Home Invasion
Captain
I pieced this all together later after researching the police records of River City,
talking to the River City Cops and interviewing everyone that was involved or saw what happened. Sadly, it paints a pretty dismal picture of the ‘under-class’ in the Metro.
From what I was able to determine my best guess is that it went something like this.
Roosevelt Jameson was cold. He hoped this next hit was better than the last one. The last one got too many of his Homies killed and too many of them wounded. The badly wounded didn't do to well. They tended to die a lot. What was worse, worse than the dying was that no stash was found. Oh sure they'd killed the homeowners, the odds had been overwhelming against them. The poor fools didn't have much of a chance to begin with and there certainly weren’t any cops nearby. Roosevelt had made sure of that. Metro cops could be bought easily enough. With enough cash, remarkably little, they became deaf and blind at the most convenient times, for him.
Those old coots had been low on ammo when he and his homies had bashed in their front door . Gotta love that ammo tax. It made ammo almost too expensive to buy. The government had done good that way, less guns, less ammo in the hands of the home folk and Roosevelt Jameson and his gang had less trouble crashing their party. Still, he'd wished they hadn't been such good shots. He'd kinda liked those homies, now it was more work for him.
Cash.
It was getting harder for Roosevelt and his gang to find cash. What used to have been prime bling was worthless now. The fences wouldn't touch it. Those damn 3D printers could make almost anything today (It was a damn good thing they couldn’t make ammo or guns yet, or he’d have been in real trouble.). More and more people were buying those damn printers. All anyone had anymore was 3D printed crap. It was getting hard to find anything worth stealing.
Roosevelt had heard about a happy hunting ground. The grapevine had it that Flint Island wasn’t under the jurisdiction of the River City Metro Police. In fact the grapevine said that the Flint Island Mayor had fired all their cops a while back. Happy hunting ground indeed. Roosevelt had taken his gang to Flint Island. What he saw was no different than anywhere else in River City but he made himself believe that it was different somehow. Those people were guilty. They deserved to be robbed. They had done him wrong, somehow. It was their fault, Roosevelt and his homies were the real victims.
The residents of Flint Island had food and warm shelter, but they weren't sharing with Roosevelt. He hadn't asked, he dared not. Being a victim was his thing. He dared not jeopardize his justification for killing and pillaging, He knew that they wouldn't. He was black and they were white. It was like 'slavery' man. His ancestors had been slaves. That made it all right for him to kill and rob. It was reparations. Every one knew that.
The Bastards. It wasn't fair that they had somehow known about the bad weather, and all the rain that was coming and stocked up on food and 3D printer feedstock. Jerry Springer never said nothing about it on TV so Roosevelt guessed that they had read about it in a book or something. He'd heard about books. No one got time for dat.
“It's a go.” He told his homies. Melvin, big as a linebacker, crashed into the front door, knocking it flat, Roosevelt and the other homies came in behind him. The homeowners must have seen them coming.
Damn right I seen them coming. I have a security system installed on my property. I had camera, motion sensors the whole nine yards. I knew that something bad was going down the minute they set foot on my place. I was waiting for them and had my trusty double barreled shotgun loaded and ready. If I do say so I’m damn good shot too. I’m not as good as I used to be when I was younger but I’m good enough to hit a thug with a shotgun at five feet. I fired two shots, two homies went down.
It didn’t take me but a few seconds to reload. I guess the boss homie figured he’d best do something quick or he was gonna die. He was correct.
He screamed at the top of his lungs.
I wasn’t expecting that. Got to give him credit for doing the unexpected. I hesitated for a split second. That was all it took.
The thug pulled out a handgun, panicked and fired off every round in it. He missed me every damn time but one of the bullets bounced off the fireplace behind me and punctured my leg in the meaty part low down. It wasn't much more than a scratch, a flesh wound but it caused me to stumble. I fell down banged my head on the coffee table and I was out like a light.
I saw Gary go down and I screamed. I’d done lost one husband when I was young. The damn fool went off to war and never came back. I wasn’t about to lose another one, not if I could help it. I lost my temper and took out my anger on the scum-bag that had hurt my man. I was a wild thing when I came charging out of the bedroom. I didn't have a gun but I had a butcher knife. One of those thugs got in my way. I was after the one with the gun but this one would do. I took him apart like I was butchering a hog. I’d had plenty of experience doing that back home in Texas when I was a young girl. The poor fool never had a chance. Then it was just me and the thug with the empty gun. We were the only ones left standing. We faced each other across the living room floor. I remembered something that my great grandmother said. She was an Indian Princes. I grinned while I stared the thug with the empty gun in the eye.
Then I licked some blood off the knife blade smiled again. His eyes opened wide. I must have frightened him. That was the whole idea. I screamed and leaped at him. The damn fools gun was still empty. How long does it take to drop a magazine and re-load? The stupid. He hadn’t done it when he had a chance and I was done through being Mrs Nice Gal. I just wasn’t a going to give him a chance to reload. I was on him like white on rice. He tried to use his empty gun to block my cuts and fumbled with the magazine release at the same time. I kept slashing at him and he couldn't dodge fast enough. I cut him and cut him and CUT him again and again. I just KEPT slashing.
It was kinda fun.
Then I made a mistake. I wasn’t as fast or as young as I had been and I was beginning to tire. I stepped in a little too close and sliced him across the belly but when I did I slipped in a pool of his blood.
I lost my balance and he hit me upside the head with his empty Glock.
Heh...Damn it if I hadn’t managed cut him again in his hand when he did that. Poor fool. I almost felt sorry for him watching take forever to change magazines. Almost but not quiet. All that blood squirting from his missing fingers didn’t help him none. The gun was slippery too. Finally he got it done.
He raised his gun to shoot at me but I wasn’t there. I was GONE. My momma didn’t raise no fools. While he was fumbling with the reload I scooted backwards on my butt and unassed the area. I crawled into another room hauling my man with me as I went. All the blood on the floor made it slick. Easier to drag. When I got into the other room I locked the door. It was a good old stout oak door. It might not stop a bullet but it’d sure slow it down.
He musta seen me when I shut the door. Damn fool shot up his whole magazine again. He had an empty gun in his hand.....again.
Yup...I was right. The bullets came through the wood alright but they lost all their power punching the hole. They just kinda fell on the floor. I picked one up and looked at it, all crumpled up and smushed. Heh...he was using hollow points. I was surprised that they'd actually punched all the way through.
“Get your grandpa’s Walker Colt Gary. I almost had it loaded before you went down, all you got to do is slip in the caps.” I yelled loud enough for the fool to hear. “While you do that I’ll call 9-1-1.”
There wasn’t any colt. Gary was still unconscious and there wasn’t a phone. The moron out there had no way of knowing that and it was only a matter of time before he bled out. I’d cut him really, really good. After a minute I scooted over to the door and looked through one of the bullet holes.
The moron was just standing there. I bet he even didn’t know what a Walker Colt was, but I’m was pretty sure he knew a Colt was a gun. Today’s kids are pretty ignorant but surely no one is that dumb. From the looks of him he must have finally realized that it was time for him to get the hell out of here. Problem was he looked like he didn't feel so good. Like I said...I’d cut him to ribbons. He was leaking pretty bad, from a lot of slashes. The front of his shirt, what there was of it, was covered with blood. He looked at it and about fainted what I’d done. I’d gotten him good with that last big slash. I’d opened him up from wishbone to groin. Some of his insides were poking out, a lot of them were actually. That couldn't be good. He dropped his Glock to the floor and kind of swayed a little. I was expecting him to fall down any time.
“Hi there.” I heard a voice. “I was just in the neighborhood and I heard a commotion. Is everything okay?”
When seconds count the Police are just minutes away, so one must deal with the situation until they get there. Mere minutes had gone by since the gang had busted down our door and here they were right on time...they done good.
“Whatcha got there?” I heard officer Marc ask officer Captain, weird names those boys have but I love em anyway. They remind me of my Uncles back in Texas who always talked about their childhood on the rez. Marc had arrived just seconds after Captain had.
“Oh, just picking up some trash” I heard Captain say. “He looked like he wanted to run. Can’t have that. Check on Gary and Eleanor would you? They’re in that room over there. The one with the bullet holes in the door. I heard her say she was calling 9-1-1. Careful, she has a gun.”
“I would hope so.” I heard Marc say.
“Eleanor! It’s me. Don’t shoot me with that hand cannon. It might break your wrist!” He said. I guess Marc knew about Walker Colts. We had one alright but it wasn’t in this room. It was in the basement. Gary had showed it to me one day. We’d spent some time shooting the old antique black powder pistol. The old gun was damn near two hundred years old.
The dying thug struggled but couldn’t move. He couldn't even fall down. He just flopped around like a fish on a line, slinging blood everywhere. Captain was holding him gently by the throat....and squeezing. The thug was getting weaker and weaker from the blood loss.
“Would you boys like some Coffee?” I asked them “It won’t take me but a few minutes to make some.”
“Why certainly ma’am. That would be mighty nice of you. We’re not any hurry. You did our work for us.” Marc said. “Oh by the way. Hadn't I better look at that bullet wound of yours there Gary? Didn't you get shot?”
Gary had woke up and was sipping on his own cup of coffee. Nothing like a cup of black coffee to calm the nerves. He said “No need. Eleanor has been reading some John Ringo books, sounded like the Ghost series from what she told me. She said just a few minutes ago in no uncertain terms that she knew how to handle a flesh wound, and she did too.”
“She didn’t!” Captain.
“Yup.” Marc laughed too, then he examined Gary’s wound. He’d had paramedic training and it never hurt to be sure.
“I’ll be damned“ he said “She plugged the bullet hole with a tampon.”
The poor thug must have bled out by now. He'd stopped flopping, or maybe he'd suffocated, he'd turned a little blue. Either way, he hung limp as a wet rag from the end of Captain's outstretched arm.
“Is he done yet?” Marc asked his brother.
“I think so” He checked the thugs pulse. There wasn’t one.
“Yup. He done bled to death. Poor thing.” Marc said
“Yeah, that’s a real shame. Look what it did to the carpet.” Marc said looking around at the other dead punks. “I reckon Eleanor and Gary saved Flint quite a chunk of change tonight. No jail costs, no trial costs. No prison costs. The Dragon Lady should be well pleased. They might even get a reward.”
“Damn sure ought to get their house cleaned for free if nothing else. All that bloods a mess.” Captain said as he let the thugs body drop to the floor with a ‘whump’ He’d been holding it up the whole time we talked, with no apparent effort, with one hand. That boy was strong! “Since when did you start calling her the Dragon Lady?”
“Since about the same time you did.” Marc grinned.
To Be Continued
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