3 A.M.

Please don't read this if you're triggered by death or violence.

The public address system crackled to life, and my body shifted into gear with it. It’s reflex now, to wake up whenever there’s a little noise, because, in this world, if you can’t react quickly and rationally, you will be tomorrow’s burning body bag.

My legs are moving faster than they should be, and I can barely get out of my tattered sleeping bag, and it’s a stampede, almost, everyone is moving, shouting, yanking knives from sheaths, cocking pistols, aiming rifles even before they get out of the barricaded sliding doors.

I’m still fumbling with the damned zipper on my leather jacket, reinforced with scrap metal. It doesn’t do too much to protect me, especially not in a firefight, and all the fights are firefights, but it at least makes my mother feel a bit better.

I hear the first shots fired, and a few scattered shouts, maybe I can piece together which of the gangs it’ll be tonight.

The combat boots from the men’s shoe section cling to the floor, my knife’s between my teeth, and my hands are pushing apart the glass slabs of the broken sliding doors. The people behind me are a little impatient, or they would be, if there were any.

Damnit, Kaida, what’s up tonight? I ask myself, silently, as I finally slip between the doors.

I’m greeted by a grisly scene, but I can’t tell who’s blood is whose. It could be the blood of tonight’s Gang Of The Day, the 45’s; it could be ours, but we don’t have a name, just the Colony; but it’s probably an intermingling, a bunch of red and white blood cells, platelets, and other things that I vaguely remember the words for when school was still a thing, on a molecular level, who cares whose it is, it’s all just blood.

But to me, it’s not just blood.

Their blood is a victory, a riot in the streets, a newscaster telling the masses that we had, if not beaten them, fucked ‘em up a bit.

Our blood is an insult, a slap in the face, the deepest way for them to tell us that they hate us.

I know it’s hypocritical, but I’ve never had time to think about it too deeply.

And tonight is no exception.

He’s standing about thirty feet in front of me, a clear shot, nobody’s in the way, and his finger’s right up near the trigger. It’s only a matter of who can draw first now, and he’s already got the gun in his hand, ready, aim, just missing the fire.

I drop the knife from my mouth, I can’t see too well over the handle, and, in one swift motion that I pride myself on in firing practice, I wrenched my pistol from its holster and take the safety off.

It’s too late, though, and I can hear the burst from his gun while I’m still aiming mine. Searing pain twists up my thigh before I know what’s happened, and I can only fall to the chewed-up concrete of the parking lot. He’s still up there, trying to aim again, adjusting now that his target’s on the ground.

I shoot first, and the guy hits the deck as well.

He won’t be a threat for a few minutes.

“Kaida! Kaida, are you alright?” shouts my mother, bolting to my side. She always reacts like this, whenever I get hurt, from the littlest, most domestic trip and fall, to this, or the time some 45 almost lost me a finger.

“It’s just my thigh, nothing too serious. I’m pretty sure it didn’t even hit bone,” I wince. Even if it’s nothing too serious, it feels like there’s been a red-hot knife shoved through me.

She helps me to my feet, and I catch a glimpse of another 45 helping the one I shot up as well.

“Get inside, Jennie’ll take care of you,” she murmurs, handing me my kitchen knife. I barely have a second to coax a thank-you from my quivering lips before she’s off.

“I’ll stay by the window so I can keep an eye on you, ‘kay?” she shouts as she runs.

Well, that’s that then. I clench my teeth on my lower lip as I start to shakily hobble inside, walking backwards, just in case. Jennie’ll let me in, anyway, so I don’t have to bother with the door.

I’m close to blacking out from pain and exertion when I know it’s safe to collapse back onto the bed by the window in the front of the Wal-Mart that I call home.

Jennie’s face hangs over me, a few strands of blonde hair dangling down, the improvised cloth surgical mask is moving quickly, she’s breathing fast.

She tells me not to worry as she shines a flashlight onto my outer thigh, right under my hip. She continues, about how it’s only gone through fat, or, at least, not through this one artery that she keeps going on about, I don’t ever really catch the name, she’s talking fast and my mind is moving slow.

Jennie hands me a washcloth soaked in cold water. I manage a confused little noise, a groan-grunt-whimper.

“Bite on this. This is going to sting.”

She moves the washcloth up into my mouth and turns around, doing something that I can’t see and holy S**T that’s cold!

“Does it sting too badly?”

I shake my head, hesitate a second, and start vigorously nodding it. She’s dabbing alcohol on the wound, and my brain is derailing again, it hurts so bad.

And I can’t do a damn thing but look out the window, I need to see what’s going on.

There’s Mom, just like she promised, standing in front of the window, moving around, I can vaguely hear her gunshots, or maybe they’re someone else’s.

She reloads.

Blood splatters the window, and a crack from a bullet that’s gone right through, at about head level and Jennie screams or maybe that’s me, because I can’t tell and I can’t breathe.

She’s on the ground, she’s fallen against the window, I can see her head, lolling off to the side.

Jennie bursts from the room, and I’m just left lying there, tears welling up in my eyes, and everything’s wrong!

I can see her, shaking my mother’s inert shoulders, dashing any last glimmers of hope I might have been afraid to admit that I had.

I’m silently begging my mother to just be unconscious, but the look in Jennie’s eyes as she lifts them to me says everything.

And everything’s black.

Author's Note

How was it? And, if anybody knows anything about gunshot wounds, can they tell me if I'm being accurate here?

Reviews

[Krystle Lewallen]

Is this the beginning of the book or just some random part of a chapter? I like were you are going with this either way. When Kaida's mother gets shot it should do one of the following: 1) Evoke a whole slew of emotions for instance; My breath caught. No, no, no! That-it couldn't. I just watched my mother get shot and every part of my body is screaming in agony but not from the gun shot I received, from the loss of someone I loved, my chest hurts from the realization. I silently beg my mother to just be unconscious, but the look in Jennie's eyes as they meet mine says everything. The shock overtakes me as I collapse backwards and everything goes black ( or you can say, The shock overtakes me and the world around me fades away. 2) Kaida will become numb. She will freeze from the shock and will not be able to process or will not want to process what happened. For instance, I lye there in shock. Not wanting to believe what just happened, my heart pounding a steadily fast rhythm in my chest. A reminder that I am alive and that she is dead. Shock consumes me and the world fades away. I like to feel the emotion right along with the character when I read something. And your words are lyrical which is important for a writer. You don't want your words to be boring and yours definitely are not.

[Natalie Sherwood]

It is the beginning of a book. Thanks for the review, I'll get to editing it soon.