Chapter 19: Chapter 19 – The Fight at the Aquarium

In the White House, on the floor below the floor that houses the President's bedroom, is the Secret Service sleeping quarters. In that room is where the Secret Service member who carries the nuclear football takes his break, and stays vigilant throughout the night, in the event there is cause for the nuclear bombs in the US’s arsenal to be launched, like if Russia or Iran launched their nukes at the US, and the U.S. had to react with equal force, to ensure mutual destruction. 

The President can’t be expected to hold the football, because it’s a weighty briefcase and he has other things to worry about without the added pressure of lugging around a world-ending weapon. So, since the designated Secret Service agent couldn’t be expected to stay on guard inside the President’s room, and it was unseemly to have the football directly outside the President’s room, here it rested. On a desk, handcuffed to the agent in the Secret Service sleeping quarters downstairs. 

This particular agent was very proud of his role, and would spend his time on watch sprinting the route from the break room, up a flight of carpeted stairs, and down a hallway. His best time was 9 and 4/10 of one second, which was a decent pace considering it would take an ICBM at least ten minutes to get from Russia to New York City. The agent has just finished a set of warm up sprints when The President walks down the staircase, in his navy cashmere Presidential bathrobe and matching slippers, each item emblazoned with the Presidential seal. 

The agent stands at attention and salutes the Commander-in-chief as he holds the banister and walks down the last couple of steps. He feels the psychological and physical weight of the football in his left hand. “Good evening sir.” The President approaches. He pats the agent’s shoulder but doesn’t tell him to be at ease. He looks out a rectangular bullet proof window onto the floodlit white house lawn. He has bloodshot eyes and dark circles around his eyes indicating a lack of sleep. “Trouble sleeping.” He addresses the agent without turning around. “Burden of the office, I suppose. You ever have trouble sleeping?” The President turns to look at the agent. “What was your name again?” 

“Olsen, sir.”

 “Olsen, you ever have trouble sleeping?” 

“Every once in a while, sir. But not much.” 

“That’s good. You can put your hand down.” 

Olsen lowers his salute. 

“Now, you’ve got those codes in there, right?” 

Olsen lifts up the briefcase immediately. “Yes, sir.” 

The President lets out a statesmanly chuckle. “No need for them just yet. It’s just good to know they’re in there. Now, you wouldn’t mind giving me some space if I made a quick phone call, would you?” 

“No, sir.” The President nods and Secret Service agent Olsen departs, football in hand. 

The President calls up FBI Director Harris, who is on his way to a good blackout in front of Mentalist reruns. “Evening, sir. To What do I owe the pleasure?” He tries to pretend he hasn’t been drinking, thankful you can’t smell booze through the telephone. 

“We’re back to square one, it would seem… with our… gunman.” 

“Ah, yes, Mr. President. He seems to be quite the cockroach.” 

“Seemed like he was dead, and now he’s back, eh?” 

“Yes, sir, unfortunately. But believe me, we’re not going to rest until he’s subdued and brought to justice. He’s desperate now and we’ll have him right where we want him.” 

“Don’t lie to me. That’s treason, you know? I can help. Whatever resources you need, I’m freeing them up. Military. Whatever. Use germ warfare for all I care. It’s not a war crime if we’re not officially at war, right?” 

Director Harris offers a half chuckle, unsure if The President is joking or not. “Thank you, sir. That will help us immensely in our pursuit.” 

“And you know, if he isn’t subdued soon, unfortunately, I may have to use the nuclear option. A man can only take so much humiliation.” 

“Nuclear option?” 

“Don’t repeat this, but if we get intel on the shooter’s location and all other options fail, a township may have to receive a tactical nuke… especially if its constituents haven’t polled favorably towards yours truly in terms of reelection. 

There’s silence on the phone. 

“I’m of course joking about the last part.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

The President hangs up and FBI Director Harris feels very sober as he unmutes The Mentalist. He chugs the remaining whiskey from its bottle. 

#

The next day, Fritz is in very good spirits. He’s seen news of the shooter, back from the dead, and back at his rampage again with renewed vigor. He returns to his pickup truck in the parking garage and the windshield is full of tickets. He shoves them off and makes a call to FBI Director Harris. “Boss. Good day, isn’t it?” 

“Fritz…. I was just about to call you.” 

“Looks like the hunt is back on.” 

“Yes, yes it is. Listen, we might be going in a slightly different direction….” 

“I’m gonna stop you right there. You gotta give me one more shot at this. I need a real squad this time. The kid obviously has back up. So I'm gonna need some back up too, to deal with his. And I can’t have some weak pencil pusher like the one you sent me. He got lit up like swiss cheese in the field. I need some real killers. I’m gonna pick ‘em myself, too. You just do your job and make sure the money’s right, and the supplies are alright, okay?” 

“Okay, Fritz. You got one more chance at this. A lot of this is out of my hands, now. They’re gonna be sending official military after him soon, national guard, state of emergency type deal. I’ll release the funds that I can to you because I believe in you, but I can probably arm seven guys max, including you.” 

“That’s more than I need, Pleasure, sir.” 

“Don’t let me down. We’re all depending on you.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Fritz drives out of New Orleans, admiring the orange sherbet sunrise and drumming on his steering wheel with his fingertips. Fritz calls on his most hardened contacts, and chooses a gang of four so they can use the extra money on guns and ammo. Bill Chickey, a 45 year old trucker who spent several tours of duty in Afghanistan. Fritz had once seen him crush a supposed member of the Taliban’s skull between his bare hands, who later turned out to be a completely innocent Army translator. Bill was honorably discharged. 

Seth Kim, a Korean-American sniper who had racked up the 4th most confirmed kills of any sniper in U.S. military history, although this wasn’t officially acknowledged because some of his kills were rumored to have been padded with civilians, children, and first responders. His nickname was 4thie. 

Coming in for the demolitions role, was demolitions expert Dutchie, a German guy with glasses who had a bad stutter and shaky hands, but who could blow up any building with half the C4 it would normally take in the hands of any other trained explosives expert in the military. 

Rounding out the rag tag band was John Kensington. An all-around fearless killer who makes the D.C. sniper look like the kid from a Christmas Story. He was a real interrogations expert, and had pulled Fritz out of a real bad spot when he was in Mosul. 

They arrange to meet at a pool hall outside of Fayetteville, Louisiana. Fritz drinks a Budweiser while he watches the crowd in the wall length mirror behind the bar. He’s in the corner where he can keep an eye on everything. Bill Chickey marches in wearing his commemorative U.S. Marines hoodie and camo hat. He fills the door frame of the bar when he enters, and as he approaches Fritz, the crowd parts to make room. “You son of a bitch,” Fritz swivels around to shake his hand and they embrace warmly. 

“You look like shit.” 

Chickey guffaws. “You got fat, didn’t you boy?” 

They hug again tightly, making a show of clapping each other on the back. Some of the patrons turn around as they hear the thunder-like meat slapping of the back claps. The men sit on the bar stools. “Am I the first one to the party?” Chickey yells to the bartender. “Get me two Budweisers and two shots of your top shelf whiskey… and he’ll have a glass of milk, he needs to put some muscle on.” 

You are reading story Red Streams at novel35.com

Chickey squeezes Fritz’s bicep with the punchline and Fritz puts him in a playful headlock and gives him a noogie. Chickey yells out “Uncle! Uncle!” and the bartender places the four drinks in front of the two men. Next to arrive is Kensington. 

He approaches slyly, from the backdoor, and puts fake finger guns behind both seated men’s prodigious necks. “I got the jump on you boys. I thought we were staying frosty!” Fritz and Chickey leap from their seats and pull Kensington into a double bear hug. 

“You son of a bitch!,” they both scream. Kensington grabs them both tightly and leans back, lifting both large men into the air. Fritz and Chickey kick their feet and squeal gleeful protestations. 

“Put me down! Put me down,” Chickey wails at the top of his lungs. More bar patrons look over, and different pairs start making eye contact and muttering under the music playing in the bar. Kensington puts them both down. He barks at the bartender 

“Barkeep, get us the whole bottle of whatever these son of a bitches are drinking. And put it on their tab. They owe me,” he states with a cheshire grin. He claps both men on the back and takes the stool between them. Soon enough, Kim arrives. He has a ripped tank top showing his heavily tattooed and muscled arms, and he swaggers in, sneering at the patrons. 

“You sons of bitches!” He sprints to the three seated men and they exchange more manly hugs and back claps. They rock back and forth in a group hug. 

Kim scream-sings “Reunited and it feels so good!” He grabs a jack and coke next to the bottle of whiskey that they had been drinking from. “Smells like I gotta catch up to you son of a bitches. Y’all lightweights been drinking without my supervision?” 

A bearded guy in a flannel and Carhartt beanie sitting next to the rambunctious foursome clears his throat and taps Kim on the shoulder. “Excuse me, that’s actually my drink.” Kim turns his head slowly to look at the intruder from the corner of his eye, without moving his torso. He pounds the Jack and Coke back. 

“Now it’s mine.” 

He turns back to face his friends and laughs uproariously with them. The man in the beanie sheepishly says “C’mon man.” Then, “Fine, I’ll have the bartender add it to your tab,” Kim ignores him. 

Next, Dutchie arrives. He awkwardly pops in and out of the bar’s front door a few times, checking the sign outside to make sure it’s the right place, then looks around the dimly lit bar to see if his friends are here yet. Finally, he walks all the way in, and confidently marches to the opposite side of the bar, where he seems to think he spotted his people or a free seat. Who knows? Chickey guffaws. “Look at this guy,” then cups his hands to his mouth and shouts loudly, “Dutchie, we’re over here you blind son-of-a-bitch. God love ya!” Dutchie swings his head around and bolts awkwardly toward the warmth and safety of the people he knows. 

They embrace him affectionately and give him more back claps, tossing him up in the air like it’s his Bar Mitzvah. When they finally let him down, he smooths his cable-knit fisherman’s sweater and straightens his glasses, then taps the Carhartt beanie guy on the back, who has now faced away from the group while he sulkily sips his new Jack and Coke and talks to his own friends. He turns around. “What’s up?” 

Dutch asks politely, “Do you mind scooching over a couple of chairs so I can sit here with my friends?” 

The Carhartt guy looks over. “Actually, I kinda do mind. There’s not a ton of seats open. Can you just pull one over from another table?” 

Dutchie trembles and stutters, “W-w-w—w-w-w—well, w-well, I-I-I-I-just—“ 

Kim approaches the Carhartt guy. “Excuse me, were you bothering my friend?” 

“No, he just–” 

“Give him your fucking seat.” Kim towers over the man and aggressively stares him down. 

The man swallows but doesn’t back down. “No, you can’t just come in and take over the place. It’s a public bar.” 

Kim starts laughing. He pats the Carhartt guy on the shoulder. “I don’t fucking believe this guy.” He picks up the renewed Jack and Coke, chugs it, and smashes the glass into the side of the Carhartt man’s head. The man yells out in pain.Kimrips the beanie off and slams the man’s head into the bar, then holds it down with his full weight. He grabs the soda hose from behind the bar and shoves it into the man’s mouth and sprays until the man is sputtering and choking and soda water mixed with saliva floods down the bar. 

The Carhartt man’s friends jump toward Kim, and Dutchie slashes one of the friend’s faces with his switchblade, which he’s produced from his pocket, and so begins the bar fight. The man with the sliced face falls to the floor screaming and grabbing at the deep wound that stretches from his right brow and crosses to the left of his chin. More men pile towards Kim. Kim leaves the hose running in the Carhartt man’s mouth to grip the bar with both hands and sends a donkey kicks into one of his aassailant’s chests. Fritz, Chickey, and Kensington get involved, throwing fists, head butts, and elbows between long sips of their budweisers. 

Quickly, the entire bar joins the melee, attempting to subdue the vicious group of rambunctious friends. They’re no match. The group kills half of the bar, and maims into submission the other half who decided to stick around. Not wanting to end the night there, they pillage the town, and they’re finally driving away by morning, to move on the shooter’s next location, which the FBI in conjunction with the U.S. military has triangulated to a great degree of confidence. The sun rises ahead of them as they whoop and holler their way down the bumpy country road.

#

The same rising dawn sun finds the Tourorist in business class, at a window seat. They’re tired of watching plane movies, and exhausted all of the available television shows on Virgin Air. They’ve taken to staring into the clouds, studying the heavens and sipping their bottled Starbucks iced latte. The white noise of the muffled plane engine is a fine substitute for music. They play memories in their head like old DVDs, scratched and dusty from neglect, or worn out here from overuse, so certain parts of the memories become distorted in their sound and color, and others get jumped over with every play, inaccessible but just a moment separating them from another part of the memory. 

The Tourorist hasn’t gotten much sleep. The overly soft hotel pillows and velour blankets make sleep difficult. They’d take a shelling in an Afghan cave, or spider filled log in the depths of a Colombian jungle over a hotel room any night. They examine the fabric of a cloud while they play a memory. The Summer of ’96. Martha’s Vineyard. They’re bringing their husband a glass of rosé while they watch the children catch lighting bugs in the overgrown cowboy grass. 

Her husband kisses her and looks into her eyes with his lovemaking look. The one that means “upstairs in 5 minutes.” She tries to keep a straight face while she holds his gaze, then breaks into the laugh of a high school girl, the same one he’d fallen in love with so many years ago. Which didn’t feel that long ago at all. She tugs on her linen blouse and holds his hand on the comfortable wooden chairs they have on the back porch. He kisses her hand, his rolex glinting under the porch light. And she knows she doesn’t love him back. She doesn’t love the kids either and sometimes forgets they’re even hers. Even now, watching them boldly hop through the grass, grandly presenting their captive lighting bugs to one another in their cupped hands as though the whole world was watching them, she can only muster a feeling of vague disgust. 

The DVD of the memory skips and they’re at the hedge fund again. The weeks were almost bearable at least, when she could pop adderall and get hammered every day under the guise of keeping up with the boys, and she could fill her mind all day with finance spreadsheets, projections, and office politics, but all of it was always just a distraction. It was only when she had that first taste, when some long nailed Long Island cunt tried to take her purse from her in broad daylight, and she’d shoved her into the curb, knowing the bitch’s chunky running shoes would get caught on the edge of the cracked concrete and send her falling head first under the wheels of an oncoming bus. 

Her lawyers were expensive enough to find five eye witnesses who could vouch that it was a freak accident, if not self defense, to get her off scot free, but she’d become addicted after one time. Her purpose was to kill. It wasn’t long until she’d faked her death and shed the bonds of her entrenched gender identity. When she realized that, they were finally set free. 

#

The fasten-seatbelt sign dings and the flight attendant makes the landing announcements. They’ll be touching down in Atlanta in the next 20 minutes. It’s great weather. 75 degrees and sunny with low humidity. When the plane lands, the Tourorist takes the car service to a safe house. A new-colonial style half-mansion nestled somewhere along a willow tree lined road, in an affluent suburb of Atlanta. It once belonged to a Turner executive, but he’d lost it to Disney in an embezzlement lawsuit. Don’t ask me how the tax courts let that happen, just know the higher up you get in the branches of the corporation trees, the more tangled and rotten they become. 

The Tourorist changes out of their business casual blazer into the tactical gear Disney provided for them. They get in the armored truck that meets them on the street outside of the house, its windshield gathering piles of willow leaves that blow off the branches from the trees above. A Blackwater soldier drives the car, outfitted like a BRINKS employee, but wearing battle scars on his neck and hands that few BRINX employees would hope to rack up in a lifetime of driving. The Tourorist climbs into the back of the van, where both benches are lined by Blackwater soldiers, hired by Disney at the Tourorist’s behest. The Tourorist holds the leather strap on the ceiling of the van and addresses their men as the van pulls off and drives to its grim destination. “Shouldn’t be a hard gig today, so don’t shit your pants. You wait for my call. And when I give the call, you move. Not before. And no hesitation. I know you Blackwater guys got a reputation, but if you don’t follow my call, I’m shooting you in the head myself. Last skirmish we had, it was easy peasy. But they’re beefing up a little bit this time. Same instructions as before. Protect the kid. Big fella, the one that doesn’t move like the other ones, he’s the problem. You see him, stop what you’re doing and take his fucking head off. Rumor has it, he’s drowned in his own puke in New Orleans, but if you see him, you know what to do. Oh, and don’t forget to have fun.” 

The BRINX van takes a winding route through the quiet neighborhood and into downtown, past the fast food restaurants, Coke museum, and bar streets on Baldwin Ave., until it finally parks in the underground parking garage across the street from the Atlanta Aquarium. 

The shooter is scheduled to start his stream in the next fifteen minutes. The Blackwater soldiers load their rifles and triple check their ammo supplies. The Tourorist nods to the helmeted soldier nearest the van door and he opens it. The soldiers pile out and get into the positions they’d studied on the defense deck sent to them that morning. Half of them take positions behind the walls of the tiered parking garage, and others jog through the parking tunnel which is conveniently connected underground to the lower valet lot for the aquarium’s overflow parking lot. They hide in the utility staircase under the aquarium and wait for the Tourorist’s signal. The Tourorist dons a heavy trench coat and casually walks across the street to stand in the park overlooking the aquarium, their rifle slung over their back in a special holster that doesn’t create any unsightly bumps or folds in the back of their trench coat. 

The shooter starts his stream right on time, sneaking through the rooftop entrance of the aquarium. This time, Fritz is much more prepared, and with the help of the Atlanta police department, National Guard, and his friends, almost gets the jump on the shooter. The Blackwater troops are able to put a wrench in the offense, though, and while the shooter goes through the aquarium, shattering the glass tanks with his rain of bullets and sending rare sea creatures onto the floor of the aquarium, the Tourorist and Blackwater troops engage in a desperate fight against Fritz and the U.S. military. The Tourorist is the only survivor on their side. 

The firefight begins between the U.S. military, Atlanta P.D., Fritz and co. on one side, attempting to chase the shooter into a corner where he can be arrested and killed, with the Tourorist and Disney backed Blackwater soldiers wreaking havoc on the other, shooting into the police men’s line as they try to cover exits, firing at the Coast Guard troops from various angles, seemingly hundreds of them. 

This firefight creates enough chaos and distraction that much of the police department’s and coast guard’s attention becomes focused on shooting back and trying to find the shooter’s back up. It’s enough of a distraction for the shooter to carry out a decent part of his shooting in the half evacuated aquarium. 

The brutal, deadly firefight seems to be at a stalemate, but then Fritz’s men take matters into their own hands, deigning to forget the shooter completely. Dutchie, camped out in a van a few blocks down the street, presses a few switches on a remote control, and suddenly, the parking garage across the street from the Aquarium undergoes a series of controlled explosions at each level, and its tiers crumble down on each other, exploding concrete into the windows of the Aquarium and other surrounding buildings as it collapses. The Blackwater soldiers in their strategic positions are buried in the rubble, either suffocating on ash or bleeding out from the concussive force of the explosions. 

Under the parking tunnel, and in the hidden staircase beneath the aquarium, occurs a tertiary battle. Chickey, Fritz, and Kensington split up and search for the Tourorist and their Blackwater soldiers. Kim snipes from the hill above the Aquarium, picking off Blackwater soldiers as they descend the structure. In a stairwell there, Kensington blasts some man’s head off, then leaps on top of another to slice a line into this chest so deep that his burst lungs protrude from and flip about his exposed rib cage. 

Here, Chickey sprints after a soldier who retreats down the overflow tunnel to call for backup, only to come up against a wall of rubble. Chickey leaps onto the soldier and twists his arms until they break, then beats his head in with a chunk of parking garage concrete. 

And in the jellyfish exhibit is Fritz, crawling on his belly over the wet, porous floor, barely illuminated from the lights of the jellyfish tank. The exhibit is built to look like a cave, with a tunnel bending around the glass tanks. At the opposite end of the exhibit, two Blackwater soldiers are in cover behind the wall, shooting periodically out into the larger aquarium at the policemen and coast guard who are attempting to make entry into the aquarium. 

To get into this level of the exhibit, Fritz slits the throat of the soldier covering the rear. Right after slitting his throat, Fritz leans him face down in the puddled blood, to prevent the blood leaking from his throat from making noise while splashing onto the concrete. Once Fritz has slithered into jumping range, he leaps up and slams his kabab into the back of the left side soldier’s neck, and then slams his fist into the other soldier’s throat, who he shoves into the cave wall. He presses on the man’s windpipe until it cracks, and then keeps pressing until the man stops struggling and his face turns blue and his eyes fill with red from burst blood vessels from struggling to breathe. Fritz smiles as the man crashes to the ground when he releases his grip. Then, Fritz pulls out the dead soldier’s ear pieces and listens to it. No one is speaking besides one voice. It’s higher pitched. The Tourorist. Terse, business-like asks. “Copy? Give me a copy….” Radio silence. 

Fritz grabs the mouth piece from the dead soldier’s helmet and grumbles into it. “Where are you?” Radio silence. “Where are you, copy?” More silence. “Come down here and face me like a man, you fucking coward,” More radio silence. “At least come clean up this mess. The bodies are starting to stink. There’s blood all over the jellyfish exhibit.” 

The Tourorist is exiting the scene, going through alleyways and side streets before catching an Uber to the secured location. Content that their job is done with the shooter still safe.

You can find story with these keywords: Red Streams, Read Red Streams, Red Streams novel, Red Streams book, Red Streams story, Red Streams full, Red Streams Latest Chapter