Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23316 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23316 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
But as we lay on the cold floor, Janelle still in shock, I know I can’t sit here, contemplating next steps forever. It’s time to act.
Suddenly, another window shatters as something hits the cabinet across the way, and the curvy girl jumps as her eyes become saucers. Then her face crumples and Janelle begins to sob.
“Shh,” I hiss. “Stay quiet.”
She nods and manages to keep the sobs down to a soft whine. I turn to her, blue eyes intense.
“Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me, okay?” I whisper, rubbing her back. “Are you listening?”
She nods, still choking back uneven gasps.
“Okay. I need you to try to stay calm. I know it’s hard, but just take some deep breaths because there’s a shooter in the area and it seems like we’re the target.” She lets out a muffled moan, and I grab her elbows, staring into those brown eyes. Her pupils are so big that they almost cover her irises, but I never drop eye contact. “Stay calm, remember? Panicking isn’t going to help the situation at all. Now, don’t freak out because I’m going to handle this, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Do you trust me?”
She nods dumbly and I jerk my chin, satisfied.
“Good. Stay here and stay low,” I rasp. “Here,” I continue, pulling my cellphone out of my pocket to hand to her. “When I leave, you call 9-1-1. Can you do that for me?”
She nods again after a few moments, and I send her a mirthless smile. “Good. Remember what I said. Stay calm, stay low, call 9-1-1. And don’t get up no matter what.”
With that, I take a deep breath and start moving. After all, this is an active shooter incident, and it does no good to cower behind the kitchen island forever. The shooter’s probably stalking in the woods, and sooner or later, he’s going to realize that he can hit us from the side windows. As a result, I scurry out from behind the island, half-sliding half-crawling on my stomach, and rush into the bedroom. Once I’m inside, I quickly stand and grab my long gun from the closet. Fuck, this baby is a life-saver.
After double-checking that it’s loaded and ready to go, I sneak into the en suite bathroom and peer out into the yard from the corner of the window. Where the fuck is this asshole? It’s clear from the angle at that he was in the front yard when he took those first shots. But is he still there? And if so, where?
I continue to scan the terrain, the tall trees heavy and dark. Leaves rustle in the slight breeze, and shadows flicker everywhere. It’s hard to make out anything concrete, and I squint, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Focus Crenshaw, I tell myself. Don’t give up. Janelle’s life depends on it.
Sure enough, bingo, I spot him after a minute or so. There’s a shadowy figure crouched in the trees and I can see the outline of his gun too. He seems unsure of himself, given the loud-as-hell crackling of leaves beneath his shoes. Professional sniper, he is not.
But I don’t hesitate. Strike early, strike hard, strike fast is my motto, and without a second thought, I lift my gun and take aim, squinting at my target.
Suddenly, the loud crack of gunfire rings through the air and then an agonized wail rises through the forest. The shadowy figure crumples and there’s a loud thump as he hits the ground. Good. I grit my teeth. Hopefully, I killed that fucker because no one hurts Janelle without having to deal with me.
11
Janelle
Am I experiencing a dissociative episode? Or is it a dissociative state? I don’t even know what to call it, but it’s the one where you feel untethered from your body. I know that the body of Janelle is cowering behind the kitchen island, heart racing. But I feel like the soul of Janelle is hovering somewhere near the ceiling, looking down on events in a detached state of mind. It’s as if I’m observing these crazy events from a distance, without really being involved. It’s soothing, actually, and maybe this is my mind’s way of keeping me safe.
Or maybe it’s called astral projection? I don’t know. But at least I’ve managed to do as Kurt asked: I called 9-1-1 and in a frozen whisper, told them what was happening. Now, as I float peacefully somewhere near the kitchen ceiling, the wail of sirens pierce my ears. Emergency help is here, thank god. But where is my man? Why did I hear another gunshot, and why is there an injured dog wailing outside?
Suddenly, someone shakes me from my stupor, making my astral self land back in my body with an unwelcome thump.
“Ugh,” I grunt.
“Janelle, Janelle,” a low voice calls with urgency. “Come back to me, honey.”