Chapter 28: Chapter 27 – Adventures in California Adventures

Karen and Pete stare out of the crater where the wall of the Disney jail used to be. They hesitate for a second. Then the old cheerful looking security guard who arrested them starts yelling from the other room “Please don’t kill me. I have a family.” 

Crashing sounds of the bullets echo around jail and a gurgling noise replaces his begging. The development executives rush out of the hole to find themselves in the middle of the Bourbon Street inspired alleyway next to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. A trigger happy grenadier, who is without a discernible uniform, fires grenades at random crowds of people, causing massive puffs of smoke to rise out of the ground along the blood-spray and chunks of charred flesh and bone. 

Peter grabs Karen by her arm, and commands “This way.” They crouch-run into the gift shop for Pirates of the Caribbean, and up the staircase, to the exit of the ride. They find momentary safety in a cubby hole at a stair landing. 

Karen pants. “What the fuck do we do? Why did I come with you?”

“I’m sorry. This is all my fucking fault. I don’t know what the hell I thought was going to happen or what I thought I could’ve done, but we’re gonna get you out of here. I promise. I-” Karen shakes and heaves deep, rattling breaths. Peter holds her. “You’re not going to die today. I promise. Look at me. You’re not going to die. I know this place like the back of my hand. We scattered my grandma’s ashes in the water of this ride.” 

Karen laughs through her tears. “Are you serious? That’s disgusting.”

“She loved Pirates. Now, there’s an employee exit toward the back of this ride, it’s built so engineers can come through whenever it breaks down. It should take us right outside the park near the east parking lot by the bus entrance. From there, we should be able to get out to the street and get the fuck away from here before shit goes nuclear.”

“Okay, I’m good. Let’s do it.” She wipes tears from her face. 

#

The Tourorist provides cover for the shooter as he and his accomplice make their way through the chaos of the footpaths between the log ride at California Adventure and the Soarin’ Over California ride. It’s not difficult for the Tourorist to keep their heart rate low for optimal accuracy. There is a would-be “hero” here and there, and from the Tourorist’s vantage point in the hotel room window, they can easily pick them off. 

Here, the fat guy in the blue shirt and Captain America hat crouches behind a trash can. He builds up courage and then rushes toward the shooter’s rear, a hundred yards ahead. 50 feet into his run, THUCK, the Tourorist squeezes the trigger of their rifle, the Captain America hat flies off, and the blue shirt fat guy spills onto the path, probably still high off adrenaline, thinking he was about to do something. 

And here, a fit 50 year old guy in a tank top rallies together some other nervous, but in-shape looking men in the nook by a tree top jungle gym. They’re building a contraption or weaponry out of some sticks and railing they’ve broken off the jungle gym. The Tourorist laughs, then fires off 4 rounds in quick succession. Why let them spend their last living moments making some stupid weapons as through they were primitive tribesmen? Each round finds its place and the cavemen battalion collapses just as quickly as it formed. 

Another target here, another target there. Soon, the Tourorist relaxes their definition of “protecting the shooter,” (why should he have all the fun?)— and starts firing at targets that look like they might try to fight or do something heroic if they were really put in a corner. 

There, an old man hiding in the bushes — his crew cut possibly signaling a previous career in the military. A pull of a trigger and he writhes in pain on the ground. Another and he stops writhing. 

Here, a teenage girl pulls frantically on the different bathroom doors, none of them opening. Never know what shit a hormonal teenager might try to pull. A trigger squeeze and she slams against the door, her body leaving a dark red smear as she slides down to her knees, then onto her back. After a dozen more preemptive murders, the Tourorist runs out of rounds in their sniper rifle. They check the cartridge and realize they’ve lost a bit of their concentration. They take a puff on their meth vape to regain focus. Their goals float back into the front of their mind: protect the shooter at all costs. 

The Tourorist ejects the empty magazine and slaps in another one. They put their eye back against the scope and find the action. The shooter and Ryan are making their way successfully around the first part of the park, but the Tourorist keeps their eye out for any hidden danger. The thing concerning them is the growing clouds of smoke just outside of California Adventures and the noise of fire between the U.S. government troops and the Disney mercenaries. 

Some troops have entered the back gate of California Adventures and are attempting to flank the shooter by going up either side of the path that circumnavigates the park. The Tourorist picks off the six soldiers easily enough. They weren’t looking for snipers, but the Tourorist knows preemptive this will reveal their location. Not much choice in a scenario like that. The undisciplined Disney mercenaries are sluggish in their pursuit of the U.S. soldiers and although they probably would’ve caught up to the troops, it was too great a risk to depend on them. Soon enough, more U.S. troops follow the mercenaries through the back gate, and they engage each other in another small firelight. The battle has arrived and the Tourorist basks in the waves of euphoria that come along with it. They watch the firefight for a few moments, then pick off five of the U.S. soldiers, as the rest run for cover upon realizing they’re being attacked from above. The Disney mercenaries neutralize the rest. More U.S. soldiers arrive at the park, this time driving humvees, and more Disney mercenaries follow, wielding RPG’s and other heavy artillery. The Tourorist turns their attention back to the shooter, who, on the other side of the park, forces a crowd of hostages into Soarin’ Over California.

The Tourorist glances at their Thinkpad, where they have the shooter’s stream playing. He and Ryan follow the hostages into the building. The hostages' faces paint a diverse picture of fear, despair, hostility, and resignation. The Tourorist marvels to themselves, “some people get to have all the fun.” They load in some armor piercing rounds into their sniper rifle. The shooter looks safe in the building, and the new threat would come from the humvees and other military vehicles. More Disney mercenaries stream into the park through other entrances and start to make trouble for the humvees. They set up remote controlled landmines and IEDs that explode as the humvees drive over them. Smoke accumulates in the park and it’s difficult for the Tourorist to see as they fire at the bulletproof humvee windows. The smell of death mixed with gunpowder rises with the smoke. Not long after, the Tourorist hears rifle fire and screaming in the hallway outside of their hotel suite.

“Cowards—attacking me from behind, are you?” The Tourorist picks up their rifle and slings the long gun over their shoulder. They tap the “N” key on their Thinkpad keyboard and electricity ignites it, the whole machine going up in smoke. They crouch down by the edge of the bed and tie one side of their extendable belt to the thick oak mattress frame. The Tourorist’s adrenaline pumps. They hear the dying screams of the mercenaries who were guarding their floor, and then the satisfying metallic click of the outside handle of the hotel room door. It activates the kill switch, which sets off the explosives that line the inside of the door, propelling the heavy metal door outward at 280 mph, smashing the soldier who had tapped it against the opposite wall like a piece of roadkill. 

The explosion also severs the hand of the soldier who had been crouched behind him, hand on his belt to pull him away if necessary. It was necessary, but too late. The soldiers outside, in the hallway, reflexively fire into the room, but all of their bullets fill up the wall away from where the Tourorist crouches in cover. They file in, and the Tourorist holds their breath as the first soldier enters. Right as the soldier walks into view, the Tourorist fires a shotgun blast into the soldier’s throat. As the next soldier follows, the Tourorist dives across the room and fires another shotgun blast. The soldier slams against the back wall, and the Tourorist blasts him again in the face, showering the room with skull fragments and vaporized brain matter. 

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The Tourorist walks to the room’s window and sits on the sill. They can hear more soldier’s yelling signals to each other farther down the hallway. Too many to fight off in such a confined space. The Tourorist leans back and falls out of the window, 25 stories above the ground.

The zipline on the Tourorist’s belt slowly grows taut as their body approaches the ground, gaining tension like a bungee cord. At the bottom, it slows to a pause, and the Tourorist stands up safely on the grass at the ground level. They unhook the zipline from their belt and tie it to a cylindrical black thermite bomb, the size of a smartphone. They press a button on the bomb, tug on the zip line, and let it go. It speeds back up to the 25th floor window, and when it gets to the top, where the soldiers search the room, it explodes, sending limbs, shrapnel, and pieces of oak furniture into space. The Tourorist doesn’t wait for the limbs to fall onto them, and jogs off toward Soarin’ Over California to protect the perimeter. The Tourorist thinks aloud, “There is no greater feeling than escaping death, especially when faced with impossible odds, and killing those who sought to kill you.” They take another hit off their meth pen.

#

Inside Soarin’ Over California, the shooter fires into a row of crouching tourists, who are lined up against the back wall. Their energy is too low for them to scream, so they just moan, many of the bullets simply thudding into already dead corpses, like pellets into slabs of beef. He surveys his handiwork and smiles. Ryan tries not to get sick, then throws up into a trash can that looks like an old fashioned barrel. “Look at this dude. Blowing chunks into the trash can when there’s literal stomach on the ground. Believe me man, they’re not gonna be cleaning up here for a while.” Ryan forces a sheepish grin behind his ski mask. “Watch this.” The shooter approaches a father who is hugging his two young children. A boy and a girl, about 6 and 7. “Have you ever seen the movie Sophie’s Choice?” 

“Please…don’t…”

“You’re gonna pick one of your kids that you want me to kill and the other one gets to live. You don’t pick either one, and I kill both of ‘em.”

The man dry heaves. “Please… no.”

“C’mon man, gun to your head, pick the one you love more. Literally gun to your head.” 

“I- I can’t.”

The shooter fires a warning shot into the air. “Seriously. Make your fucking choice or you’ll lose both of them.” The shooter presses the warm barrel of his gun against the forehead of the six year old. The six year old bursts into tears. “This one, right? You want me to kill this whiny little fucker so he’ll shut up, right?”

The father lunges at the shooter, who sidesteps and then smashes the butt of his rifle into the father’s teeth. He fires two shots into the father’s foot and then shoves him to the ground. The father writhes in agony on the ground while trying to hold his teeth in his mouth. He ends up spitting most of them out. Most of his foot is missing and bloody red meat oozes out of his chocolate suede desert boot. “Now, you’re gonna play nice, or I’m gonna beat both of your kids to death while you watch. Pick.” 

“The girl. Kill the girl.”

The man’s little girl sits bravely, accepting her fate. She looks to her brother for guidance, who hangs her tightly, still crying. “Kill me instead,” he whimpers. 

The shooter shakes his head. “Not your choice, kid.” After a painfully long moment, the shooter kneels down and talks to the children. “Both of you go help your dad. You were so brave, you both get to live.” The two children run to their dad crying, and hug him tightly. The shooter addresses the crowd, “Now wasn’t that sweet? It was like a movie.” Then, he unceremoniously shoots both children in the backs of their heads. BAM BAM. They fall dead by their father within a second of each other. The father screams and stands up, powered by adrenaline and otherworldly suffering, as he puts weight on the bleeding stub of his shot foot. He tries to rush the shooter again, who delivers 3 more shots, 1 to each knee cap, and one to the groin. 

The father collapses again, blood soaking the entire lower half of his body. His screaming mouth filled with a shattered mockery of teeth. “Just kill me. Kill me.” 

“No, that would be fucking boring.” 

Someone in the huddled mass of corpses moans out, “That wasn’t fair.” The shooter sprays the bodies until he runs out of bullets and his rifle makes a dry clinking sound. He ejects the empty magazine and claps in another. The corpses are quiet now and the father has gone silent, too, either dead or passed out, bordered on either side by his dead children.

Ryan stares ahead, afraid to think or see anymore. The shooter turns to him. “Let’s make our way to the other park, huh? This one is kind of dead…” he laughs (and as an aside to his stream) “that was pretty bad, even for me. I’ll make up for it.”

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