At first I crouch a bit and cover my face, thinking he’ll let me get a bit closer if he believes I’m badly injured. I motion to the man in the booth and the couple to stay down. I look directly at Pam and she grabs the cook by the front of his shirt and pulls him with her below the counter. The man is already screaming at me. I open up my arms as I walk toward him, so he can see my face knitting itself back together. This must be a horrifying enough sight on its own, but then I spread my arms wide. I am filling up the space with my whole being, trying to cover every inch of the space with my body. He becomes more insane with rage with every step I take. The child is looking very blue and the mother is now screaming despite the boot on her neck, screaming for the life of her child, for her own life, for fear of the man above her, and maybe even in fear of the scalded girl knitting herself back together and coming closer.
Eventually, the man will have to drop the boy in order to shoot that gun. There’s no way he can manipulate that kind of weapon efficiently with one hand. As the child falls I think about dashing to catch him before he hits the ground and taking the gunman out after he’s gotten off maybe one or two harmless shots. But in my delusions of heroic grandeur it’s occurred to me that those one or two bullets could go anywhere and everywhere, ricocheting like they have minds of their own, injuring or killing wherever they land. It’s better I stay where I am. The boy will survive the short fall to the ground, I’ll draw the gunfire, and take out the gunman after a bullet or two land gently in my leg.
Well, that was the plan.
Instead the ‘gunman’ turns out to be an ‘expert gunman.’ When the first bullet hits me it feels not unlike the way the fire feels in my chest when I feel the bad sound, but times ten. I’m shocked. The second bullet feels less like fire and more like a razored spear. Three and four, cause tears to spill out from my eyes uncontrollably. Five rips at my throat and I scream. Or maybe that’s the rest of the diners screaming. Six feels like it grazes my spine and seven feels like it lodges there. My legs feel funny after seven, but they continue to obey me. Fortunately for me, every shot he takes, he makes, so there’s little to no ricocheting going on. Unfortunately for him, the more hits I take the angrier I get and no matter how many bullets I take – number eight gets me in the hand – I never stop moving towards him. Nine gets me in the left knee, which is excruciating, but by the time eleven gets me in the pelvis I’m close enough to put my bullet-ridden hand around the barrel of the gun. When I do this he stops and looks into my eyes, really looks into my eyes. I think he sees his own death right there, or at least a picture of how it is going to be for him when he’s done, when the world is done with him.
I scream through my torn throat at him as I have never screamed in my life and I wrench the weapon away, flinging it with deadly accurate precision at the opposite wall. It buries itself nearly a foot into the concrete, sticking out of the wall like good modern art. He falls to his knees like he’s going to beg for his pathetic existence. For the first time the mother is free and she scoops up her boy and dives behind the counter with him, shrieking the whole time. I push the gunman to the ground and crouch over him, my own blood pouring off of me in huge swathes. I crush his hand, breaking every bone he’s got, ensuring that he will never again be picking up a gun. He curls up into a fetal position and I stand up to look at the diners.
“Is everyone okay?” I croak, my voice tearing as it tries to repair itself and bleed to death at the same damn time. Pam is the first to stand up.
“Um, yes,” she says. The cook stands up next to her and nods, still in shock. The man in the booth raises his hand as if to agree and the couple in back, in tears of joy more than horror, I hope, cry out that they are both fine.
“The boy?” I croak again. Pam looks down behind the counter.
“He’s going to be fine. He’s breathing fine.”
“And her?”
“She’ll be okay.”
“Good.” I nod and look down at the man weeping at my feet holding his hand like a baby with a splinter. “Did someone call the police?”
Pam raises her hand almost guiltily. “I did,” she says, swallowing hard.
“Good,” I say again. I turn to leave and a small sound leaves Pam’s throat.
“Um, what about him? What if he tries to get away?”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s coming outside with me.” Looks of confusion cross their faces. I grab the gunman by his foot, drag him outside, and with everyone watching me I fly up to the roof of the diner with the gunman in tow. Just imagining their faces brings a smile to mine. I guess, I’ve outed myself, but it feels kind of nice. On the roof, I hang him by his belt off the neon sign. He can’t stay there forever, but the police are getting close and they can get him down easily enough, probably.