“——this lady with a missing tooth told our fortunes, and——”
“——She told me that, okay, so you know that good looking girl from the office? Well—-”
“Brady, Michael, hush,” I grunted, rolling my eyes. The sun had reached it’s highest spot in the sky, making the world seem a lot hotter than five minutes ago. I itched the stubble on my face, casting a glance in Julia’s direction. She was busy paying for the navy shawl she had her eyes on, faced toward the seller. Every so often she’d bounce on her heels eagerly and swipe a rebel hair behind her ear. “You know how they do that stuff? They have you fill in the blanks. You say something random and unexpected to them as a friendly greeting—-like how you need to leave soon because someone you think is hot from the office is expecting you—-and they take it from there.”
“It’s not true, is it Brady? Is it? Is it?” Michael tugged worriedly at Brady’s sleeve, his eyes huge. Great.
“Michael, Jack’s just kidding,” Brady grinned, scoping out Julia, then preceding to lift his chin in her direction a little. “There’s no way that—-”
Vision
I am standing where I am now. There are no gunshots from my old war memories. There are no people around me. Fair music and the voices of children, of people, coming from no where in particular, are blended together.
I spin around several times, confused. I could hear my own breathing, my own heart beat.
There is the stand that Julia was at, full of woven cloths and cultural colors. It’s there, but she isn’t. No one’s there. I turn.
There are the teller’s tents, the drapery still of dark purples and blues. I try to move, to cast an eye inside them, but it’s as if my feet are of cement. I can’t move.
The merry-go-round still chimes a merry old tune, the horses with chipped paint, a pole stabbed through each one’s gut, still churn. But there are no children on them or around them.
Am I having a hallucination?
A seizure?
I realize this was what it was like before that brat came into the E.R. I had this...this…
Now
“...And so then Tom told me that....Jack? Jack?”
As I came to, my gut churned. Suddenly, I was alert. Aware. I was feeling emotions I didn’t know I had. It was if an instinct had taken over me, like I had to protect myself. And I had to do it now.
“Jack?”
“BRADY, GET DOWN!”
I flung myself at my friend, my shoulder making a sickening sound as it connected with Brady’s collar bone. My arms flung out on either side of him, making sure to take Michael down with him. Brady tensed in surprise, but turned too, dodging an invisible bullet. In the distance, someone screamed, and I shut my eyes before I hit the ground. Sarge barked madly behind us, at something else. Everything seemed to be set into slow motion. The only sound was my own breathing.
A single shot rang out and I felt my gut plummet as gunfire whizzed over my head. I tumbled to my knees, practically pouncing on the soles of my shoes. People began fleeing to the exit of the fair, their toddlers in tow. Gypsies retreated into their tents, refusing to leave their goods behind, but also not finding the thought of being shot at very pleasant. Next to Brady, Michael began crying.
“Take the kid and Julia,” I screamed to him, adrenaline flooding my veins. “GO!!!”
There is a saying that we used to recite in camp, or at the fort. That a soldier is always a soldier. That, once you’re trained to kill and protect, it’s what you’ll always do in times of crisis. It’s what you’ve become, it’s apart of you. Whether you become a farmer, a social worker, an accountant, a lawyer, or a doctor. You'll always be the one with the weapon, regardless of what you become afterward.
“Let me see your gun!” I screamed to a fleeing officer, the weapon already out of it’s holster and clasped in his hands. When he gave me a dumb look, I wrenched it from his grasped. He began to shout angrily at me, but I moved on, ignoring him. My feet moved swiftly, from side-to-side, as I found tiny hiding spots between tents and food stands. When there’s danger, people on instinct run away from the cause. I was one of the people who ran into it.
Goddammit.
I whirled myself from out behind something posing as an outhouse and fired, ducking back behind my shield again. I hadn’t meant to intentionally hit my target, but instead to catch a glimpse on who my target was and where he stood.
It was a fucking child with a gun.
Her hair was a wild flaxen blond and her figure wielding almost no womanly aura. There was almost no curves to the kid—-who looked to be between seventeen and twenty—-and little pity written on her face. Her expression was neutral, focused. School shootings, sure, but at a carnival?
I stayed hidden, ready to come out and fired again, but something suddenly wrapped itself around my throat. I choked, my eyes going wide.
She slid down from atop of the out house—-I hadn’t heard her at all—-- until she was standing in front of me. Her expression would have remained robotic, if not for the slight smile of satisfaction, lifting me off of my feet by my throat, as I struggled for air.
“You perceive me as one of the rather...useless Protectors, puppet.” As air was cut off and my wind pipe began to clench together, I managed to make two small connections: She was English, like my father. She said the word ‘Protectors’. Like my father.
As the world began to darken, a faint yapping became louder. Then, suddenly, a snarl. Some sort of...attack...struggle...a fight...a...a…
Until, suddenly, I was on the ground, free. The fair grounds, nearly deserted. Sirens. Coughing, gasping.
The girl no where to be seen.
Sarge had saved my life.
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