The Morning Shift.

Hot, bitter coffee tasted especially good when the snow just outside
the living room window was waist-deep. That day, the thermometer under
the ledge showed ten below. To the left of the window, an old-fashioned
clock indicated quarter to five. Anna Smith had insomnia, again.

She has been up since three and moved downstairs to avoid waking up her
husband. Han slept soundly, never woke up before nine and, if roused
out of bed early, was not pleasant. On top of Anna's blue bathrobe, an
old coat fringed with rabbit fur helped the keep her from freezing
outright. The high-backed wooden chair had enveloped the tiny gray-
haired woman on three sides, with only her slippers showing past the
carved oaken legs of it. Somewhere in the dark kitchen, their mutt
Watson was sleeping soundly, twitching his long slender paws in synch
with the tail. He had no trouble with sleep, either.

She had finished her book by four and turned the light off, trying to
doze off. The vast den, interrupted here and there by bookshelves and
potted plants, was getting uncomfortably frigid. Anna rose, clutching
her robe closed. She had intended to put another log on the embers of
the fireplace but, as she got up, the outdoor lights came on. A second
later, she heard cars pull into her driveway. The engines died, first
one, then the others.

Through the frost-covered window, several figures were visible,
advancing briskly. "Wrong house", she thought "My, they are partying
late." A doorbell chimed. The light came on in the bedroom upstairs,
reflecting in snow outside. "Han can talk to these young men", she
thought with relief. They lived some ten miles outside of the nearest
town, but one still never knew who was out and about this late at
night.

The sudden roar had shut off her hearing. She saw the flickering
star-shaped flashes outside, just as the light upstairs went out. A
split second later, a blow on the door had shattered the glass and left
the frame askew. A dark figure in a matte black helmet stopped at the
threshold, scanning the dark interior with a slow, deliberate turn on
the head.

Watson, waking up to a nightmare of noise and strange sights, did not
linger on his kitchen mat. He streaked through the kitchen towards the
stairs, his pale paws ghosting in the dark. The silhouette in the
doorway followed the dog's path. A stubby weapon in the man's arms came
alive, catching the poor beast with a long burst.

The dog's legs twitched awhile after he skidded on the smooth floor and
slammed head-first into the first step of the stairway. The white wall
of the hallway was pockmarked in red and black spots, alternating
randomly. Anna watched the man reload, then reached to her right for a
shotgun.

Now, you would ask: "Why would she even have a shotgun? You didn't say
anything about her or Han being pedophiles or drug dealers or
terrorists."

When her father died, some ten years ago, she had picked through the
estate, trying to salvage what she could before the revenuer arrived.
Hiding assets was more than Anna would have dared to do, but the old
photos from dad's younger days in Hungary and other objects of
sentimental value were hers by birthright. She found the single-shot
.410, unregistered and all the more illegal for that, in her late
father's office. Her first reaction was to turn it in, as she should
have done by law, but Han put his foot down. "We keep it, " he said.

We know that an assault street-sweeper like hers is, at best, an
anachronism in our modern times. One cannot hunt with it, and using it
against people would result in a long prison term. The youths in many
small towns have, in fact, made stable careers based on this fact. They
would roam the countryside in packs and barge into homesteads. If
unopposed, they would re-distribute whatever wealth they found, money,
goods or women. Should a resident threaten them with a gun or any other
weapon, they would retreat, report him to the police and pocket the
reward.

For the past ten years, the shotgun had always been in the den,
concealed by drapery. Anna had never fired it, for she had neither an
opportunity nor any ammunition for practice. All of the four slugs they
had for the gun were kept in leatherette loops attached to the stock.

Her vein-covered hand, numb from both cold and fright, pushed one of
the skinny red cartridges into the open breech, then snapped it closed.
The shiny bead pointed right at the center of the intruder. He was
silhouetted against the door, still looking around. "It's just a
frigging dog", he shouted "I think you got 'em both."

Anna's eyes were fixed on the end of the barrel as her thumb cocked the
hammer. The blast came immediately, as her other finger was already on
the trigger. A soft lead slug is no match for body armor, but the
plastic face shield was not nearly as strong. The man she had just
murdered in cold blood swayed back, then his knees folded and he
sprawled across the floor, face first. The queer black weapon that he
carried slid from his hand and came to rest over by Anna's feet.

For a brief instant, she could see so clearly: the dark puddle
spreading from the ruined helmet, shiny brass cartridges staggered in
the transparent magazine on top of the intruder's gun, and the tiny
holes appearing in her picture window. She shrank back behind her
substantial chair, just as the men outside sprayed the den with hundred
of tiny tungsten-core projectiles.

It was fortunate than an armored car was available and no more
casualties were taken. The ponderous six-wheeled vehicle crashed
through the flimsy fence and fired its 6-pounder at the Smith compound.
Anna, still crouched behind her high-backed chair with a shotgun and
three shells, did not answer. The trophy gun was of no use, for she
did not know even how to grasp it. A few minutes later the cannon had
hit the kitchen stove and set the gas line on fire.

The black-suited visitors had backed up, out of the way of the
scorching heat. One of them kicked the mailbox, which was knocked over
by the armored car on its way in. Black numbers on reflective plastic
backing read "3576".

"Sarge!" he shouted, trying to overcome the ringing in his ears.
"Wasn't it supposed to be 3567?"

They had called the HQ and confirmed the error. By then it was almost
seven in the morning, but there was still time to set things right. The
two cruisers followed the armored car down the narrow road to July Avenue,
number 3567. According to a reliable informant, Joseph and Lisa Bergson
who lived there were in possession of at least four pre-ban books.

(c)1999 Oleg Volk