The Unloaded Gun

         I don’t know what possessed me to do it. I had never even seen a real gun before, and here I was holding a pitch-black pistol. The metal bit my hand and injected the venom of fear. I tried my best to keep my hand steady, but the rattling of the weapon against my brand new class ring hovered over the thumping music of the radio.

         “It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” my best friend Johnny said. The way his words slipped between his teeth gave me a terrible chill. I tore my eyes from the sleek .45 in my hands and saw Johnny staring at me.

         “Watch the road, will ya!” I shouted. I could feel the nervous twitching of every muscle in my body.

         “Jesus Christ! Chill out, dude,” Johnny said, turning his attention back to his driving. He drove with his left hand at the top of the wheel and raised a half-smoked cigarette to his mouth. He took a long puff, and smoke rolled from the corners of his mouth as he spoke. “You sound like my mom.”

         “Where’d you get this thing, anyway?” I asked after a moment of silence. I wanted to set the thing down, but my fingers held a tight grip around the handle.

         “Why does it matter?” Johnny asked, tapping the steering wheel in time to the music.

         “I dunno,” I murmured. I turned my head to look at Johnny again. He was your stereotypical jock that every girl wanted to be with and every guy wanted to be. Hell, I’d give anything to be half as good looking as him. His love and dedication to being the star first baseman of The Jaguars molded his body into perfect shape. I remember when my friend Megan tried to get me to introduce them. She always raved about his “baby blues” and “cute smile.” I told her that she wasn’t his type, which didn’t go over well with her. Oh well, maybe one day she’ll thank me for saving her from heartache.

         Of course, I wasn’t a complete slouch in the looks department. Ok, so I wasn’t as big or strong as Johnny, but I stood as tall as most guys my age. I had a decent build, too, with little fat on my body. Sure, Johnny had twenty RBIs this season, but as a pinch hitter I actually scored a double during our last game to the surprise of Coach Willard and the rest of the team. I’ve even had a few girlfriends, but nowhere near as many as Johnny. I did manage to get to second base with my last girlfriend, so I guess that makes two doubles for the season.

         “Why do you have this?” I asked after mustering up enough courage.

         “Why?” he shot back, defiance in his voice. He shook his head and flicked his cigarette through the open window. “Why the fuck do you think, Brian? It looks cool.”

         I pondered those last three words. Why the hell would someone who’s slept with Jennifer Bailey need anything to appear cool? All the teachers thought he was an “outstanding young gentleman” and an excellent student. Women followed him down the hallways like sheep following a herder. Would something meant to harm--this cold gun in my hand--make him that much cooler?

         I looked out the window at the world passing us by. The only light among the dark sky came from the hanging posts along the roadside. The road we traveled looked barren--not a single car in sight. In fact, there was little scenery at all on the stretching country road aside from fields of corn and patches of thick forest.

         “Do you know where we're going?” I asked.

         “Knock it off with all the questions!” Johnny snapped back. He reached across the dashboard and grabbed a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. He fumbled along the roof for the dome light and flipped the switch. After a quick examination of the directions scrawled in red marker, which had bled through due to what appeared to be spilled water, he crumpled it back up. “I’m following the directions Kim gave me. Chill, we’ll get to the party soon enough. Then we can mingle with some fine ladies!”

         Good ol’ Johnny. He always had his priorities straight.

         “Hey! I dare you to point that beauty at this car!” Johnny shouted, pointing at the specks of white light in the distance.

         “Are you fucking crazy? No way!” I protested. I tried to drop the gun again, but it stuck to my fingers like flypaper. The light crept closer, calling to me in flickering brilliance. My arm began to shake, and before I knew it, the old black Lincoln whizzed past.

         “You pussy,” Johnny said, shaking his head. He tossed the directions on a floor littered with algebra notes, empty water bottles, and even a pair of white socks. “One day you’ll grow some hair on your nuts.”

         “Shut up!” I shouted. I heard him snicker, and I felt anger and shame rise within my chest. “You can be a real dick sometimes.”

         “And you can be a dweeb. The gun’s not even loaded,” Johnny said, “Look, here comes another. Do this and I’ll see if I can get you some tail at the party.”

         I looked ahead at the new set of lights and then down at the gun. The gun wasn’t loaded. That was a relief! However, I still felt uneasy about pointing a gun at a complete stranger. What if it were an elderly couple? What if they suffered a heart attack at the sight of the weapon? What if it were a cop?

         “I don’t think so,” I said.

         “God damnit! Gimme the gun and I’ll do it!” Johnny shouted and grabbed the barrel of the pistol.

         My arm tensed and resisted him. He tugged at it again, pulling the barrel toward him. I held on tight, but I felt my finger give way. I will never forget the feeling and sound that followed. The radio fell silent in the thundering explosion. My arm jerked back at the sudden force of the shockwave.

         An unloaded gun sent forth a deafening blast. The bullet traveled much slower than I had expected. I watched it glide on invisible wings, effortless and free. I barely knew where it headed before it was too late.

         The bullet found a new home deep in Johnny’s chest. My eyes opened so wide I thought they would explode. I never expected the spray to fly as far as the windshield, but a layer of red covered the glass like paint thrown on an empty canvas. Johnny let out a surprised cry and fell forward against the wheel. The gun fell free from my hands and landed in my lap. I turned away from Johnny to see the lights of the vehicle swerve to avoid us as we veered into their lane. I threw my hands in front of my face as we barreled over a hill and right toward a tree.

         What a way to go, but have no fear
         No one’s getting out of here alive this time

         I groaned as the lyrics from the radio echoed in my head. I pushed against the dashboard and felt a sharp pain run through my body. As my eyes began to focus, I saw the red numbers in front of me reading “1:14.” I raised my hands toward my face and froze at the sight of blood running down a jagged piece of glass that stuck deep into my left hand. Wrenching my eyes closed, I pulled the glass free and cried out in pain.

         “Johnny?” I said suddenly, memories returning like a tidal wave. I turned my head toward him; he lay motionless over the wheel. His head pressed against the glass, leaving a bloody smear along the cracked and broken remains. I reached out to grab him but recoiled my hand. A flash of red appeared outside the window like two fiery eyes. Panic seized my body, and I reached for the door handle with trembling hands. I pulled the latch and collapsed onto the damp grass.

         “Shit! Shit!” I screamed and scrambled to my feet. I searched for the scarlet light, but it had vanished. I looked back at Johnny and found the tears welling up in my eyes. “What have I done? Oh God, what did I do?”

         I started to turn, but then it caught my eye. The instrument that started this all glared at me from the floor of the car. Its siren song shook the silence of the night, and I found myself lifting it with my right hand and tucking it in the back of my pants, concealed by my baggy Cardinal’s jersey. I felt the creeping touch of cold death against my back as I left the totaled car and my best friend behind.

         I don’t know how long I walked through the woods near the empty road, but it felt like hours passed without change. I lowered my head and tried not to think of Johnny’s body still sprawled over the wheel with a gaping wound in his chest. I wanted to forget the stench of blood and smoke that invaded my nostrils when I awoke.

         I raised my head and saw light. Like halos of celestial brightness, a car neared from the roadway. I started to head back up the hill, but my feet froze to the ground. I was like a deer caught in the sudden shocking flash. I fell to my knees behind a bush and watched the car fly by. Two women rode past, and for a moment I heard a gunshot and screaming of the tires. They passed with no harm done, but I couldn’t shake a mangled image of their innocent, bloodied faces.

         The thoughts of what could have happened haunted what remained of my sane mind. I involuntarily checked for the gun that rested securely in the back of my jeans. Breathing deeply the night air, I trudged onward.

         An eternity drifted by before I saw my next glimmer of hope. An old barn house stood in a distant clearing. Maybe someone was home that had a phone. I just wanted to wake up from this dark nightmare.

         I crept toward the side of the house and peered through one of the windows. Pitch-black silence dominated the room. All hope fled away into the night, and I fell down against the side of the house. Thoughts of home entered my mind. I wanted to go back to my tiny, run-down house and give my mother a big hug. I wondered how she would react to something like that. Teenagers wanted little to do with their parents, and before this tragedy I was no exception to the rule. She’d probably ask me what I wanted as if it were a ploy for money. Money wouldn’t buy me comfort.

         I pulled myself up with the intention of finding another house, but then I saw the garage. With garages came cars, trucks, or hell even a tractor. I didn’t care at this point. My legs moved against all protesting thought, and before I knew it, I stood at the front door with my fingers wrapped around the handle. A loud clattering echoed through the still air as I pushed the door upward enough to step through. There it sat--freedom.

         Sure, it was only an old, beat-up Chevy truck coated with more rust than paint, but it was my ticket back home. I couldn’t control my feet as they carried me to the driver’s side door. I tried the handle and sighed. Locked--the door was locked.

         “Who’s out there?” someone called from outside the garage door.

         Shit! What could I do now? I stood still with my back against the truck door. Too afraid to even breathe, I watched and waited for what would unfold next.

         An elderly man stepped forward and flipped a switch along the wall. Lights flickered above our heads, temporarily blinding my eyes, which had been adjusted to the darkness. When my vision returned to normal, I stared at the gray-haired man that stood barefoot in long john pajamas. His sunken eyes condemned me, somehow knowing everything.

         “Who the hell are you? Get out of here before I call the police!” the old man shouted.

         I tried to say something, but my response remained lodged in my throat. Panic set in with its shaking hands and guided my arm behind my back. Rational thought gave way to blind instinct, and the uncaring metal weapon met the open air once again.

         “Oh my god,” the old man stammered, eyes locked on the gun.

         “Give me your keys!” I barely recognized the words as my own voice. I was no longer in control of my own fate. A demon’s snarling voice replaced my own. “Hand them over before my finger slips.”

         The old man swallowed hard and fumbled around for his invisible pockets. His face looked ghostly white, covered with a light layer of swear that rolled down the crevices of his wrinkled forehead.

         “God damnit! Where are the keys?” I heard the demon within scream.

         “I-I keep an e-extra set in the drawer over there,” the old man whispered in a dry, quaking voice. He raised his hand and pointed to a cluttered tool bench.

         I circled the truck and backed up toward the bench, refusing to take the eye of the gun off the old man. I yanked on the handle of the top drawer and peered into a mess of tools and miscellaneous parts. Searching through the clutter, I found the key to opportunity.

         I turned back around at the sound of shuffling feet. The old man tried to get away. If he succeeded, I wouldn’t be able to get away. Darwin and science class returned to my mind--survival of the fittest.

         I pulled the trigger, and the bullet traveled much faster this time. The old man without a name fell in a pool of his own blood. Darwin smiled from his home in the earth.

         Time was short, no time to waste. The key slid into the lock and twisted to the left, freeing the door. I jumped inside and set the gun on the seat beside me as if it were a passenger. It took three tries before the rust bucket turned over and growled like an old, angry dog. Pushing down on the pedal, the vehicle flew forward back to the barren road.

         The world passed in a blur, just as the thoughts traveled through my mind. Johnny, the party, glaring red eyes, gunshots firing from an unloaded gun, the bodies of the dead, and daring, bloody escapes blew around the maelstrom of conscious thought. Tears welled up and streamed down my face. Murdering the old man felt so different from killing Johnny. It’s like when you see road kill for the first time in your life. When I was five, I saw a squirrel on the side of the road, flat as a piece of paper. I remember crying for a half hour, blubbering about how it wasn’t fair. Over time, I saw more dead animals, and with the repeated experience, I came to accept it. When I saw the old man lying there, I didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t important; he wasn’t Johnny.

         I reached for the knob on the radio and turned it on. As if on cue, the familiar drumming and rising guitar filled the truck.

         What a way to go, but have no fear
         No one’s getting out of here alive this time

         I stared at the dashboard, horror-stricken by the lyrics. The clock glared at me in red numbers.

         “3:02.”

         An angel’s light appeared once again, and I saw Johnny float down and open up his arms. I smiled at him and took my hands from the wheel. I didn’t hear the blaring horn as I crashed headlong into the front of the oncoming semi.

         Red and blue lights from the tops of cop cars flashed in circles over the dark road. The gun remained sitting in the passenger’s seat, unaffected.