Free First Person by Eddie McGarrity Page A

turning to the
building. I notice this for the first time and that the child in the stroller
is a girl. I hadn’t seen this earlier. I arrive at the intersection behind the
SUV. A familiar high-pitched squeal and the red sports car rounds me to collide
with the SUV. The occupant gets out, but this time it’s a woman who gets out
and not a man firing a pistol side-on. She is a tall blonde in a red dress, a
long split up each thigh, with silver pistols in holsters where her garters
should be. She takes all the time in the world to ready herself. She even looks
at me for a moment and winks. Then the shooting begins. A pistol in each hand
she is coolly firing at the SUV. The driver of the black SUV is the same burly
male as before. He is firing a machine gun.
    This
time I do not hesitate. At full speed, I reverse up Main Street. I see my
neighbour at his green car outside the drugstore and I scream at him to run but
he ignores me again. Our other neighbour and her little girl in the stroller
head back down Main Street. I lean on the horn and know that my shouting is useless
but what else can I do? The yellow car passes me on the other side and this
encourages me to change direction. I pull on the wheel and my blue station
wagon lurches round in a circle. The tyres squeal as the vehicle is flung round
and amazingly I don’t lose any speed and I start to move forward away from the
intersection.
    I
speed into my driveway and run up to the front door. I am panicking. My wife is
at the door. She smiles at me and adjusts my tie. Our son stands at her knees.
He is clutching a teddy bear and rubbing his eyes. I don’t understand how they
have just stood there since I left them. I try to talk to my wife as she smiles
and adjusts my tie. “We have to call the police. Something very strange is
happening.” She smiles and reaches out for my tie, but I grasp her hands in
mine. “What are you doing?”
    I
realise I am shouting. Our son rubs his eyes and begins to yawn. I look at my
wife. She is still smiling. I want to grab her and handle her inside but she
seems so fragile. She is wearing a flower pattern apron over a yellow jersey
and a puffed skirt. Her eyes, though shining with love for me, are flat, like
they are painted on. She looks through me almost. Blonde hair is flicked away
from her face as she smiles at me. Her hands have been removed from my grip and
she adjusts my tie. I see, as if noticing for the first time, that her nose
crinkles as she takes enjoyment from this morning ritual.
    Our
son rubs his eyes and begins to yawn. His eyes widen. Something behind me has
taken his attention. My wife sees it too. She screams. Her hands are on my
shoulders and she kicks one of her feet in the air behind her. I turn around
and see a gas tanker, a huge truck, crash through our neighbour’s house;
straight through. It tears up his yard and is coming towards our yard, towards
us. The cab lurches to the side and the tanker begins to jack-knife. The
truck’s tyres chug in ever increasing volume as the driver tries to right the
vehicle. I see his expression beneath a red cap as he panics. Finally, the truck
is over on its side and it explodes.
    The
sound is enormous and the blast knocks us all off our feet. Heat washes over us
and a yellow fireball pushes into the air mutating into a black cloud in the
shape of a mushroom. Gunfire crackles through the sound as the red sports car
from earlier spins into our street pursued by the black SUV. The man in the red
sports car, the first driver I saw earlier, is behind the wheel. The driver of
the SUV is leaning out his window and firing his machine gun. Police sirens
from Main Street can be heard.
    I
look at my wife. She is alarmed and clearly doesn’t know what to do. Our son is
crying, standing again, his teddy still in his hand, though held loosely at his
side. My wife’s eyes search mine for an answer. I tell her, “We have to go.”
She nods, absent-mindedly, and I help her to her feet. I