Principle’s Death
They don't know what's so fun about shooting an empty can of beans with a rifle--is it the way the can jumps into the air on a successful hit, the soft plink of the bullet punching through the can? Or is it the knowledge that despite the naturally violent nature of the gun, they are doing no harm?
The two boys are miles away from Ashville--from any human contact, really. They'd driven out into the country by themselves, as they had countless times before, but this time is different. This is the first time they've been without their parents. Cameron's 21st birthday was only three days earlier. They've brought their rifles with them, Kevin with his Varmint gun and Cameron with his 30-06 Remington rifle.
"Nice shot man," Cameron says as the can topples yet again. As Kevin works the bolt on his rifle, ejecting the still-smoking cartridge from the receiver, Cameron walks out into the field to retrieve the can and set it back up onto their favorite stump. It is chipped and riddled with old bullet holes from a time when they were kids, a time when they couldn't hit the can any time, every time.
Kevin stands up from his kneeling position, tentatively picking up the spent cartridge and dropping it into his pocket. They never litter the ground with their garbage, for they hold this land close to their hearts. It is part of their childhood, and therefore part of them.
Cameron walks back to Kevin and replaces him behind the line they had drawn in the dirt, with the same stick they'd used the past dozen or so times they'd been out there.
The crack of Cameron’s hunting rifle is much louder, but no more gratifying, than the soft plink of the Kevin’s little Varmint gun.
Kevin laughs. "Not getting old on me, are you man?" The can remains perched atop the stump, mocking Cameron after the glancing shot that nevertheless demolishing the majority of it.
"Must be," Cameron says without so much as a smile. Kevin is the jokester of this dynamic duo; Cameron merely enjoys it with a quiet contentment. He works the bolt on his rifle and effortlessly catches the shell out of the air with practiced ease.
Kevin reaches into the canvas sack they bring with them each trip and withdraws a new can, this one an old can of green beans. "Care to try again?" he asks his brother.
Cameron smirks. "Set 'er up."
Kevin does so, gathering as many pieces of the previous can as he is able to find. He drops them all into the canvas sack and stands by as Cameron sets up to fire again.
Cameron's finger tightens on the trigger. His left eye squints shut as he looks down the barrel of the rifle, and he exhales audibly. The rifle cracks. The can flies high into the air.
In the distance, a man screams.
Kevin awoke with a start, the sound of the man’s scream still fresh in his memory. He sighed. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he dropped his head into his hands. He let his toes grip the carpet, which was soft and inviting; like pillows for his feet.
“Fuck you,” he said to the darkness. The memory was all too clear in his mind–he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. The glowing blue numbers on his clock taunted him, and he turned it around; they burnt his eyes. Besides, he didn’t want to know how long he had ‘til he had to be at work.
He climbed to his feet and tentatively felt his way to the door, trying to avoid the weights, clothes, and books that littered his floor. He stumbled only once, his foot catching on a particularly malicious magazine.
“And you too, Guns and Ammo. Fuck you.”
He staggered out of his bedroom, his legs still numb with sleep. Even in the middle of June, the kitchen floor was freezing. Pizza and Beer. Pizza. And. Beer. Kevin smiled at the thought. The fridge was bright, and he squinted into the sudden, blinding light. He found what he needed mostly by touch, his fingers unerringly finding the cold, inviting bottle of DosEquis. The pizza box was slightly more evasive, since nearly half the containers in the fridge were tupperware filled with leftovers from the previous week. He tossed the pizza box on the kitchen table and then popped the top on the DosEquis as he had a thousand times before.
Taking a long swallow, he set the bottle down reluctantly and opened the pizza box. He considered the cheesy sausage and olive slices a moment, then placed them all into the toaster oven with great care. Kevin believed that toaster ovens were one of the best inventions in the history of mankind, right up there with indoor plumbing and women’s thongs. Toaster ovens combined the ease and convenience of a microwave with the practicality and home baked taste of an oven. Plus it cooked a mean slice of frozen pizza.
As he waited for his pizza, Kevin plopped down into the couch he’d bought only a few days earlier. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it yet. It was comfy to be sure; with plush cushions that practically sank to the floor, a reclining back complete with footrest, and even a cup holder for his booze. The problem, however, lay in the fact that this couch reminded him of Cameron. It resembled the couch on which he and his brother had spent countless hours playing video games, while they spilt crumbs on the cushions and soda on the carpet.
Kevin frowned, sighed, and took another swig of his Dos. He set the bottle in the cup holder and leaned back, reclining comfortably. He closed his eyes and leaned heavily into the couch, waiting for the ding of the toaster’s timer.
"Jesus Kev, this is a lot of blood...this guy’s fucked up–“ Cameron is crouched beside the man, gently peeling the ratty, bloodstained jacket away from the man’s skin. Crimson rivers trickle from his nose, mouth, and chest as Kevin watches in horror from behind his brother. He watches as the man’s eyes focus on his shooter and savior, only half conscious.
“You shot me! You killed me, you sonofabitch! Bastards! Bastards both’a yeh,” the man mumbles with conviction, through bloodied teeth. Kevin wonders if it would be better to just leave the man to die. He is obviously a hobo, a vagabond, living a pitiful with no one to miss him but the dead squirrels on the side of the road.
“Cam...we can just go...we can leave him here and–“ Cameron turns to him, and the look on his face silences Kevin as effectively as any punch could have.
“Fuck that, Kevin. We did this–suck it up and take responsibility. Do what has to be done. ‘Evil thrives in the inaction of principled men,’” Cameron says, probably quoting his philosophy class. He tears open the dying man’s shirt to get to the wound. He is an EMT in Ashville–even as a kid, Cameron had always shown a strong interest in helping those in need. Whenever they are in the same room, Kevin feels like an ant in Cameron’s shadow. He idolizes him and envies him. His movements are so assured, so confident and coolly competent.
“Get my phone, Kev. Call 911, and–now listen carefully–tell them we’re fifteen miles South, that’s South, of Ashville, on County Road 102. Tell them to send help ASAP. Answer their questions as best as you can. Do exactly what they say.”
Kevin scrambles to his feet, then runs toward Cameron’s dirt covered Bronco, at the side of the road.
He fumbles with the phone laying on the dash, then dials 911. The dispatcher picks up immediately.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Please help–my brother shot somebody, he–the guy’s bleeding all over the place and–“
“Son, calm down–where are you?”
“We’re fifteen miles South of Ashville, on County Road 102. Please hurry, the guy’s dying, my brother, he–“ Kevin realizes that the call has been dropped. He isn't sure how much of the call had gone through. He looks at the phone, dumbfounded. He dials 911 again, but it’s no use. No bars. He waves the phone around in the air, hoping to gather some semblance of a signal, but to no avail.
Can you hear me now?
He hurries back to his brother.
“Did you get a hold of them?” Cameron asks.
“I–yeah, yeah they’re coming.”
For fifteen excruciating minutes the brothers wait, Cameron doing what he can for the injured man and Kevin merely sitting in the dirt, his arms wrapped around his knees as he watches the man’s chest, praying for some sign of breath. When help arrives, it is hardly what the brothers expect–a black and white police car pulls to the side of the road, lights flashing. Two police officers climb out of the cars, guns drawn and raised toward the kids. They hide behind the bulletproof doors of their squad car, and one raises a bullhorn to his lips.
A blast of feedback as the cop turns on the horn is enough to make Kevin cringe in discomfort. Cameron stares the police down with a grimace. Kevin is confused; what was going on?
“Kick your weapons away from you and step away from the body!”
Kevin looks to his older brother for help.
“What do we do?” he asks. Cameron grits his teeth together, his jaw clenching behind his cheeks. He is flushed an
angry red.
“We didn’t do anything wrong! Get an ambulance over here, this guy’s hurt bad!” Cameron yells to the cops.
“Kick the fucking guns away!” The bullhorn yells, “and step away from the goddamn body!”
Kevin slowly takes a step away from the man on the ground, despite a look of betrayal on Cameron’s face.
“Fuck that man, we haven’t done anything! Call an ambulance, damn it! ‘The fuck is wrong with you pigs!”
With that, the world is thrown into chaos. Cameron drops to one knee to put pressure on the injured man’s wound. Kevin’s mouth opens in a scream of denial. The ranking cop yells something into the megaphone.
And one rookie cop, his first week on the job, gets overeager. His anxious finger tightens on the trigger. The resulting explosion propels a bullet that takes Cameron in the temple; a spectacularly lucky shot, especially at fifteen yards.
The metal slug, nearly half an inch in diameter, enters and exits Cameron’s skull in a fraction of a second. His blood sprays onto the ground, onto the hobo’s corpse, and onto Kevin, his arms high in the air in a futile attempt to disarm the situation.
Kevin didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep. He opened his eyes and sighed. Cameron had been killed instantly. No pain, except the pain it left Kevin with. He got up from the couch, picking up his beer as he went, and walked over to the toaster oven, which was ringing shrilly in his ears. If it was one thing he didn’t like about his beloved toaster oven, it was the alarm. This time, however, he was grateful for it.
After Cameron was killed, the cops had rushed forward and taken Kevin down; they handcuffed him, threw him in the back of the squad car, and took him to the station. He was fifteen years old. He was never charged with a crime. His family received a letter of apology and a significant settlement from the city for the death of their oldest son. Hush money.
He reached into the oven, ignoring the searing pain in his fingertips, and plopped the pizza slices onto a plate.
According to Cameron, they say that evil thrives in the inaction of principled men. What they don’t tell you, Kevin had concluded, is that the only thing a principle did was get you killed. Therefore, all the better to live without them.
Kevin took a bite of pizza--
That's life.
–and swallowed the last swig of his beer.
Life. Yeah, fuck THAT shit.
) , so this was very helpful. Good job! 
