[The beautiful fall day, sun dappling through the trees of Central Park, the distant not-so-distant sound of cars and hipster-powered bicycles, the calliope of the small amusement park--they last just long enough for anyone to step into the memory. This is the New York people dream about--the Met Museum bordering one side, the other lined with condominiums whose rent is in the millions. Modern American fairy world, but the kind you could get to from Hell's Kitchen for a short subway ride.
Then, the shooting starts. Almost without warning. It stutters, in fact, as Frank's brain tries to replay it, almost in the moment, to figure out when, where it starts, who shoots first, and why.
The music still plays, but drowned out by the spit of small arms fire, people screaming, some shouting directions.
Maria goes down in the first volley, kneeling on the old blanket they'd brought for a picnic, looking down at the red holes that burst her chest from the back, looking up at him, almost confused, before slumping forward, that unnatural, undignified limpness of the dead.
The kids scream, and he's already moving, trying to turn himself to take the gunfire himself--bigger target, he figures. But it's a crossfire, it's a goddam killbox, and there's no direction that's safe. He picks one, running hard, Lisa in his arms. She's a fearless girl, normally, but she's frightened, she's screaming into his throat. Frank Jr is holding his other hand, and then the hand's gone, and he risks a look and...Frank Jr's gone, face down on the border between grass and pavement.
He almost doesn't feel the bullets that hit him, first, because nothing can hurt worse than that slam of agony, of losing his wife, his son, and the bullets feel like slow, hot burns, phosphorus fuses in the nerves, hot blood hitting cold sweat, and he turns, and that's a pain that hurts more than anything to turn your back on your own son, and he makes it a few more steps before he goes down. He drops hard, on his knees, like an elephant going down. It's only when Lisa slips, as he falls, that he realizes even his body hadn't been enough--bullets that had torn through him had gone through her, as easy as shooting paper, as easy as shooting through a ghost.
She slides down his lap, and there's so much blood--his blood, her blood--hot and turning his jeans black. Everything smells like copper and cordite and there's blood on her face and he's trying to wipe it off but his own hands are covered in blood. Her mouth is moving and maybe she's talking; maybe he's talking; but his head is filled with the roaring of blood and adrenaline. It's like trying to hear from under a waterfall.
And then there's one final crack, and his head snaps back and his vision goes white, then black, and then the only thing left is the fast, hard fall to the ground. It's almost a mercy.
Second Floor RM 16 CW: death, child death, NDE, GSW OTA
Then, the shooting starts. Almost without warning. It stutters, in fact, as Frank's brain tries to replay it, almost in the moment, to figure out when, where it starts, who shoots first, and why.
The music still plays, but drowned out by the spit of small arms fire, people screaming, some shouting directions.
Maria goes down in the first volley, kneeling on the old blanket they'd brought for a picnic, looking down at the red holes that burst her chest from the back, looking up at him, almost confused, before slumping forward, that unnatural, undignified limpness of the dead.
The kids scream, and he's already moving, trying to turn himself to take the gunfire himself--bigger target, he figures. But it's a crossfire, it's a goddam killbox, and there's no direction that's safe. He picks one, running hard, Lisa in his arms. She's a fearless girl, normally, but she's frightened, she's screaming into his throat. Frank Jr is holding his other hand, and then the hand's gone, and he risks a look and...Frank Jr's gone, face down on the border between grass and pavement.
He almost doesn't feel the bullets that hit him, first, because nothing can hurt worse than that slam of agony, of losing his wife, his son, and the bullets feel like slow, hot burns, phosphorus fuses in the nerves, hot blood hitting cold sweat, and he turns, and that's a pain that hurts more than anything to turn your back on your own son, and he makes it a few more steps before he goes down. He drops hard, on his knees, like an elephant going down. It's only when Lisa slips, as he falls, that he realizes even his body hadn't been enough--bullets that had torn through him had gone through her, as easy as shooting paper, as easy as shooting through a ghost.
She slides down his lap, and there's so much blood--his blood, her blood--hot and turning his jeans black. Everything smells like copper and cordite and there's blood on her face and he's trying to wipe it off but his own hands are covered in blood. Her mouth is moving and maybe she's talking; maybe he's talking; but his head is filled with the roaring of blood and adrenaline. It's like trying to hear from under a waterfall.
And then there's one final crack, and his head snaps back and his vision goes white, then black, and then the only thing left is the fast, hard fall to the ground. It's almost a mercy.