Short Story Orgy #4: Supermarket Shoot

Wayne Dean-RIchards previous work includes a novel Breakpoints, and a short story collection - At The Edge. His short stories have appeared and continue to appear in magazines and anthologies in the UK and the US; including Tindal Street Press' Birmingham Noir.

SUPERMARKET SHOOT

I pick the Mauser C96 up off the passenger seat and check it’s fully loaded, for its era its range and penetration exceptional, though the performance of modern pistols is vastly superior, my choice not without risk, then.

 Tucking the Mauser into my waistband and zipping up my leather jacket, I get out of the car and eye the car park. See it’s almost full already, which surely increases my chances of a high score.

 A familiar song washing over me, I step into the cooled supermarket air. Am convinced the fruit & veg and tinned food aisles are key to my success. Know frozen goods will be busy too, though the freezers might provide cover. Why I intend to start in fruit & veg then move directly to tinned goods - skipping clothes, stationary and the deli.

 The clock ticking, I see three mothers with pre-school children, and half a dozen elderly couples. Unzipping my jacket with my left hand, I draw out the Mauser with my right, dropping to one knee aim at the furthest of the mothers and squeeze off my first shot, shoot the second mother before the first hits the recently mopped floor - mothers high tariff, children worth nothing, why, next, I sight on the third mother and squeeze off another round, miss because she bends at that precise moment to gather her child into her arms and run.

The miss is a disappointment, but I don’t let it faze me. Empty the Mauser into the elderly couples before striding around to tinned goods. Don’t run because I know if I run, I’ll breathe harder - which’ll make it difficult to keep my hand steady, my aim true.

 By now, everybody knows what’s going on, but that’s alright because I’ve anticipated this and planned for it, though luck still plays a part. 

Today luck is on my side since, as one, the customers in the tinned food aisle charge towards the exit, enabling me to fire at a wall of bodies.

Re-loading, I continue to fire rapidly as I stride towards the crumbling wall, am re-loading again when the klaxon sounds.

Wiping sweat from my brow I let the Mauser hang loosely at my side as the show’s theme tune plays over the sound system, think it sounds somehow different but push the thought aside when Rex Cranston appears with his famous grin in place.

Wearing a navy-blue suit and tie, his perfect teeth reflecting the lights behind the cameras, Cranston says, “Congratulations Nick Cahill of Oldbury - that was spectacular!”

 I say, “Thank you.”

Cranston claps his hands together and says, “Now, the question that’s lit up the network is: what kind of weapon is what you’re carrying?”

I say, “It’s a Mauser C96,” and on impulse hand it over.

Swivelling, Cranston points the Mauser directly at camera #1 and says, “Pow!” then, laughing, hands it back and to camera #2 says, “After that spectacular display with a Mauser C96 will Nick Cahill’s points beat current Supermarket Shoot winner Gemma Cantrell? Find out right after the break…”

When the lights on top of their cameras turn from green to red, the camera operators stand down and Cranston says, “The antique pistol was a nice touch. After the break, you get to talk about it.” 

I nod.

“Roll out your spiel about the gun, I’ll announce you as our new winner and when we go off air I’ll introduce you to Ellie Moore, who agents for the show.”

I nod again.

“You’re a man of few words, I like that,” Cranston says as behind him the camera operators turn back to face us.

When the red lights turn green to camera Cranston says, “A killing machine, Nick Cahill of Oldbury is going to tell us all about his Mauser C96…”

 I’ve seen previous winners make the mistake of looking sullen - Cooperman’s tally yet to be equalled but where is he now? – so after smiling broadly I open my mouth ready to talk about the Mauser - At which point as if of its own accord I feel my mouth snap shut and turn towards sounds of urgent whispers, low sobbing, and fast approaching sirens.

 What is this? What’s going on?

Intending to direct these questions at Cranston, I turn back to face him.

 I’d have sworn just a moment ago the man was standing right in front of me, but now there’s no sign of him or the camera crew.

How can that be? How?

I decide it must be a joke they’re playing on me. Why I say, “Guys, don’t do this to me, come on, I’m a big fan of the show, have been for years…” and wait. 

© 2024 Wayne Dean-Richards