wife to do the same. They walked a few miles to a Super 8 hotel and Robert booked a room for the next two nights. He said to Claire that he hoped news people would get the hint that he didn’t want to be questioned any more on what happened.
“They don’t realize how disgusting it was.’’
“He was right, though. What you did was heroic,’’ Claire said.
“The damage was already done. By the time I got to you there were at least 30 people dead in that big, wide hallway. And that’s just where I walked to find you.’’
Robert started breathing heavily because his heart was beating hard. He buried the back of his head into a pillow and closed his eyes, took one deep breath after another until he calmed down. The emotion and running around through the day exhausted him, and he fell asleep.
He woke up late the next morning. Claire walked into the hotel room with a newspaper and two cups of coffee. “Here,’’ she said. “You’re on the front page.’’ She handed him the paper and a cup of coffee.
“Read out loud so I can hear about your bravery.’’
“I don’t want to. I want to forget it. All of it.’’
Claire took the newspaper from him and read the article to herself. Actually, there were two stories: one news, one feature.
“Gimme the sports section,’’ Robert said. “I want to see the football scores.’’ With the events and activity the day before, he forgot it was a football day. Robert hoped that studying the scores and how the top 25 teams fared would be distracting enough to make him forget the death he witnessed. It was a temporary remedy.
Claire blared out some of the sentences from the feature story about Robert. He told her to read to herself while he tried to get lost in the sports section. He was reading the pro football previews for Sunday’s games.
“The guy that wrote the story blasted the police and gave you credit for doing their job.’’
“I don’t care. I went to make sure you were safe. That’s it.’’
The city and suburbs were all in blackout, and information on what happened was only available by newspaper. No cars were on the road, no busses, no street lights came on at night, and buildings were unable to be lit. The Monday morning newspaper reported looting in the shopping districts of the city. Robert assumed that explained the smashed windows at the dollar store and the cell phone store down the street from the hotel.
Sitting around in the hotel was boring. Robert was anxious, constantly pacing the room in the morning, and he brushed his teeth five times by the afternoon. He walked out of the hotel, gun tucked under his belt, to a car rental business. The clerk said he had only three cars that could be started. The rest were all fried. He paid in cash for one of the cars, a Honda Civic. First, Robert and Claire drove home. Everyone was still stranded, they were walking to stores to buy ice but the stores were closed. He stopped the car on seeing one of his neighbors using his gas grill to cook up food from his short-circuited refrigerator.
The man smiled on seeing Robert. “Rob, you and Claire hungry?’’
“No. But it smells awesome. Did you find out anything about what’s going on?’’
“Just rumors.’’
“Any good ones?’’
“People are saying the shooters were Chinese army and drug cartels. Sneaked over the border.’’
Robert looked at Claire. “You assumed right,’’ he said to her.
“And six other cities were hit the same way we were,’’ the neighbor said. “Philly, New York, Los Angeles, Houston, us, and I forget the last ones.’’
“Thanks. See you in a week or two.’’
“Wait. People been knocking on your door the past two days. Almost non-stop.’’
“Yeah. That’s why we’re leaving for a little while.’’
He rolled up the window. He and Claire drove west out of the suburbs and across the state into Iowa. When he figured they were far enough away that they can escape the electricity drought, they stopped. He pulled money out of an ATM, bought two cell phones for himself and his wife and took Claire shopping for shoes. He tried calling another neighbor but cell service was still out.
They did use their new phones to find information and confirm what they were told. The rumors were true. Business districts and shopping centers were targeted, catching consumers off-guard for high body counts. Overall, more than 2,000 were killed, nearly 9,000 injured in all seven cities. The numbers varied with different news sources.
Robert and Claire drove back two days later. It was a Wednesday. Military trucks and soldiers were deployed all throughout the city and suburbs. Driving in, Robert had to show identification and proof of residence.
“They’re all armed,’’ Robert said. He was driving slowly, saw that the soldiers were National Guard.
“They don’t trust us,’’ Claire said. “Look how every one has his eyes on us.
“We’re probably the only civilians they saw traveling by car.’’ Robert coasted and tapped his break, trying to see everything. “You want to stay? I don’t think we should.’’
“You’re right.’’
Once they returned to the house, Robert and Claire packed with longer intentions of staying away. Everything financial was packed. Tools were packed. Old camping gear was packed, clothes, toiletries, Claire’s perfume, a few spare batteries, some canned foods, a box of pasta, a jar of peanut butter, and a few steaks already thawed.
They both crawled into bed for a nap. Claire said, “You know? The more I think about what you did the other day, the more turned on I get.’’
“You want some of daddy’s sugar, baby?’’
Claire pulled herself closer to Robert in a sensual stretch, and kissed him. It was a long kiss, too long because they both fell asleep before it ended.
Someone knocked at the door about 90 minutes later. Robert rolled off the bed, whispering curses. He grabbed the gun and went downstairs. Except for shoes, he was completely dressed. So was his wife. A man and a woman stood outside the front door. One was carrying a small notepad. Robert figured they were from the local newspaper. He ran back upstairs, woke up Claire and whispered to her to get ready to leave. While the reporters were knocking and ringing the doorbell, Robert shut off the circuit breaker in the basement, and turned off the water.
The reporters wouldn’t leave. The knocking got louder, and more threatening, sounding like they were pounding with a clenched fist. One kept pressing the doorbell button. Robert started to question if they were reporters. They waited.
“Can they be this persistent?’’ Robert whispered to Claire.
Thirty minutes went by, and the reporters didn’t leave. They walked around the house, looking through windows that might reveal something. When they met in the back, they stood at the back door, knocked on it for another 10 minutes. Robert and Claire watched from a safe spot in one of the first floor rooms. The male reporter made a phone call, which made Robert realize that these people weren’t reporters.
They knocked on the back door three more times, waited for a short time, and left. Robert watched them walk away from the house and down the sidewalk. He and Claire didn’t leave until they were out of sight. Robert and Claire ran to the little Honda in the driveway, and drove off. He drove slowly at first, made a few turns and took a route down alleys and less-known roads to avoid checkpoints. He assumed more than one reason why people were looking for him. It wasn’t as difficult as he thought to get out of the suburbs. From the looks of the military deployment, they weren’t finished setting up the road blocks, maybe taking their time. Saw horses were still stacked and disassembled, electrical equipment and canvass tents were laying in large lumps, trucks were parked with no personnel in sight. It felt to Robert that there was too much to do but not enough people to get it done quickly or efficiently.
Instead of driving due west, Robert and Claire went northwest, taking back roads and little state routes. They cut through the southwest corner of Wisconsin, and kept driving until far into Minnesota. That’s when they got on an interstate, and Robert stood on the gas pedal until the odometer hit 75mph. He and Claire cruised after that and didn’t stop until they got into South Dakota. They booked a hotel room in Chamberlain.
“It’s good that you have such a great job,’’ Claire said to Robert.
“Why?’’
“We’ve been able to get away while our neighbors are stuck at home. I wonder if they’re going to be able to leave once everything is set up.’’
“Aren’t you glad you married me?’’
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.’’
Claire turned on the television in the room. There were no shows, no entertainment, all news reports on the residual events from the weekend attacks. The death toll was still rising, and the president called out the National Guard in every state. All cities with a population over 150,000 were in the process of being occupied by the National Guard and regular Army. The president asked the United Nations for help, and the UN said it’d send another 50,000 soldiers with advisors to deploy across the US.
Robert shook his head. “If the southern border wasn’t wide open, we wouldn’t be dealing with this mess.”
“They might’ve planned for this to happen,’’ Claire suggested.
“You’re probably right.’’
They both kicked off their shoes and laid in bed. Robert was unsure of what was going to happen, if he and Claire were going to stay far from their home or keep moving, staying in hotel rooms. He wondered if it would be better if he and his wife left the big city altogether and resettled someplace less populated. Then he wondered if it was a waste of time to do anything like that. Will everything go back to normal or is the present what everyone is supposed to expect? Claire had fallen asleep, rolled over and began breathing slowly. Robert couldn’t. He worried about the future for his wife and himself. He didn’t know what was coming and wasn’t able to speculate with any certainty. That made him anxious. He put his hand on Claire’s face and ran his fingers through her brown hair. He laid back and stared at the ceiling.
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