December 19, 2015
Jeremy jumped out of bed an hour before his alarm went off Saturday morning, and was on the road by seven. He’d been waiting, ever since his return from Seattle, for Saturday to arrive. His first day of taking his new toy out for a spin.
He drove into the mountains, on unpaved windy roads, into a small town called Sheephorn, a community of cabins used seasonally for hunting and camping. His uncle’s cabin stood at the bottom of a hill, surrounded by hundreds of trees that eventually opened into a clearing of flat land where Jeremy planned to set up his target practice. The closest cabin belonged to the Wells family, roughly a mile away. Jeremy hoped no one would be there, and saw no cars parked in front when he passed it.
Jeremy wouldn’t be able to go inside his uncle’s cabin, as he didn’t have a key—but he didn’t need to. He parked his car, jumped out, and retrieved his black case from the trunk. The fresh mountain air filled his lungs, giving him the energetic boost it always did. Birds sang from the tall trees, but otherwise the mountain was dead silent.
Jeremy put his case on the hood of the car, unsnapped the clasps, and flipped back its cover. The AR-15 seemed to glow in the bright sunlight.
He brushed a hand over the gun, rubbing its barrel and trigger. “Let’s change the world.”
He grabbed the bag containing his ammunition and targets, which he’d purchased with cash earlier in the week. The hundred-pack of shooting targets and thousand-pack of bullets would surely last him his couple months of training.
He pulled out the targets and a couple boxes of ammunition. He had twelve training sessions planned, and figured he would practice about a hundred rounds each time. He’d need to purchase more for the actual event. The boxes thudded on his hood where he tossed them.
Jeremy planned to shoot from the cabin area. He looked around for trees that were roughly thirty to forty yards away. He wouldn’t need to shoot further than thirty yards in the office, so he’d decided to practice inside of this range.
He picked a couple trees, taped his targets to them, and ran back to his car. “It’s time.” He panted as he opened the box of ammunition and started to slide each round into the magazine. The bullets sparkled with their golden coat, each roughly the size of Jeremy’s index finger. They looked like miniature rocket ships, with their pointed tips and wide bodies. The brass felt cool underneath his fingertips.
He noticed a slight tremble in his hands. The excitement had been building up for a while now. Having the gun sit idle for two weeks had driven Jeremy more mad with each passing day. The time had finally arrived.
With the magazine loaded, he picked up his loaded gun for the first time. Its light weight surprised him again. Even fully loaded, it felt like he was holding a two-liter bottle of soda, not a weapon that would help him change the course of history.
He pulled back on the rifle’s charging handle, and there was an authoritative CLICK! as the first round was loaded into the chamber. He turned off the weapon’s safety with a quick flick of his finger. He couldn’t wait any longer.
He raised his rifle and pointed toward the targets. He could feel the blood and a rush of adrenaline bursting its way into his fingertips, which rested on the smooth steel of the hand guard. His right hand fastened around the pistol grip and his index finger found its place on the trigger.
Don’t forget the kickback on this bad boy. He remembered his uncle’s advice.
He steadied his arms and lowered his eye to the rifle’s scope. The silhouette on the target sheet wavered with even the slightest movement that Jeremy made. He placed his target on the center of the man’s chest, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot rang out and echoed around the mountain, causing birds to flutter from their trees. It sounded like a car backfiring. His shot missed the target and clipped the man’s shoulder, where the black of his body met the white of the paper. As for the recoil, it was no worse than someone poking Jeremy just below his collarbone—but it had been strong enough to move him completely off target.
This time, he wasted no time pulling the trigger. Then again. And again. He did this ten times, until the magazine emptied. The spent shells were scattered on the dirt below him.
As he practiced, he mentally planned his attack. I walk in to the office. Shelly is at her desk, facing away from me. I poke her in the back with the gun and pull the trigger as soon as she turns around. People start screaming and running like headless chickens. I aim, focus, and pull the trigger until the screaming stops.
Jeremy walked to his target on the tree. Three had hit the man’s chest, one hit his head, three more hit the paper, and three were unaccounted for, probably stuck in another nearby tree.
Not bad for the first time. He’d shot pistols plenty of times before and was pleased to find that the rifle learning curve wouldn’t be as steep as he’d feared.
He reloaded his magazine with ten fresh rounds, realizing he would need to buy more magazines. In his research, he’d found that the state of Colorado prohibited the use of magazines that held more than ten rounds. Other states didn’t have the same law, and he was sure one of the neighboring conservative states would sell him a thirty-round magazine.
Jeremy took his time shooting the remaining ninety rounds in his practice for the day. He improved with each round, and felt much more comfortable by the end of the day. He had the kickback under control and now felt his mission would be easier than he had envisioned.
I could do this next week. I feel ready.
His favorite part of it all was the powerful feeling he had with each pull of the trigger. The adrenaline didn’t wear off until he fired his last round of the day. He felt one with his rifle; by the end of his practice session the rifle felt like an extension of his body.
I need to stick to the plan. The timeline is perfect—rushing into things only makes the probability for mistakes greater. And one mistake could cost me my life.
Jeremy couldn’t recall a time he’d had so much fun shooting. He knew it would take some time to master, but using his own AR-15 was truly special. He wondered what would happen to his gun if he was arrested and eventually released on the insanity plea. It would sit in evidence for a bit, but once he was deemed an innocent man, would it be returned?
For now, he could only focus on one thing: practice, practice, practice.
*****
Jeremy’s day-to-day life soon became immersed in his experiment, until it was hard to tell one from the other. He would go into work, do enough to get by and remain unnoticed, then go home to plan and dream about March 11. His experiment gained power in his mind, demanding his full attention, overtaking the constant reminder that he would be ending the lives of people he truly cared for.
The only time his mind cleared was over the Christmas holiday, which he spent with his parents. They wanted to hear all about school and the job and how life was for their little Jer Bear. As far as he could recall, those things were all going just fine. His winter semester had wrapped up the week before Christmas, leaving his work nights free to dream. And plan. He also enjoyed the break from Dr. Siva, not wanting his mentor to have any insight into his master plan. Spring semester would be a joke as he knew he would be leaving only two months in.
The work days went by in a flash. After years of trying to improve himself every day at the office, Jeremy no longer gave a shit about his future with the company, and it was a relief. But he still needed to stay employed, in order to carry out his experiment. Shooting up his office after being fired would appear too much like vengeance and be a sure ticket to a guilty verdict.
*****
Going into his fourth week of practice in the mountains, Jeremy nearly had his rifle under control. He practiced hitting his targets in rapid succession, and successfully connected at a high rate. His self-control slipped away when he went to his uncle’s cabin. He would start shooting and not want to stop. On one visit he fired more than three hundred rounds, pushing his rifle to its limit as it heated up underneath his hands. That was also useful information: how many rounds it could fire in a short period of time.
Jeremy started to hold his rifle every night, wanting to make it as much a part of him as possible. For fun, he would pull the trigger as many times possible in sixty seconds, keeping track of how much faster he became over time. He averaged around seventy “shots” by the time his index finger had strengthened into what felt like a piece of stone.
Jeremy thought his rifle needed a name, and struggled to find the right one—until one night when a modern-day King Kong movie came on TV.
“King Kong. It’s perfect.” He stroked his rifle as he said it in a trance. “King Kong fucks shit up, just like you will.”
He patted the gun and put it in its case with the care of a parent laying an infant down for sleep.