Primal - By D.A. Serra Page 0,72
slams down the receiver. “That’s it!” Hank grabs his keys. “Scottie!”
“Yes!” Scott looks in, “What?”
“Pick up Jimmy for me now at school so I can get home first.”
“You got it.”
And Hank is gone.
He breaks every speed limit driving home. I can’t believe she did this. His mind reels. This is a complete break of our trust. This is truly crazy, scary paranoid. How could she do this? How could she! Damn it! He screeches into the driveway. He throws open the front door to his home and yells, “Alison!” She is catapulted by the sound of his angry voice. She rushes in from the living room where she was trying to read. By the time she gets into the foyer, Hank is already wrenching open every drawer. Then, he moves into the living room where he begins a serious search under the sofa cushions.
“Hank?”
“Where!”
“Hank?”
“Where is it, Alison?”
“What? Where’s what?”
“Where’s the gun!” Surprised, she doesn’t answer. He throws the books off the bookcase. “Tell me now. Where’s the gun?”
“Are you following me?”
“No. Although I guess I should. The credit card company called. They thought it was kind of odd your expensive purchase at Merriweather’s Military Surplus.” He moves toward the stairs. She follows him. “Where is the gun, Alison?”
“In a safe place.”
“Give it to me right now.”
They stand face-to-face in conflict. She answers with her eyes firm but her voice shaking, “No.”
“Alison,” he turns on her with force, “Give it to me or I’ll tear this house apart.” She has never seen this kind of fury from him. It is so out of character and she is unnerved and frantic.
“I need it, Hank. I have to have it.”
He takes the stairs three at a time and blasts into their bedroom. She follows and stops at the doorway. He starts in the far corner of the room, opens her little desk and empties the contents on the rug. He moves to the next drawer and then the next, throwing everything onto the floor.
“Okay,” she says. “Stop.”
He slows and turns to her. “Where?”
“Under my side of the bed.”
Hank walks over, bends down and pulls out the rifle. “Oh my god, it’s huge.”
“There was a waiting period for a smaller one.”
He turns away disgusted, “Is it loaded?”
“Of course it’s loaded. Not much use if it’s not loaded.”
The door slams downstairs.
“Mom? Dad?”
Alison answers with a forced calm, “Upstairs, honey.”
Hank shoves the gun in the hidden area behind the opened door to the bedroom as Jimmy appears in the doorway. He looks at them. Clearly, something is up.
“Um…hi?” Jimmy says leery.
“Hi, how was school?” Alison asks. Her voice sounds high-pitched and strained.
“Kinda normal. Why did Scottie pick me up?”
Hank turns away from Alison and speaks to his son with a bare-knuckle calm because now he is finally absolutely certain of what he must do. “Jimmy, please go into your room and pack a suitcase.”
“What?” Alison whips her head to him.
“Why?” Jimmy asks worried.
“Hank, we need to talk.”
Ignoring her, Hank continues speaking directly to Jimmy, “Make sure you have clothes for school, a toothbrush, and all your books.”
“But, Dad, I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Hank!” Alison tries not to further upset Jimmy but it is no use. Her son’s brow is furrowed and his eyes alarmed.
Hank says, “Bring a couple of video games, too. Now go.”
Troubled, Jimmy backs out of the volatile room. “But where are we going?”
“We’re driving to Grandma’s”
Jimmy asks tenuously, “All of us?”
Hanks replies, “Just you and me. Your mom has some things she needs to do.”
Jimmy stands for a moment. He looks at his mom. She holds her words but the quivering of her face is undeniable. His dad nods his head at him and Jimmy crosses the little hallway and enters his bedroom. Alison turns urgently to Hank and speaks in a nearly hysterical whisper.
“You can’t do this.”
“I can.”
“No.”
“I have to.” Hank walks to the closest and takes out a suitcase. He packs aggressively throwing clothing into the suitcase while Alison pleads.
“Hank, please, don’t do this.”
“You need help, Alison.”
“I need a bazooka.”
“Your judgment has gone to shit.”
“I have good judgment.” She feels panic rising - alarm soaks her.
“You’re seeing things, you’re hearing things, and you refuse to help yourself.”
“I am helping myself. I’m helping us all.”
“You won’t take your medication.”
“It makes me feel sick and groggy!”
“You refuse to go to therapy.”
“I don’t need to talk about it. I need to be prepared.”
“You’re going to shoot me or Jimmy on our way to the bathroom some night.”
“No! I won’t. I wouldn’t make that