Summer’s Final Blast by Marc J Gregson



Summer’s Final Blast by Marc J Gregson

In the darkened basement, Ethan hid behind the humming refrigerator, breathing quietly. He peered around the white edge, careful not to expose his chest. The only light poured in from the window wells, penetrating the darkness in long columns, and revealing the wide berth between him and the enemy fortification at the far side of the room.
A head of wiry hair rose over an old microwave box, a rifle scanning the area. Ethan gasped and shrunk from view. Dang! I’m pinned down, he thought. Mulling over his options, he looked to his right. Boxes of Christmas decorations stood there, stacked all the way to the ceiling. They would provide additional protection and also a clear view into the enemy’s lair.
Holding his breath, Ethan leapt out into no man’s land. Bright beams of red light trailed his dancing steps. But just before the enemy had him in its sights, he dove for the safety of yuletide cheer.
“Oh man!” the enemy called from behind the microwave box. “Did I get you?”
Ethan panted, checking his chest. The small ruby prisms on the face of the plastic weren’t blinking, nor did the device emit that garbled electronic noise indicating a hit.
“Nope.”
“Bull crap! I shot right at you.” “And you missed.”
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“You cheated then, you covered the sensors.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. With the rifle now braced against his shoulder, he pivoted around the corner and clicked the trigger over and over like Neo from The Matrix. The enemy, Max, yelped. The lasers trailed Max, but he squished himself behind a fat carpet cleaner and fired back over his shoulder, forcing Ethan to retreat behind the box of Christmas lights again.
The basement went still.
Ethan knew what Max was thinking: that he had to get out of there, lest he be trapped for the rest of the game. So, Ethan braced himself against the boxes, rifle at the ready, and listened for the sound of tapping steps.
Pat pat pat!
Max dashed for the water heater, the prisms of his sensor box in full view. Ethan calmly followed through the scope and after another click, a siren-like noise reverberated.
“I got you!” Ethan exclaimed. “That’s 3-1.”
Max skidded to a halt, groaning. He felt around the blinking sensor box strapped to his chest. After a moment of contemplation he pronounced, “Mine’s broken.”
“No way!” Ethan stepped into view, scowling. “I hit you fair and square.”
“It went off on its own. It’s broken. Trust me, I know these things, my dad told me about it once.”
“So your dad was an expert on laser tag sensors then huh?"
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“Look, it’s got a dent right here,” Max pointed to a small scuff on the bottom corner. “Let’s just call it a tie.”
“But it’s not a--” Max threw a sharp jab, right between the muscles in Ethan’s arm. “Oww! All right, fine. It’s a tie.”
“Told you.” Max put his laser tag equipment down. “Well, I’m done. It was a good match,” he patted Ethan’s back.
Ethan rolled his arm, grimacing. This was normal, Ethan knew Max only liked to play his way, and that meant winning. Sighing, Ethan flipped the off switch of his laser equipment.
“Hey, guess what,” Max’s eyes brightened. “Rambo III is on TV.” “Maybe we can do something else?”
“C’mon, it’s Rambo!”
Ethan had seen Rambo III more times than he had birthdays. Despite this, he chased Max up the stairs and out of the unfinished basement. There in the living room, a sectional couch formed a perimeter around the big screen TV. Max kicked off his shoes and leapt onto the cushions, clicking the TV remote. “Get some snacks from the pantry, will ya?”
For an instant, Ethan’s mouth opened to protest, but with a thumping bruise, he thought better of it. Besides, friends did things for each other. They listened.
Ethan knew Max wasn’t without his faults, but he also knew that Max would've spent sixth grade serving a tetherball to himself at recess if it wasn't for him. Other kids didn't get along with Max, they couldn’t handle his temper. No one knew why Max would act out. Maybe
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it was ‘cause his mom was always at work. Or maybe it was ‘cause his dad went to sleep one night and never woke up.
Soon after Ethan returned to the couch with arms full of Twizzlers and Pringles, Max began using him as a practice target, mimicking Rambo’s knife slices with an imaginary blade. Tired of that laughing face, Ethan pushed him away.
Max returned to the movie, chuckling, before howling with joy as Rambo shot an arrow that caused a man to explode. The film became difficult to watch, as Max went on, replaying every stupid little scene.
On the TV, a sweaty Rambo brought a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Are you listenin’?” “Who are you?” a Russian man asked.
“Your worst nightmare,” Max and Rambo replied.
Ethan groaned and turned to the telephone. Maybe I’ll tell him I have a stomach ache and call mom. But then what? Max was his friend . . . his only friend. His other friends vanished once he befriended Max. Besides, the movie was almost over anyway.
“Oh man! Rambo kicks butt!” Max punched the air as the credits rolled at last. “Let’s play Goldeneye at your house.”
Ethan shrugged, “All right.”
Out the front door, they hopped down the porch and into the hot afternoon. They started the long hike towards Ethan’s house. Cars sped up and down the busy street, sometimes the
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exhaust causing them to cough. But they kept their mind off the heat and nasty smoke by discussing video games and comic books.
“Well Superman has the ability to—” Max paused, eyes on the old abandoned house at the corner of Peach Blossom Lane. “It’s unlocked, you know.”
Ethan gulped.
Cracks in the foundation, like lightning, stretched up from the base to the old gray bricks. The bottom of the door had claw marks, like teeth, and the broken windows had cardboard duct- taped over them. Luckily, a set of trees and a rickety fence obscured most of the horror from the view of passing commuters.
One of Ethan’s old friends, Seth, lived here up until a few weeks ago. That was before his parents were evicted for not paying. This house was the dump of the neighborhood, the one that Ethan’s grandma would “tsk” her tongue at. Ever since spring though, when the rumors spread about the drugs, his mom wouldn’t let him hang out at Seth’s.
“Let’s go in,” Max said.
“I dunno . . .”
“Don’t be such a pansy! C’mon, you first.”
Reluctantly, Ethan took the first steps onto the driveway. Tiny chunks of concrete kicked from under his feet as he sneaked closer. The surface, worn from age, felt like walking on gravel. Weeds spiraled out of the wider cracks.
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He stopped to see if anyone was watching, but an overgrown bush obscured the gardening neighbors.
“Keep going,” Max said.
Stepping onto the porch, Ethan breathed on the window and cupped his hands around his eyes, peering in. Nothing but gray shapes occupied the darkness inside. Max arrived at his side, twisting the doorknob, over and over, before slamming a shoulder into the wood. The frame cracked and the door yawned open.
“I thought you said it was unlocked?”
Max shrugged and pointed inside. “Ladies first.”
It smelled like dog pee and cigarette smoke. And the sticky carpet suctioned to the soles of Ethan’s shoes as he walked. He used the collar of his shirt as a filter. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he already knew what stewed in the corner: that horrible couch Seth used to throw his backpack on. Coffee stains and cigarettes littered the cushions. And now it had new holes burrowed in the cotton . . . Seth used to have pet rats.
Shuddering, Ethan stepped onto the kitchen tile. Despite his precautions, an odor, far too sweet, managed to slither up his nose. On the counter sat a full cup of . . . well it might’ve been milk at one point, but now it was as thick as sour cream and patched with blue fur.
“Gross,” Max laughed and splattered the cup against the kitchen window. The foam slid down the glass slowly, leaving a trail like a slug. “Cool.”
“This place is nasty, let’s get out of here.”
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“We haven’t even looked in all the rooms.” Max went down the hallway and kicked in the first door. “Whoa! Check it out.” A black strap lay at his feet; Max lifted it, revealing a full- sized rifle of wood and metal.
Ethan’s heart thumped.
“It’s real.” Max eyed down the sight before glancing back in the room. “Jeez! Seth’s dad must’ve been preparing for the zombie apocalypse.”
Scattered magazines about guns and naked ladies carpeted the floor and beyond the coolers of empty beer bottles lay stockpiles of ammunition.
“Let’s shoot one,” Max said excitedly, holding a bottle.
Ethan stepped back. “C’mon man, that’s dumb, put it down and let’s go.”
“You shoot,” Max brushed past him, stepping into the hallway. “I’ll teach you, like my dad taught me, before he . . . well maybe my uncle will take you hunting with us sometime.”
A car rolled into the driveway next door.
“But someone could hear us, or it could backfire and—”
“Nothing will go wrong. Trust me,” Max smiled. “I know these things.” He checked the rifle, “Oh good, it’s already loaded, here,” he handed him the rifle. “I’ll setup the shooting range.”
Before long, an anxious and strangely excited pulse bounced in Ethan’s neck as he knelt down. Holding a fully loaded rifle sent tingles and gooseflesh up the length of his arms.
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“It’s simple really,” Max said knowingly from Ethan’s side, “just line up the sight with the beer bottle and press the trigger.”
Ethan’s arms struggled under the weight, but with the scope up to his face, the shiny bottle glinted in his eye. His finger touched the trigger; it required a lot more pressure than a plastic laser rifle.
BOOM!
Ethan fell back. Something exploded. The world became a dizzy and ringing blur. Cries erupted from outside and the beer bottle stood still.
“OH SHIT!” Max yelled, running to the new star-shaped hole in the kitchen window. “The neighbors!”
Ethan clambered to his feet and they pushed away the stained curtains. The neighbors’ car windshield was shattered. A figure sat inside, mouth gaped and unmoving. Glass shards peppered her hair. But then the shaken and pale teenage girl pushed open the driver side door. Her parents greeted her in shock and confusion.
Ethan exhaled.
“Let’s get out of here!” Max whispered.
But Ethan watched the girl, his heart thudding as her face contorted in distress. Just as her dad brought her in his arms, a hand tugged at Ethan’s shoulder, pulling him away from the sight. They escaped out the back door and dashed through the quiet neighborhoods until their throats burned.
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“That was,” Max’s hands were trembling, “awesome! Next time, we oughta be more careful, but man, that rifle, so powerful!”
Ethan gulped air, thinking, I almost killed someone.
“Maybe we can run back there and get it,” Max went on. “My cousin’s an expert on guns
y’know, he’s—”
“No,” Ethan said abruptly, almost surprising himself. “We . . . can’t. No more. We gotta tell someone about the gun.”
Max’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursed.
“Listen to me,” Ethan stammered, “I . . . almost shot that girl.”
“But you didn’t. She’s fine.”
They stared at one another. Max’s hand formed into a fist and he took one step forward. Ethan stood his ground.
After a moment, Max scoffed, “You’re such a baby, Ethan.” His fist relaxed. “Fine. Go ahead, tattle-tale about the rifle. But we won’t be friends anymore if you do. I’m too grownup to hang out with scared little babies. I’m going home.”
Ethan held still, watching his best friend walk away. The same friend that gave him a laser rifle for his 9th birthday, the same friend that stayed up all night with him reading comic books, and the same friend that—Ethan groaned, feeling his bruise.
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Long after Max vanished around the corner, the enormity of what Ethan almost did fell upon him. Finally, he sat on the curb and broke down. The tears didn’t last long, but long enough that he was left with a stinging headache.
The way home led him past the girls' house. She sat on the porch, eyes puffy as her mom rubbed her back. Pebbles of glass dotted the pavement just feet away and a pair of broad- shouldered cops stood next to the father, one writing a report while the other held the strap of a familiar rifle. Her father’s eyes caught Ethan's for only an instant.
Rushing past the house, Ethan thought of his friend. He and Max could go on, enjoying the last few weeks of the summer together, the final summer before Jr. High. They could pretend as if nothing ever happened.
But he didn’t want to pretend anymore. It wasn’t fun and games anymore. Maybe Max needed more time. Maybe he still wanted to be a kid so he wouldn't have to think about grownup things, like not having a dad. One day, Max would grow up and when that happened, Ethan would be there to greet him. For now, Ethan stood in his room, laser rifle in his hands. The handle's grip had become slippery from years of use. Ethan exhaled, dropped the plastic toy in a drawer and went downstairs for dinner.
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