Shootings is a story about two men with completely different goals, and how their actions affect the same group of women. It will unfold here in serial format.

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3

Martin sat there in his car, third in line at the red light, looking at the towering, inflated disposable cup advertising the new coffee shop’s grand opening. The name “Ground Control” was emblazoned in brown across the cup’s midsection. Numbed my his morning commute, he imagined what it would feel like to shoot a hole in that cup. He could just slide the passenger window down, take quick aim, and fire. That would spice up the drive time.

The cup had loomed over the store for three days now, just inviting someone to shoot it. Didn’t that store have enough locations? There was one just across the street inside the all-inclusive grocery and general merchandise store.

Instead of waiting to go straight when the light turned green, he turned left into the strip mall’s parking lot. He whipped the car into the spot next to the cart return trough and entered the mega store. His plan formed as he headed for sporting goods.

At the back of the store he found the paintball supplies and the knives, and then the gun counter. Nobody was working sporting goods that early in the day, so he flipped a switch on a nearby pole. A light a few feet above his head blinked to let someone know that he needed help.

A middle-aged woman rubbed her eyes as she approached and walked behind the counter. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“I need to purchase a pellet gun,” Martin said.

“Pump-action or air canister?” she said.

She knew more about these than he did. The canister sounded like an added expense.

“Pump action is fine,” he said. “Your most inexpensive model.”

A thought came to Martin that might foil his plan. “Um, is there a wait period for that? Like, for a background check or anything?”

She turned around and unlocked the gun case behind her. “No, just ID proving that you’re 18 or older.”

“Great.”

“And the little guy you’re buying it for has to have an adult with him when he shoots.”

“Little guy?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s for a girl?”

“Oh, um, yeah. A gift. For a girl. My niece is quite the tomboy.”

She handed him a small rifle. It was lightweight, and everything but the barrel and trigger was made of brown plastic. Easily supported in one hand, it was just like the one his brother had when they were kids.

“Crosman 760 Pumpmaster. A classic,” the clerk said. “The short stroke should be perfect for your niece. She gets good with this, and those varmints won’t know what hit’em. Knocks the squirrels off my birdfeeder pretty good.”

He couldn’t ask her what would make a hole small enough that a giant cup would deflate slowly. Or maybe more than one hole. “Does the pellet actually penetrate the skin?” he said. “When I was a kid they did.”

“I ain’t just stingin’ those squirrels, sir. If that little lady pumps it up enough, it will draw blood.”

“Will it draw any attention? I mean, will it bother the neighbors?” Martin said.

“No, sir. It’s almost as quiet as a mouse. Hard to shoot those with it, though. They won’t stand still long enough.”

Martin paid her for the gun and a small box of pellets, then returned to his car. He pulled back the gun’s bolt and placed a pellet inside the chamber, then pushed the bolt back into place. He laid the gun down so that the barrel’s tip rested on the floorboard, and tossed his jacket onto the seat to hide the stock.

Back at red light, first in line this time, his heart raced. The giant white cup, held by lines staked in the grass, swayed slightly in the breeze. It stood almost twice as high as the coffee shop’s roof. A bright blue fan sat on the ground next to it, attached by a short, wide, flexible duct.

He leaned over, reached both hands under his jacket, folded out the gun’s pump mechanism, and gave it three quick pumps. The next three were slower, the compression challenging his weak arms, but he labored through four more. He slid the gun’s barrel into one of the jacket’s sleeves. With his left hand he depressed the button to open the passenger’s side window, while his right hand worked to point the gun, completely concealed by his jacket, toward his target.

A woman and a little boy walked, hand-in-hand, from the coffee shop’s front door toward a parked car. The boy smiled at the inflated cup and ran for it, pulling the woman behind him as she struggled not to spill her hot brew. Martin thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t recall a name, so he shook off the thought to focus on his purpose.

He aimed at the looming, puffed-up cup of imaginary joe and pulled the trigger, then dropped the gun back onto the passenger’s seat. The behemoth beverage just stood there. Had he missed?

A gaping maw ripped across the cup’s surface at a sharp angle. The white fabric slumped quickly and covered the boy and the woman, pushing their shadowy figures to the ground. The blue fan sent ripples across the sea of fabric.

The traffic light showed green. Martin tried to act as if nothing unusual had happened, and calmly let off the brake and pressed the accelerator. In the rear-view mirror he saw that the other cars were not following.

(to be continued)