He swung around and positioned the rifle against his shoulder, aiming for Brandon’s chest. Much easier target. The head would be more rewarding, but the surface area was much too small, and he didn’t have time to gamble with his chances.
He pulled the trigger. The last of the bullets grazed the left side of the tree trunk, and he cursed under his breath.
“Scenario A,” he said quickly, swinging the gun down and around in front of his chest, and pawing for his ammo. “Brandon—because he’s a crazy fuck—comes at me. I have a few seconds to reload, or I pull my pistol.”
He counted out the seconds as he released the empty magazine and inserted the new one. It wouldn’t slip in easily, costing him precious time, and when he finally released the bolt catcher—bullets tucked snugly and awaiting his order—he knew he was already in a chokehold.
“Goddamnit,” he seethed, falling onto his back as Brandon’s ghost arms tightened their grip.
He was much too familiar with those forearms—pale and speckled with various-sized freckles. Brandon’s birthmark was among them—a large, flat, almost perfectly oval-shaped stamp just above his right wrist. He studied that mark every time Brandon trapped him, threatening death. The mark of Cain, he decided, when he learned about history’s first recorded murder.
“I’ll put a bullet through that, too,” he said, and hopped up from the ground. “Scenario B. Motherfucker runs.”
He whipped the pistol from the holster strapped to his right side. Resounding bang! Kid on the floor. Blood spilling from his head. Yes, he hit the back of Brandon’s head.
“Now you can’t hurt anyone else,” Jeremy said, slipping the pistol back into its holster.
He sank to the ground, wiping the perspiration of hard work from his forehead, listening to Peter Gabriel’s fading words about war. He adopted the song as his anthem when he first heard it played on his father’s stereo a few years ago. It was a weird night of nostalgia, and Mr. Stahl sat in the center of the living room surrounded by the music of his happier past. Gabriel was among the artists, and Jeremy hung back in the doorway to the living room working hard to decode the lyrics.
Maybe he got it wrong, but he heard a story of warring children. Mean children. Children out to harm with words, with deeds. Children out for blood in the war-ravaged hallways of Any School, USA. He fought a war there every day. He fought a war at home, too. And instantly, his idea of justice was born.
He stole the CD and put the song on repeat every night before bed so that he would never forget his mission. Those kids needed to play nicer, he thought, growing more confident in his plan, his purpose. Metal could stay a flying fist. Metal could silence an ugly word. Flesh was weak; metal strong. And he would be the boy who wielded the metal—eradicating the abuse for good.
He was exhausted from his two-hour training. The private woods on the western border of the Wasatch Range provided a perfect target practice area. He spent a few days mapping out the school building plan—marking areas with various color string—to authenticate his training as much as possible. He bought targets and pinned them to trees, labeling each with a thick black permanent marker: Brandon, Ethan, Jamal, Jon, Josh, Mike, Justin, Tara, Alexia, Casey.
He debated for some time if it was ethical to shoot a girl. When the idea for bloody retribution first occurred to him, he started reading the Old Testament. He needed an example to look up to, and who better than the Old Testament wrathful god? He didn’t take shit from anybody. He just killed them instead—women and children included. For a while, Jeremy was all in. This was justice, after all, wasn’t it? These sinners deserved it, didn’t they? But then he asked himself how a newborn could be a sinner, and his foundation cracked in two. It eventually fragmented completely the more he read until he could no longer believe the words.
His thoughts drifted to Casey. She was no newborn. She was a scheming bitch, and he still couldn’t fathom how she brainwashed Regan into choosing to associate with those people. He wasn’t dismissing Regan as some innocent victim, though. The difference between the girls? Well, he had loved Regan since sixth grade. Love excuses many things, and while he abhorred her choice to conform, he was still desperate for her.
Regan was kind. She never treated him ugly. Casey was kind once, too, when she was a fucking dork. But she changed. She let the evil seep slowly into her heart and brain, twisting and training her into just another monster within the ranks of the popular kid army. She was so pretty on the outside, but he imagined her inner self looked more like an Orc.
He realized he chose wisely. Everyone on that list deserved his wrath. Everyone on that list had pushed him to the brink—whether by word or fist—and damaged his soul. They stole the light from him and convinced him of their innate evil. They couldn’t continue to steal people’s light. They couldn’t continue to grow in wickedness. How could he live with himself if he learned years later that one of them caused someone to commit suicide? If one of them beat his wife to death? If one of them drowned her babies? He could not. He would not take the chance.
He eyed Casey’s target from afar and stood up slowly.
“You don’t deserve to have babies,” he said, lifting the rifle to her heart.
He took a deep breath.
And fired.
~
Yes, Dad. I’m using these guns for good.
~
“You’re quiet,” Brandon observed, nudging his girlfriend.
No reply.
“I said you’re quiet,” he noted again, this time with a slight edge to his voice. “I threw this party for you.”
Regan turned her face to hide the grin. For her? He threw this party for her? She hated parties—had always hated parties—and if he weren’t such a moron he’d remember her telling him that on several occasions.
“It’s just a lot of people,” she said softly.
Brandon sighed. “Regan, how many times have we been over this? They’re your friends, too. You act like they’re not.”
“They’re not.”
“They are,” he insisted. “Any friend of mine is a friend of yours.”