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SUMMARY: Very much into the game, Simon bests his adoptive family in a water fight.
Download the file to read the file in its original format.
helped me write the ending for this.
created the ART that inspired this story and provided the thumbnail. He also owns all of the characters herein.
The sunlight from overhead winks through the leaves on this warm summer day, but the shine doesn’t reach me. The sun – the brightest thing in the galaxy, blazing at 9950 degrees Fahrenheit, and even it can’t find me. I lay wrapped in shadow on the floor of my hideaway, invisible. To anyone out there, I could be anywhere – I might as well be everywhere. In this moment, I’m omnipresent. I watch the world from behind my weapon, prepared to do what us creatures with godlike qualities do best: smite.
My eyes dart to the edge of the building before the figure even emerges, as though I can detect movements in the air. A big guy steps into my view. On the ground, his size means authority, but here, it merely makes him a bigger target. He’s clutching a weapon much like mine, but isn’t even aiming. He’s glancing around like a mouse ignorant of the hawk overhead. This guy – he’s not a warrior. He hasn’t been trained for this. He’s been thrust in here out of necessity. He’s cannon fodder. He’s my Dad.
I let my bearish father take several slow, uneasy steps out into the green, marveling at his tenacity. He knows what I’m capable of. Is he hoping that our family tie will protect him from what I have to do? Is he hoping that I love him too much to shoot him? The notion makes my nose wrinkle like a dash of pepper. I do love you, Dad. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be who I am today.
In light of that, I’ll make it quick.
“Guh!” Orson gasped as a jet of water erupted from the tree in the corner of the backyard and splashed across his white t-shirt. He raised his water gun and shot ineffectually into the tree’s vicinity.
“He’s in the tree house! Simon’s in the-”
A second volley hit him in the face. Oso dropped his gun, sputtering and wiping water from his eyes.
Dad falls back, dripping like a watering can. I’ve seen the last of him on this field. But as he retreats, two figures unexpectedly emerge from behind his back. They’d been using him as a shield, and now that he’s gone, they dart for cover. One of them picks up Dad’s gun and dives gracelessly behind a huge ceramic pot. The other, not fueled by adrenaline but the far less efficient cortisol, looks around helplessly before scampering behind one of the building’s pillars.
It’s a regular family reunion, I remark to myself. My brothers knew they wouldn’t be able to advance this far on their own, and so used dear old Dad as a living shield. They’re more ruthless than I thought.
It was probably Jeremy’s idea. He repeatedly peeks out from behind his cover, tempting me. He can barely aim with one weapon, so I prepare myself for a display of particularly disastrous marksmanship now that he has one in each hand. I’d be in greater danger if he tried shooting the wall behind him.
It may yet come to that, I think. I know my older brother well enough to feel his restlessness from here. Even in this life-and-death situation, he really, really wants to dash out with guns blazing. He’s not patient. He’s not an angler. He was officially diagnosed with ADHD three months ago.
I feel a little bad about using Jeremy’s disorder against him. I decide to play with him for just a while. Nothing more frustrating to him than getting thrown out of the game before one’s time, after all.
“We got you surrounded, Sy! Give yourself up and…! And…! And we’ll only soak you a little!”
Simon wasn’t actually surrounded. Nevertheless, Jeremy was parroting all the military and police lines he could think of. He was in the zone…though not nearly as much as his little brother.
“Wat! Lay down a suppressing fire and cover me! We’ll flush ‘im out! I’ve got ‘im in my sights!”
Watson peeked out from behind his cover, ascertaining that Jeremy didn’t actually have anyone in his sights. He pursed his lips anxiously, realizing that his chances of pleasing everyone in joining the game weren’t high when Jeremy didn’t even know what he was doing. He was just having fun, Watson supposed, but even though this was all just pretend, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. After all, he knew how seriously Simon took this. That’s why he didn’t expose himself now, but merely pointed his water gun around the side of the pillar and fired blindly. His shots went wilder than Orson’s had.
“Show yourself, Sy!” Jeremy cried from behind his own guns. “There’s no way out! And I can wait here all day! Until dinner!”
Silence passed between the porch and the tree. Not a leaf stirred, and no sight of Simon appeared from the leaf-obscured platform. Jeremy clenched his teeth and tried to be steely, but already his legs felt like taut springs.
“Don’t be a chicken!” he yelled.
Nothing.
“Simon! You gotta shoot, or you’re not playing!”
When still nothing happened, what remained of the green-haired coyote’s patience erupted.
“RRRGHH!” he growled, jumping up from behind the flower pot. “SI-MOOON!”
My brother charges my position, shooting his weapons while weaving like a drunken swordfish. He’s more like a berserker now than any kind of soldier, and I watch his frantic one-man parade while his shots go in all directions. I let him advance halfway across the field, until he starts to get winded. This gives him enough pause to realize that he’s met no returning fire, and I allow him to momentarily wonder whether he got me. Then, I get him.
The first shot hits him between chin and chest. It stops him in his tracks, and he jerks his chin down even as liquid spreads across his shirt. The second shot lands right on the scalp he presented to me. My brother falls down, flailing the weapons around his head.
This would’ve been more than enough to take care of a regular person, but my brother’s never been one of those. He’s a big guy with plenty of heart, so he pushes himself back up by using the guns for support, pressing their barrels against the ground. He raises his dripping face, then the weapon in his right hand. My third shot travels up his sleeve, striking him in the underarm and making him drop the gun. Even from afar, I can see the awe in his eyes. He didn’t think I was this good.
When he raises his remaining weapon, irritation comes over me like a bothersome fly. He should know by now that he’s beaten, and go down with dignity. But my brother doesn’t know when to quit. It’s my final obligation towards Jeremy to remind him, and thus, I shoot him in the groin. He squeals pathetically and drops the gun as his hands fly to his crotch. He falls to his knees and turns his back to me, trying to crawl away. He still hasn’t learned his lesson, and I fire a shot into the seat of his pants. His long, drawn-out moan fills me with nothing but secondhand embarrassment.
“Jeremy!” Watson cried. “He got you! You have to die now! Those are the rules!”
“I’m not dead!” the flustered coyote cried, wincing as Simon zapped the soles of his feet with water.
“Yes, you are!” Watson insisted. “If you stop moving, he’ll stop shooting!”
Grudgingly, Jeremy collapsed onto the ground, his cheek against the grass. Sure enough, the watery assault upon his person ceased, and he was left to reflect on how freakishly good his brother was at water fights.
“Careful” he muttered at Watson. “I think the little dork’s using ice water.”
Finally my brother lies still in the grass, his growls of protest faded to vapor. I put a check in my list of targets and raise my sights to where Watson is taking cover. For the first time, I feel something like a drop of sympathy in my stomach. Unfortunate Watson. Our oldest brother is the furthest from being a warrior, and is only here because they pushed him to it. He should have pushed back…but that doesn’t change the fact that he shouldn’t be here. My poor, meek, oldest brother. For your sake, I hope you don’t struggle.
I raise myself onto one knee, and take one hand from my weapon to grasp the first of three bombs lying ready at my side. It’s a tricky angle, but Watson isn’t about to move. It’s also overkill, but – still – poor Watson isn’t about to move. He’d sooner starve than willingly expose himself to my fire. I need to, as the ill-fated Jeremy would’ve said, flush him out.
Lowering my weapon, I lob the bomb over the platform’s railing and through an opening in the foliage. It strikes the pillar close to my brother’s head and bursts, the explosion wrapping around the pillar and startling Watson. He jumps out, his gun falling and his hands over his face. I raise my weapon, finger finding the trigger…
Before I can fire, Watson falls to the ground and moves no more. Even I’m surprised by this lack of tenacity. Perhaps the bomb struck him just right, or perhaps he’d just sooner embrace oblivion than face my fire. Whatever the case, the pitiable sight sends another sympathy-laced ripple through my guts. I’m sorry, Watson. The good just die young.
“Owww” the hare whined as he rubbed his face, lying next to the mangled debris of the water balloon. “You got water in my eyes, Simon! I’m not playing anymore.”
Orson poked his head around the corner of the house, wearing a towel over his shoulders. Holding aloft an outstretched index finger to signify a time-out, he helped his mild-mannered son to his feet and walked him off the field. Witnessing this, Jeremy decided that he was done playing dead. Holding up a finger of his own, he crawled awkwardly across the grass and scrambled to his feet near the corner, where he joined his stepdad and stepbrother in toweling themselves off.
The field’s clear, now. No one stands before my gun. I’ve survived, but there’s no thrill in victory – merely the feeling of having performed a job. If they had known what would’ve happened if they faced me, they wouldn’t have come. No real challenge was had today. But it’s all the same; I’m almost due for a reload, anyway.
I’m about to leave the cool shadow of my position, out of the corner of my eye, I spot motion. My gun’s barrel moves as quickly and readily as the blink of an eyelid. I have barely a split-second to take in the figure before it rushes beneath my platform and out of range. Casey. Taking advantage of my distraction to close the distance between us. I should’ve known. I certainly would’ve expected nothing less from my mentor.
Now I’m on my feet, spinning around to aim my weapon down the steps leading up to my platform. Silence, save for the sudden pounding of my heart. I’m deathly conscious of how light my gun feels, and I clench my teeth in reprimand of how wantonly I wasted shots on Jeremy. At best, I have a single shot left. It takes seconds to reload, but it takes Casey less than that to appear on the steps and riddle me with fire. I still have two bombs, but using them at this distance is too reckless even for me. Ten feet off the ground in the middle of a field, I’ve found myself up a real creek.
I glance over my shoulder, not putting it past the cat to climb the platform and surprise me from behind. I see nothing, but there’s no comfort in that. I’ve been met by another mythical being, whose invisibility indicates that he could be anywhere. He might as well be everywhere.
I realize with an angry snap that I’ve begun thinking like a victim. Like prey. It’s as viscerally deplorable as it is morally unacceptable. Even my opponent would shake his head if there was fear in my eyes when he took me out; it’d make him feel like he’d failed. Among all of my targets today, I respect Casey most of all – too much to let it come to that. It’s time to get daring and creative.
I glance around my platform, formulating the best way to eliminate a killer.
Casey felt quite into the game as he held his water pistol against his chest and moved carefully underneath the tree house, towards the wooden steps that led up to the platform. He was a cat and didn’t like water, but when he’d seen how much fun the skirmish looked from the living room window, he’d filled up the lone water gun left behind and dashed in. He’d seen the others leave the yard in defeat, and of course Simon was the last one standing. The little assassin, the jaguarundi thought affectionately. Nevertheless, his time was up. Casey didn’t have experience with target practice, but he’d seen enough movies to guess how he was supposed to act and was confident that he’d be too fast for the kid After all, a 16-year age difference counted for something, didn’t it?
In a flash, Casey stepped onto the foot of the stairs, pointing his pistol up towards the platform. No hint of Simon. With great care, he worked his way up the steps, aiming his gun all the way, but he didn’t need to reach the top to realize that the gerbil wasn’t on the platform. Casey thought he might be hiding in the corners, but no – the entire wooden space they’d spent two weeks building was empty, save for a couple of lonely water balloons and a bucket sitting on the floor. The feline peered inside and found it filled with water. Several ice cubes floated on top.
“Good boy” Casey purred approvingly. “Real underhanded. I like that. But don’t think you’re getting away. Don’t forget who’s the boss, here.”
With the utmost care, Casey poked the nozzle of his toy through the dense foliage that made up the walls of the tree house. He was certain that Simon was sitting on a branch, waiting for his back to turn. But Simon wasn’t anywhere to be found, even as Casey spanned the perimeter and peered up into the more sparsely-branched areas overhead. The boy was gone.
I can’t decide which is throbbing harder: my beating heart or my smarting fingers as I hang from a support beam beneath the platform, my weapon slung around my shoulder. Both play beneath the sounds of my hunter moving overhead, stalking me. I’ve never felt such adrenaline in my veins. I need to endure my armed seeker. My jaw is already set and sweat runs down my brow, so I initiate the last act of coping and squeeze my eyes shut. Pain is temporary, I tell myself. Pain is empty fury. Pain is distant thunder. I can rise above my discomfort like a pocket of air in the ocean. All I need…to do…is…wait…
Casey decided that Simon had managed to escape the tree house right as he was ascending the steps. He peered over the wooden railing at the yard but didn’t see anybody. That meant nothing: Simon was probably hiding behind the corner of the house. Casey hurried down the steps and ‘rounded the tree trunk in pursuit. Just a few steps later, he stopped.
Simon’s water gun was lying on the ground, beneath the platform.
The jaguarundi came forward, eyes narrowed and fur prickling in anticipation of a trick. He looked around, but Simon wasn’t anywhere. Preemptively aiming his pistol in anticipation of an attack, Casey knelt and picked up the water gun.
His last calm thought was that this was an expensive toy and that Simon should know better than to leave it lying around the yard. Then, the creaking of wood overhead.
Casey whipped around.
I stand over Casey on the platform, like a god of antiquity over an insolent mortal. My hand rests on an earthly container filled with ammo, but my stepfather looks at it like a divine trident. In this brief moment, I pause because I want him to recognize my design. I want him to see where instilling me with drive and steel has brought him. In his last moment, I want him to to be proud of me.
I get my wish, as I spy in his wide eyes the acknowledgment of his influence. Thank you, Dad, I think…and tilt the bucket forward.
Casey goes down with grace and passion, striking a much more impressive moment than my brother despite that his destruction is all the more complete. He falls onto his back as gun fuel pours over him like a waterfall. He writhes on the ground, fighting to the last to show that he’s not an easy win. His demise is terrible and beautiful, like a supernova. If I could cry, a tear might come to my eye.
Casey lay still on the ground, his limbs spread eagle and his eyes the size of dinner plates. His sweatshirt and cargo shorts were soaked and clung to him like wet sacks. He was in shock. It was very good that he was temporarily beyond speech, because otherwise he would’ve been compelled towards some very un-fatherly language.
I leave my position and allow myself to rub my fingers – letting the pain have a little. It’s only when I’m standing directly over Casey that I realize, somehow, he’s survived. His body is limp, but his eyes are blazing at me. I hadn’t anticipated this level of strength and fortitude. This was not my design.
I could have done nothing – leave him here and move on – but the part of my heart that’s still mortal compels me to reach down and pick up my weapon. I’m reminded by its weight that it has only a single shot left. That’s all I need.
“I’m sorry this wasn’t cleaner” I say to my warrior father as I take aim. “Truly, you’re as tough as I always knew you were. I’ll make sure future generations know it.”
“Young man-!” Casey hissed as Simon pointed the water gun between his eyes. “I swear to god, I will spank y-”
My shot rings out across the field. Somewhere in the world, a newborn takes its first breath.
Jeremy, Watson, and Oso were sitting on the living room couch when the patio door opened and Casey stepped in. The wildcat looked as though he'd just climbed out of the pool. In his wake appeared Simon, casual as can be. With a childlike smile, he shook Casey's dripping hand.
"Thanks for playing with us, Dad" he said.
"Welcome" Casey replied, his voice heavy and his eyes dull. "Glad you had fun. But I'm going to the bathroom now and don't want to be bothered for at least an hour."
He squelched off, leaving a wet trail behind him. All remaining eyes turned to Simon as the gerbil put his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and smiled benignly at his other stepfather.
"I put the stuff away, Pop."
"That's a good boy" Oso said, eliciting a snort from Jeremy.
"Nothing good about him. He's a killer" the coyote insisted.
Simon turned to his stepbrother, and Jeremy blanched. The gerbil wasn’t armed anymore, but they were still – as the older boy had pointed out – dealing with a killer. So much more the surprise when Simon crossed the distance between them and benignly petted his brother’s head.
“I’m sorry I got you so wet” he said, his voice heavy with exaggerated remorse. “You’re just so tough. I didn’t know if I could stop. But I should’ve.”
Jeremy was effectively stifled. Blushing, he crossed his arms in front of his chest as Simon turned to Watson. Not quite prepared for that level of condescension, the hare wrapped a blanket around himself like a shield in anticipation.
“Are you okay, Wat?” Simon asked.
“Mmm-hmm” the oldest of the boys replied.
“I’m sorry I got you in the eyes.”
“That’s okay.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
“Good. I’d feel bad if I hurt you.”
Watson and Jeremy watched as Simon rounded on Orson. The diminutive rodent stood before the massive ursine, sharing a look with him, and then climbed into his lap. He sat on Orson’s thigh and gently leaned against him, his arms doing their best to encircle the bear’s huge torso.
“I’m sorry I shot you in the mouth” Simon said sweetly, his head on his father’s chest.
Oso looked up at his other two sons in bemusement, then settled a paw on Simon’s back.
“I’m sure I’ll be okay” he chuckled.
“I just really like having water fights” Simon went on. “It’s so much fun, playing with you.”
“Well, that’s what’s important” Oso said. “Just watch our for peoples’ eyes.”
Simon nodded, and turned his face up to Oso’s.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“I love you.”
Jeremy groaned agonizingly and Watson hid his face at their brother’s shamelessness. Simon ignored them but fueled their chagrin by leaning up and kissing Oso on his cheek. The bear shook his head.
“I love you, too, kiddo. Now, are you ready to help me make some lunch?”
“Sure!” Simon chirped, hopping up. “And we’ll save some for Casey.”
I embrace my family, happy to be out of that drowned hell called a battlefield. Nevertheless, I know that in truth I had died there. My soul was still out there – still striking down foes one by one. It was the bargain all true warriors made to stay alive. And yet, as I think of the mentor that I eliminated, I wonder if it’s all really been worth it.
"So! Who wants…watermelon?" Simon said with the phoniest of innocence.
Everyone groaned.
Download the file to read the file in its original format.
helped me write the ending for this.
created the ART that inspired this story and provided the thumbnail. He also owns all of the characters herein.Suburban SniperThe sunlight from overhead winks through the leaves on this warm summer day, but the shine doesn’t reach me. The sun – the brightest thing in the galaxy, blazing at 9950 degrees Fahrenheit, and even it can’t find me. I lay wrapped in shadow on the floor of my hideaway, invisible. To anyone out there, I could be anywhere – I might as well be everywhere. In this moment, I’m omnipresent. I watch the world from behind my weapon, prepared to do what us creatures with godlike qualities do best: smite.
My eyes dart to the edge of the building before the figure even emerges, as though I can detect movements in the air. A big guy steps into my view. On the ground, his size means authority, but here, it merely makes him a bigger target. He’s clutching a weapon much like mine, but isn’t even aiming. He’s glancing around like a mouse ignorant of the hawk overhead. This guy – he’s not a warrior. He hasn’t been trained for this. He’s been thrust in here out of necessity. He’s cannon fodder. He’s my Dad.
I let my bearish father take several slow, uneasy steps out into the green, marveling at his tenacity. He knows what I’m capable of. Is he hoping that our family tie will protect him from what I have to do? Is he hoping that I love him too much to shoot him? The notion makes my nose wrinkle like a dash of pepper. I do love you, Dad. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be who I am today.
In light of that, I’ll make it quick.
“Guh!” Orson gasped as a jet of water erupted from the tree in the corner of the backyard and splashed across his white t-shirt. He raised his water gun and shot ineffectually into the tree’s vicinity.
“He’s in the tree house! Simon’s in the-”
A second volley hit him in the face. Oso dropped his gun, sputtering and wiping water from his eyes.
Dad falls back, dripping like a watering can. I’ve seen the last of him on this field. But as he retreats, two figures unexpectedly emerge from behind his back. They’d been using him as a shield, and now that he’s gone, they dart for cover. One of them picks up Dad’s gun and dives gracelessly behind a huge ceramic pot. The other, not fueled by adrenaline but the far less efficient cortisol, looks around helplessly before scampering behind one of the building’s pillars.
It’s a regular family reunion, I remark to myself. My brothers knew they wouldn’t be able to advance this far on their own, and so used dear old Dad as a living shield. They’re more ruthless than I thought.
It was probably Jeremy’s idea. He repeatedly peeks out from behind his cover, tempting me. He can barely aim with one weapon, so I prepare myself for a display of particularly disastrous marksmanship now that he has one in each hand. I’d be in greater danger if he tried shooting the wall behind him.
It may yet come to that, I think. I know my older brother well enough to feel his restlessness from here. Even in this life-and-death situation, he really, really wants to dash out with guns blazing. He’s not patient. He’s not an angler. He was officially diagnosed with ADHD three months ago.
I feel a little bad about using Jeremy’s disorder against him. I decide to play with him for just a while. Nothing more frustrating to him than getting thrown out of the game before one’s time, after all.
“We got you surrounded, Sy! Give yourself up and…! And…! And we’ll only soak you a little!”
Simon wasn’t actually surrounded. Nevertheless, Jeremy was parroting all the military and police lines he could think of. He was in the zone…though not nearly as much as his little brother.
“Wat! Lay down a suppressing fire and cover me! We’ll flush ‘im out! I’ve got ‘im in my sights!”
Watson peeked out from behind his cover, ascertaining that Jeremy didn’t actually have anyone in his sights. He pursed his lips anxiously, realizing that his chances of pleasing everyone in joining the game weren’t high when Jeremy didn’t even know what he was doing. He was just having fun, Watson supposed, but even though this was all just pretend, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. After all, he knew how seriously Simon took this. That’s why he didn’t expose himself now, but merely pointed his water gun around the side of the pillar and fired blindly. His shots went wilder than Orson’s had.
“Show yourself, Sy!” Jeremy cried from behind his own guns. “There’s no way out! And I can wait here all day! Until dinner!”
Silence passed between the porch and the tree. Not a leaf stirred, and no sight of Simon appeared from the leaf-obscured platform. Jeremy clenched his teeth and tried to be steely, but already his legs felt like taut springs.
“Don’t be a chicken!” he yelled.
Nothing.
“Simon! You gotta shoot, or you’re not playing!”
When still nothing happened, what remained of the green-haired coyote’s patience erupted.
“RRRGHH!” he growled, jumping up from behind the flower pot. “SI-MOOON!”
My brother charges my position, shooting his weapons while weaving like a drunken swordfish. He’s more like a berserker now than any kind of soldier, and I watch his frantic one-man parade while his shots go in all directions. I let him advance halfway across the field, until he starts to get winded. This gives him enough pause to realize that he’s met no returning fire, and I allow him to momentarily wonder whether he got me. Then, I get him.
The first shot hits him between chin and chest. It stops him in his tracks, and he jerks his chin down even as liquid spreads across his shirt. The second shot lands right on the scalp he presented to me. My brother falls down, flailing the weapons around his head.
This would’ve been more than enough to take care of a regular person, but my brother’s never been one of those. He’s a big guy with plenty of heart, so he pushes himself back up by using the guns for support, pressing their barrels against the ground. He raises his dripping face, then the weapon in his right hand. My third shot travels up his sleeve, striking him in the underarm and making him drop the gun. Even from afar, I can see the awe in his eyes. He didn’t think I was this good.
When he raises his remaining weapon, irritation comes over me like a bothersome fly. He should know by now that he’s beaten, and go down with dignity. But my brother doesn’t know when to quit. It’s my final obligation towards Jeremy to remind him, and thus, I shoot him in the groin. He squeals pathetically and drops the gun as his hands fly to his crotch. He falls to his knees and turns his back to me, trying to crawl away. He still hasn’t learned his lesson, and I fire a shot into the seat of his pants. His long, drawn-out moan fills me with nothing but secondhand embarrassment.
“Jeremy!” Watson cried. “He got you! You have to die now! Those are the rules!”
“I’m not dead!” the flustered coyote cried, wincing as Simon zapped the soles of his feet with water.
“Yes, you are!” Watson insisted. “If you stop moving, he’ll stop shooting!”
Grudgingly, Jeremy collapsed onto the ground, his cheek against the grass. Sure enough, the watery assault upon his person ceased, and he was left to reflect on how freakishly good his brother was at water fights.
“Careful” he muttered at Watson. “I think the little dork’s using ice water.”
Finally my brother lies still in the grass, his growls of protest faded to vapor. I put a check in my list of targets and raise my sights to where Watson is taking cover. For the first time, I feel something like a drop of sympathy in my stomach. Unfortunate Watson. Our oldest brother is the furthest from being a warrior, and is only here because they pushed him to it. He should have pushed back…but that doesn’t change the fact that he shouldn’t be here. My poor, meek, oldest brother. For your sake, I hope you don’t struggle.
I raise myself onto one knee, and take one hand from my weapon to grasp the first of three bombs lying ready at my side. It’s a tricky angle, but Watson isn’t about to move. It’s also overkill, but – still – poor Watson isn’t about to move. He’d sooner starve than willingly expose himself to my fire. I need to, as the ill-fated Jeremy would’ve said, flush him out.
Lowering my weapon, I lob the bomb over the platform’s railing and through an opening in the foliage. It strikes the pillar close to my brother’s head and bursts, the explosion wrapping around the pillar and startling Watson. He jumps out, his gun falling and his hands over his face. I raise my weapon, finger finding the trigger…
Before I can fire, Watson falls to the ground and moves no more. Even I’m surprised by this lack of tenacity. Perhaps the bomb struck him just right, or perhaps he’d just sooner embrace oblivion than face my fire. Whatever the case, the pitiable sight sends another sympathy-laced ripple through my guts. I’m sorry, Watson. The good just die young.
“Owww” the hare whined as he rubbed his face, lying next to the mangled debris of the water balloon. “You got water in my eyes, Simon! I’m not playing anymore.”
Orson poked his head around the corner of the house, wearing a towel over his shoulders. Holding aloft an outstretched index finger to signify a time-out, he helped his mild-mannered son to his feet and walked him off the field. Witnessing this, Jeremy decided that he was done playing dead. Holding up a finger of his own, he crawled awkwardly across the grass and scrambled to his feet near the corner, where he joined his stepdad and stepbrother in toweling themselves off.
The field’s clear, now. No one stands before my gun. I’ve survived, but there’s no thrill in victory – merely the feeling of having performed a job. If they had known what would’ve happened if they faced me, they wouldn’t have come. No real challenge was had today. But it’s all the same; I’m almost due for a reload, anyway.
I’m about to leave the cool shadow of my position, out of the corner of my eye, I spot motion. My gun’s barrel moves as quickly and readily as the blink of an eyelid. I have barely a split-second to take in the figure before it rushes beneath my platform and out of range. Casey. Taking advantage of my distraction to close the distance between us. I should’ve known. I certainly would’ve expected nothing less from my mentor.
Now I’m on my feet, spinning around to aim my weapon down the steps leading up to my platform. Silence, save for the sudden pounding of my heart. I’m deathly conscious of how light my gun feels, and I clench my teeth in reprimand of how wantonly I wasted shots on Jeremy. At best, I have a single shot left. It takes seconds to reload, but it takes Casey less than that to appear on the steps and riddle me with fire. I still have two bombs, but using them at this distance is too reckless even for me. Ten feet off the ground in the middle of a field, I’ve found myself up a real creek.
I glance over my shoulder, not putting it past the cat to climb the platform and surprise me from behind. I see nothing, but there’s no comfort in that. I’ve been met by another mythical being, whose invisibility indicates that he could be anywhere. He might as well be everywhere.
I realize with an angry snap that I’ve begun thinking like a victim. Like prey. It’s as viscerally deplorable as it is morally unacceptable. Even my opponent would shake his head if there was fear in my eyes when he took me out; it’d make him feel like he’d failed. Among all of my targets today, I respect Casey most of all – too much to let it come to that. It’s time to get daring and creative.
I glance around my platform, formulating the best way to eliminate a killer.
Casey felt quite into the game as he held his water pistol against his chest and moved carefully underneath the tree house, towards the wooden steps that led up to the platform. He was a cat and didn’t like water, but when he’d seen how much fun the skirmish looked from the living room window, he’d filled up the lone water gun left behind and dashed in. He’d seen the others leave the yard in defeat, and of course Simon was the last one standing. The little assassin, the jaguarundi thought affectionately. Nevertheless, his time was up. Casey didn’t have experience with target practice, but he’d seen enough movies to guess how he was supposed to act and was confident that he’d be too fast for the kid After all, a 16-year age difference counted for something, didn’t it?
In a flash, Casey stepped onto the foot of the stairs, pointing his pistol up towards the platform. No hint of Simon. With great care, he worked his way up the steps, aiming his gun all the way, but he didn’t need to reach the top to realize that the gerbil wasn’t on the platform. Casey thought he might be hiding in the corners, but no – the entire wooden space they’d spent two weeks building was empty, save for a couple of lonely water balloons and a bucket sitting on the floor. The feline peered inside and found it filled with water. Several ice cubes floated on top.
“Good boy” Casey purred approvingly. “Real underhanded. I like that. But don’t think you’re getting away. Don’t forget who’s the boss, here.”
With the utmost care, Casey poked the nozzle of his toy through the dense foliage that made up the walls of the tree house. He was certain that Simon was sitting on a branch, waiting for his back to turn. But Simon wasn’t anywhere to be found, even as Casey spanned the perimeter and peered up into the more sparsely-branched areas overhead. The boy was gone.
I can’t decide which is throbbing harder: my beating heart or my smarting fingers as I hang from a support beam beneath the platform, my weapon slung around my shoulder. Both play beneath the sounds of my hunter moving overhead, stalking me. I’ve never felt such adrenaline in my veins. I need to endure my armed seeker. My jaw is already set and sweat runs down my brow, so I initiate the last act of coping and squeeze my eyes shut. Pain is temporary, I tell myself. Pain is empty fury. Pain is distant thunder. I can rise above my discomfort like a pocket of air in the ocean. All I need…to do…is…wait…
Casey decided that Simon had managed to escape the tree house right as he was ascending the steps. He peered over the wooden railing at the yard but didn’t see anybody. That meant nothing: Simon was probably hiding behind the corner of the house. Casey hurried down the steps and ‘rounded the tree trunk in pursuit. Just a few steps later, he stopped.
Simon’s water gun was lying on the ground, beneath the platform.
The jaguarundi came forward, eyes narrowed and fur prickling in anticipation of a trick. He looked around, but Simon wasn’t anywhere. Preemptively aiming his pistol in anticipation of an attack, Casey knelt and picked up the water gun.
His last calm thought was that this was an expensive toy and that Simon should know better than to leave it lying around the yard. Then, the creaking of wood overhead.
Casey whipped around.
I stand over Casey on the platform, like a god of antiquity over an insolent mortal. My hand rests on an earthly container filled with ammo, but my stepfather looks at it like a divine trident. In this brief moment, I pause because I want him to recognize my design. I want him to see where instilling me with drive and steel has brought him. In his last moment, I want him to to be proud of me.
I get my wish, as I spy in his wide eyes the acknowledgment of his influence. Thank you, Dad, I think…and tilt the bucket forward.
Casey goes down with grace and passion, striking a much more impressive moment than my brother despite that his destruction is all the more complete. He falls onto his back as gun fuel pours over him like a waterfall. He writhes on the ground, fighting to the last to show that he’s not an easy win. His demise is terrible and beautiful, like a supernova. If I could cry, a tear might come to my eye.
Casey lay still on the ground, his limbs spread eagle and his eyes the size of dinner plates. His sweatshirt and cargo shorts were soaked and clung to him like wet sacks. He was in shock. It was very good that he was temporarily beyond speech, because otherwise he would’ve been compelled towards some very un-fatherly language.
I leave my position and allow myself to rub my fingers – letting the pain have a little. It’s only when I’m standing directly over Casey that I realize, somehow, he’s survived. His body is limp, but his eyes are blazing at me. I hadn’t anticipated this level of strength and fortitude. This was not my design.
I could have done nothing – leave him here and move on – but the part of my heart that’s still mortal compels me to reach down and pick up my weapon. I’m reminded by its weight that it has only a single shot left. That’s all I need.
“I’m sorry this wasn’t cleaner” I say to my warrior father as I take aim. “Truly, you’re as tough as I always knew you were. I’ll make sure future generations know it.”
“Young man-!” Casey hissed as Simon pointed the water gun between his eyes. “I swear to god, I will spank y-”
My shot rings out across the field. Somewhere in the world, a newborn takes its first breath.
///Jeremy, Watson, and Oso were sitting on the living room couch when the patio door opened and Casey stepped in. The wildcat looked as though he'd just climbed out of the pool. In his wake appeared Simon, casual as can be. With a childlike smile, he shook Casey's dripping hand.
"Thanks for playing with us, Dad" he said.
"Welcome" Casey replied, his voice heavy and his eyes dull. "Glad you had fun. But I'm going to the bathroom now and don't want to be bothered for at least an hour."
He squelched off, leaving a wet trail behind him. All remaining eyes turned to Simon as the gerbil put his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and smiled benignly at his other stepfather.
"I put the stuff away, Pop."
"That's a good boy" Oso said, eliciting a snort from Jeremy.
"Nothing good about him. He's a killer" the coyote insisted.
Simon turned to his stepbrother, and Jeremy blanched. The gerbil wasn’t armed anymore, but they were still – as the older boy had pointed out – dealing with a killer. So much more the surprise when Simon crossed the distance between them and benignly petted his brother’s head.
“I’m sorry I got you so wet” he said, his voice heavy with exaggerated remorse. “You’re just so tough. I didn’t know if I could stop. But I should’ve.”
Jeremy was effectively stifled. Blushing, he crossed his arms in front of his chest as Simon turned to Watson. Not quite prepared for that level of condescension, the hare wrapped a blanket around himself like a shield in anticipation.
“Are you okay, Wat?” Simon asked.
“Mmm-hmm” the oldest of the boys replied.
“I’m sorry I got you in the eyes.”
“That’s okay.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
“Good. I’d feel bad if I hurt you.”
Watson and Jeremy watched as Simon rounded on Orson. The diminutive rodent stood before the massive ursine, sharing a look with him, and then climbed into his lap. He sat on Orson’s thigh and gently leaned against him, his arms doing their best to encircle the bear’s huge torso.
“I’m sorry I shot you in the mouth” Simon said sweetly, his head on his father’s chest.
Oso looked up at his other two sons in bemusement, then settled a paw on Simon’s back.
“I’m sure I’ll be okay” he chuckled.
“I just really like having water fights” Simon went on. “It’s so much fun, playing with you.”
“Well, that’s what’s important” Oso said. “Just watch our for peoples’ eyes.”
Simon nodded, and turned his face up to Oso’s.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“I love you.”
Jeremy groaned agonizingly and Watson hid his face at their brother’s shamelessness. Simon ignored them but fueled their chagrin by leaning up and kissing Oso on his cheek. The bear shook his head.
“I love you, too, kiddo. Now, are you ready to help me make some lunch?”
“Sure!” Simon chirped, hopping up. “And we’ll save some for Casey.”
I embrace my family, happy to be out of that drowned hell called a battlefield. Nevertheless, I know that in truth I had died there. My soul was still out there – still striking down foes one by one. It was the bargain all true warriors made to stay alive. And yet, as I think of the mentor that I eliminated, I wonder if it’s all really been worth it.
"So! Who wants…watermelon?" Simon said with the phoniest of innocence.
Everyone groaned.
The End
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