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The Shot

“Wake up we have to get to that shipping center before sun-up to meet Warren,” Nelson sternly and quietly said.

“Alright,” William shot up as if he had not slept a wink. When they reached the shipping center they found Warren’s truck and climbed into the back of it. Half of it was empty. The other half was occupied by the magnetic rifle and its equipment. Nelson set about working with the camera, trying to get it warmed up. Now all they had to do was wait in the cold refrigerated truck.

“’Ullo you guys back there?” came Warren’s voice.

“Yeah,” Nelson answered through an intercom.

“Ok I’ll let yah know when we’re near,” Warren said in a tense voice.

“Right,” William answered. The two sat in silence on the way there, punctuated by the bumps in the road that may have been there hearts. Nelson sat still; then a small gasp as the president came into his camera’s view. He locked on. Soon they could see the president sitting there chewing on a hotdog, cheering when someone scored or struck out.

“OK almost there, I’ll call out the bumps and flats, in the clear zone,” Warren’s voice said. The clear zone, the small amount of time they had to take the shot, about 10 seconds.

“Clear Zone entered,” Warren’s voice said, the strain not even remotely concealed, “bump.” A split second later they were all jostled by a dip in the road-way. William quickly tried putting the crosshairs on the president’s head. “Ya’ll better get that shot

off,” the crosshairs found their mark, “Bump,” William swore and hastily recovered. As quickly as possible he steadied the gun and tried getting the crosshairs to meet their new friend… Bang.

From Nelson’s screen they saw the president go down: his head seemed to explode in a rain of metal and heat. William watched as the paramedics rushed over to save their president, but it was far too late. He was gone. William and Nelson did not celebrate.

The truck sped away and docked at the next shipping center, Nelson and William hid in a closet. Warren feigned interest with some truckers as they watched the news: President dead. No suspects apprehended. About eight or nine hours later Warren came and got them. He took them to the next truck stop where two cars were waiting. Nelson hopped in one, William the other.

“Good luck,” was all either had time to say to the other as their mouths struggled to make words. It was ten hours since the president had been fatally shot.

Copyright 2007 Chris
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