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