The Triggermen

Other than my sister-in-law, I have no idea who reads these stories. But I do feel bad for starting that last story, posting two pages and then stopping. And I like the idea of free fiction online, posting a chapter a day for people to read while they're at work or just surfing around while the baby naps. I like putting something up that you know you can go back to for a couple weeks, if you want. The Triggermen is a long story I wrote a couple years ago. Due to its length, it's one of those neither-fish-nor-fowl stories...a novella, I guess. I hope it helps you kill some time at work.

Chapter One


Life as we know it comes to an end one fine Saturday in early May, not long after Boone Handler has given up trying to write a song. The morning air is warm and clear and Boone can hear kids playing on the far side of his condo development along with the rattle of a woodpecker and the staticky splutter of a single-engine plane doing circles above the nearby airport. All the sounds he can ask for, in other words, except the one he wants—the deceptively simple three-chord progression that woke him in the first place and drove him downstairs to make coffee and pick up his guitar.

It is a little after nine when, with a kind of inner shrug, Boone thinks what the hell and decides to go for his morning run. He is upstairs putting on his running shoes when Andy wanders into his bedroom, still in his pajamas, clutching his Sixers pillow sleepily to his chest. Andy’s blonde hair is sticking up in a bright yellow bird’s nest, his green eyes not quite open, and the whiskers on his face are badly in need of a shave. It has been a week. Boone makes a mental note to help him with that this very afternoon.

“Hey, bud,” Boone says, “I didn’t hear you get up. You want some breakfast?”

Andy shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. “Something’s wrong with the computer, Boone.”

“Oh yeah? What’s it doing?”

“Making noises,” Andy says. “Like, eeeeeeee. It woke me up.”

“Well, I’m going out for a run. I’ll have a look at it when I get back.”

“It doesn’t work,” Andy says. “I’ll show you.”

Sighing, Boone follows his brother across the hall. Andy is independent enough, but there are times when he needs something to be addressed right now, especially when it deals with the computer.

Boone bought him the laptop last summer. Since then Andy has spent an almost worrisome amount of time online, downloading music, burning CDs and soaking in untold hours of his favorite online show, The Triggermen. The Triggermen is an animated action show featuring the adventures of “the world’s most courageous underground anti-terrorist unit.” Andy loves The Triggermen with an awestruck reverence reserved for precious few things in life. Boone knows his brother sometimes leaves the web episodes running in a constant loop, even while he sleeps like a combination screensaver and nightlight. If he could, he told Boone, he’d watch The Triggermen in his sleep.

Stepping into Andy’s room, Boone walks past the immaculately organized shelves, CDs on top, graphic novels on the bottom. Next to the window overlooking the front driveway is a life-sized poster of a man in a long black leather cattleman’s coat with a high-powered rifle in each hand. This man is John Bard, former government agent and now head of the Triggermen, otherwise known as the world’s most courageous blah-blah-blah. Should the sneering lips, heavy-duty firepower and downright homicidal gleam in John Bard’s oddly gleeful eye not be sufficient, the word balloon floating over the man’s head sums up whatever might need clarification: “We have business, you and I,” the balloon says. “Pressing business.” It is his tagline and he says it almost every episode.

Boone bends over the keyboard and looks at the screen. He clicks on the icon for Internet Explorer and an error message pops up. At the same time the CPU begins making a high whining noise, a sound that reminds him rather unpleasantly of a dentist’s drill.

“That’s it,” Andy says. “That’s the noise!”

“Hold on. Let me check something.” Reaching around behind the CPU, Boone locates the cable line where it feeds into the communications bus. He disconnects it, tightens it again and tries the Explorer icon. This time the homepage springs up immediately, though the steady whine persists. After a moment the screen flickers and the noise goes away.

“You fixed it!” Andy grins. “You’re the best at computers!”

“Don’t tell Bill Gates that.”

Andy bursts out laughing and looks at him puzzled. “Who’s Bill Gates?”

“Nobody.” Boone turns and starts out. “Hey listen, I’m just going out, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, okay? You want waffles when I get back?”

“Sure, okay.” Andy has already started to type in slow, deliberate taps, then almost as an afterthought, he leaps up to plant a wet kiss on Boone’s cheek. “Thanks again, Boone.”

“No problem.” Heading downstairs, his cheek still moist with his brother’s kiss, Boone can hear the familiar Triggermen theme music cranked to maximum volume. Even through the laptop’s tinny speakers it sounds to his discerning ear like an electric guitar being played through the biggest pair of testicles on the planet.

He goes downstairs to stretch. As he steps outside, he hears a dog barking and a woman’s voice saying, very clearly, “Stop it, Ben,” but Ben only gives another hooting howl, triumphantly, louder than ever. Heading down the sidewalk toward the parking area, Boone begins to trot, working himself into an easy, open-handed jog. His cul-de-sac is connected to the larger loop of Oxford Court that runs through Stone Cliff Townhouse community in a large, lazy mile-long oval. For the last year since quitting smoking, he has tried to run the loop at least twice a week, sometimes more if the weather is warm enough. It clears his head and helps him focus. Focusing is something he’s had a lot of trouble with over the last year, as things have gotten ostensibly better for him and Andy.

Ever since their parents died, he’s taken care of his brother, working odd jobs and giving piano lessons to put money on the table while continuing to try to write music. Then, just eight months ago, after years of getting his hopes up and having them smashed, playing in bars and sending out demo tapes, Boone’s manager actually sold one of his songs, a mid-tempo rocker called “Red Dog,” to Tricia Yearwood for her latest album. Against all odds, the song became a hit, and the belated fairytale began for Boone Handler. The money started rolling in, the offers of work, of new opportunity. His manager wants him to move to Nashville, or better yet, LA. Boone has yet to discuss any of these things with Andy, but it is getting harder not to talk about it.

He is jogging around the first bend of the loop when he sees one of his former piano students, Mara Wilson, coming the other way on her bike, her backpack strapped over her shoulders. Mara is a pretty girl with long black hair and braces that only seem to bring out the winning sweetness of her smile. Once she gets older and the braces come off, Mara isn’t just going to be a heartbreaker, Boone thought; she’s going to be a heart-stopper. Guys are going to be writing plenty of songs about her.

“Hey,” he calls out. “Where you headed?”

“Down to Redner’s to pick up some stuff for my mom. She’s working at the hotel till two but then we’re baking a birthday cake for my uncle.”

“Aren’t you old enough to drive yet?”

“Shut up.” She rides up close enough to punch him in the shoulder. “Ew, you’re all sweaty.” Pedaling faster, she pulls ahead and then glances back. “How’s Andy doing?”

“Fine.”

“You ever think—” Mara starts, and her voice breaks off. Later Boone will recall these as the last words ever spoken before the world changed. You ever think.

Overhead, a screaming comes across the sky. He hears the distorted shriek of a jet engine growing louder until its sonic jabbering actually seems to fill up the space around them, pounding it to pieces with its garbled roar. He stops running and Mara stops pedaling her bike, and they both stare straight up. Mara’s mouth is moving, asking him a question he can’t hear. Then a huge, bullet-like shape, far too large for the background, is plunging down out of the sky over Stone Cliff and Boone feels himself actually pushed back by the appearance of the jet coming down toward the rooftops of his part of the condo development. What comes next is an eardrum-rending explosion that sets the whole world on fire. The ground disappears beneath Boone’s feet. His legs go with it.

Nothing after that is ever the same.