Chapter 20: Chapter 20 – The Fight at Walmart

Ryan spends the next series of nights and weekends planning with the shooter, doing research, texting back and forth, making maps, spreadsheets, and communicating with the Discord. They draw out a road trip of mass shootings of various attractions all the way to the final destination of Disneyland, in Anaheim, California, where the shooter would stage the ultimate event. He’d go cross country, staying in secure locations arranged through his most trusted fans on Discord, and would hit a variety of properties along the way, keeping things entertaining and keeping Disney off of his scent. This was revenge for them giving him such a raw deal with his advertising contract and leaving him alone to die in the woods. He would hit them where it hurt and make them pay handsomely. 

While working in the library on a map of the most highly trafficked tourist attractions in Arizona, and cross referencing it with the addresses of the shooter’s fans who’d offered up verifiable safe houses, Ryan’s phone buzzes from an unknown number. He asks someone to watch his stuff so he can run outside and pick up the call. It’s the shooter. Ryan paces back and forth in front of the library, in such a way that passersby might think he was talking to a lover. “How’s everything going?” the shooter asks him. 

“It’s looking real good.” 

“We’re gonna make history, you know that right?” 

Ryan laughs. “Yeah. it’s crazy.” 

“So crazy.”

#

The shooter stands outside of a Walmart in Eastern Montana, perched on a hill a few hundred feet outside of the parking lot. The cloudless blue sky looks like it goes on forever in every direction, and when you look directly upward you almost feel like you could peer into space. The shooter trains his camera on a long stem of wheat waving back and forth in the light breeze. He pulls out as the numbers of viewers tick up into the thousands, and then hundreds of thousands. He lets the viewers look at the haunting, silent landscape out in front of him before he begins his pre-stream speech:

“Thought today would be a little different for you guys. I’ve had a lot on my mind since coming back from Sabbatical. I think I made some big breakthroughs during my restful time away, and it took me a while to process them, and to work through them, before I felt comfortable enough to share them with you guys, before I could really articulate them. Um— I’ll just come out and say it— and if you’re getting bored, don’t worry. There will be blood just like every other stream I’ve done— I’ve been paid by Disney, up to this point, to do these things. You know those ads that play? It’s Disney they’re paying. Sure, they have it worked out so no one at these companies knows where their money’s going. But it’s Disney. Like Mickey Mouse, Star Wars, Marvel– that Disney. And before you go jumping to conclusions, thinking I’m their pet project or they put me up to this — they did not. I liked doing this stuff on my own. I started doing this on my own volition because… I don’t know. I’m a sick twisted fuck? Or I have a mental illness or something? I’m sure they’ll cut my head open when I'm dead and come up with some answers for you guys. Remember, don’t shoot me in the head if you want my brain intact for study.” 

He clicks his tongue for emphasis— “But really, I don’t know, I was just doing it and it was finally something I was good at, and you guys seemed to like it, so I kept doing it. I’m gonna be honest with you. I was in a really dark place at the time and your love and support saved my life. Doing this saved my life. And then Disney took notice, or should I say, a couple of fine young development executives took notice, by the names of …” 

The shooter pulls up two sheets of paper, printed out Linkedin profiles, and holds onto them against the breeze. “Peter Chang and Karen Smith.” He lets the papers fly away in the wind. “And they brought it to their bosses…” 

The shooter reads off some more names belonging to the older executives. “And they thought it was a good idea to not let these views go to waste, so they did some Hollywood accounting, and they reached out to me, and had me sign a verbal contract— still trying to get the audio recording of it, but I’m sure it’s destroyed, and they started monetizing my stream, though a shell company called Shadow LLC— And don’t worry, I’ll put all this info up on a link on my website— Which was great and all because I as getting paid to do what I love, but I recently learned my actual value… and I’m going to end my contract with them. Verbally. After today’s stream, I am a free agent. So enjoy the upcoming carnage, and remember it was brought to you by Disney. Anyone out there listening, feel free to reach out if you’d like to work with me.” 

You are reading story Red Streams at novel35.com

The shooter turns to face the Walmart down the hill. Its storefront logo shines like a second sun in the ocean of wheat. The shooter marches toward it. 

Hidden in the wheat, a thousand feet away, is the Tourorist, holding their sniper rifle and eyeing the parking lot as the shooter makes his way toward it. Also hiding in the wheat are 60 mercenaries, a combination of Blackwater and other paramilitary contractors, spread out in squads in a long border around Walmart and the highway exit leading toward it. They are all armed to the teeth, and prepared for anything after the debacle at the Atlanta Aquarium. 

The Tourorist scans the surrounding area for snipers, or any sign of Fritz. One of the mercenaries flies a drone into the air, with mirrored panels to give it the appearance of the sky when it’s up in the air. It hovers high, and its operator watches through a screen as the drone takes flight. When it reaches its zenith, it reveals a few heat patterns that aren’t accounted for in the spread of the 60 mercenaries. It glints slightly when the soldier adjusts the lens aperture to get a closer look. Right on cue, a shot rings out and the drone is split in half by a metal jacket sniper shell. It drops out of the air. 

The mercenaries get ready. The Tourorist swings their rifle in the direction of where the shot came from, but it’s impossible to see through the ocean of wheat. In the parking lot and on the highway, U.S. troops rumble down the road, a black humvee leading the way. The Tourorist mutters into their mic “We got company, fellows. Let’s not wait for this party to get started. Start the heavy artillery on the vehicles as soon as you have a target.” 

A rocket launcher fires out of a hillock of wheat and blasts into the side of one of the humvees. The artillery gunner manning the gun on the roof of the vehicle is cut in half by the explosion, and the doors swing open for soldiers to escape the flaming death trap that was once their transport vehicle. The other humvees park and their artillery gunners fire into the field, but hit nothing human. The black humvee stays still, and then another sniper shot rings out from yonder. An RPG shell flies into the air from the hillock, its gunner now dead, pulling the trigger on his launcher last move. 

“Fucking sniper.” The Tourorist pivots their rifle in a more specific direction, attempting to catch some smoke wafting from a barrel or a glint of sunshine bouncing off a scope. Nothing. A few mercenaries fire toward where they think the sniper in the wheat is hidden. Puffs of smoke lazily drift up from back in the wheat, and then “man down” is whispered into the Tourorist’s headset as another rifle shot is fired, and it gets one of the hot headed mercenaries who blew their wad prematurely. 

“God dammit.” the Tourorist squints and narrows down the general area of the sniper. “This guy’s a fucking pro” they whisper to themselves. Still not a sign of the mysterious sniper. Shots ring out from the direction of the Walmart now, meaning the shooter has started his show. Civilians flee the automatic doors of presumable Hell and run towards their cars. The U.S. soldiers have to hold their fire as the wall of survivors comes between them and their hidden enemies in the wheat. The Tourorist instructs into their mic, “Fire at will. They can’t hit us behind the civvies.” 

The mercenary covering the Tourorist’s backfires just above the wall of people, and other bullets like his ricochet off the industrial light poles in the parking lot. “Fire at will, I said. Through the fucking crowd.” The Tourorist grabs the mercenary’s assault rifle and fires a few sprays at the troops taking cover behind the humvees. A woman cries out as she’s hit and falls to the ground. “Like that.” The Tourorist crawls farther away, backing into the wheat in case the sniper saw where they’d fired from. The mercenaries start shooting in earnest, not bothering to time their shots in order to avoid the fleeing civilians. 

The U.S. troops seem to be completely at a loss of what to do, and are dropping like flies without cover or ability to return fire in any meaningful way. Now, the black humvee starts speeding towards the plain outside the parking lot, ignoring the fleers as it plows through a few of them. “Hit that black humvee with all you got. Fucking stop them from getting any closer.” Another sniper shot in the distance and a would-be RPG shell explodes under a mercenary’s body in the distance. Automatic rifle fire rains against the bullet proof glass of the black Humvee until its front windshield finally shatters. They keep firing at it until it shatters and the humvee jumps up the curb of the parking lot and climbs slowly up the hill, its speed decreasing with every shot it absorbs. It finally comes to a halt, a bullet riddled husk. A brave mercenary approaches to kill whoever’s inside it, and then it explodes, incinerating him and sending flaming Humvee door panels and wrecked shrapnel flying in every direction. In the parking lot, the Tourorist spots Fritz, Chickey, and Kensington taking cover and grabbing civilians as hostage cover. “Down in the parking lot, they must’ve jumped out of the car.” 

More sniper shots ring out. More mercenaries are hit. The Tourorist crawls away, and on a whim, flings his rifle into position to see some barely visible movement in the wheat. They fire at the movement and wait. Then roll. A shot lands feet from their head. They continue to crawl, and shoot to the left of the movement. They move a few dozen feet. Wait. Then move a few dozen feet more, until they’re perpendicular to where the sniper is. They wait again. They fire off a shot and see a cloud of blood puff into the air. They fire again, guessing at the rest of the body like a deadly game of battleship. No dice. A shot slams into the dirt by the Tourorist’s elbow, and they leave their rifle with the glass of the scope glinting freely. They cover the body of the rifle with their jacket to crawl on their belly, through the tall grass. Quickly, like a rattlesnake, stopping every few paces to sniff the air. Until they think they can smell the sniper. The hidden sniper falls for the bait and another shot rings out. The Tourorist pounces, Glock in hand, into the wheat where the shot came from. They land on Seth Kim. His mangled, bloody hand is split in half from the Tourorist’s previous shot, but Kim had been using it as a makeshift tripod to steady his rifle. The Tourorist takes Kim’s back and shoves the barrel of their pistol under the back of Kim’s helmet. The Tourorist fires off three shots point blank and Kim’s body goes still. Blood drips down the Tourorist’s forearms. 

In addition, the mercenaries have slain the rest of the U.S. soldiers, Chickey, and Kensington. Even Dutchie has been murdered in one of the Hyundai’s in the parking lot. When the smoke clears, Fritz finds himself alone in the parking lot, tending to his dead friends. The shooter is gone. The Disney mercenaries and Tourorist have won this battle. Fritz cradles Dutchie’s head in his arms, and Dutchie’s head comes off and lands in the crook of his elbow. His lifeless eyes stare through his cracked spectacles. Fritz weeps. 

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