Half Wrong

Untitled Part 1

"Thomas? Thomas? Thomas!"

"S-sorry, what?" I asked groggily.

"I was trying to tell you that I need that expense report on my desk by the end of tomorrow, at the latest."

"R-right. Wait, I thought you said I had until Thursday. I don't think I can get it to you by tomorrow."

"You did. Now you don't. Maybe you'd be less crunched for time if you weren't always dozing off. Honestly, what has been with you lately? You used to be my poster boy for efficiency. Three months ago, you'd have finished this report within the day. Get it together, Reynolds. If you can't keep up, we can't keep you."

"I understand. I'm sorry, I'll do better."

I told her I'd do better for the sake of keeping my job, but in truth my job performance was far from my top priority. I spent most of my days making calls, writing e-mails, getting phone numbers to make more calls, and dealing with those ridiculous migraines. I mean, come on, this is the superpower I get stuck with? I'm wrong half the time and I take 6 extra strength Tylenol a day.

Everything in my life took a hit after that night. My reputation, my career, my marriage, my liver... The successes were nice, but wasn't like I was ever credited for them. And the mistakes... well, not that I could even call them that. It's not my fault when I'm wrong. Right? It's not my fault. It's not my fault.

Regardless of the consequences, though, I had a job to do. And it wasn't finishing a trivial expense report. Not when people's lives were at stake. I needed to figure out where that shooter was.

I could tell it was definitely a Walmart. But that wasn't exactly conclusive. What did that sign say? Cello Visa Mall? It was good enough for a Google search.

Cielo Vista Mall. El Paso, Texas. And - there's a Walmart close by. Alright, now the hard part: the phone call.

Out of all the crappy parts of this job, this was by far the crappiest. Not only was I only 50% likely to be right, but I had to play the role of whatever nut job is planning to kill twenty two innocent grocery shoppers. And worse yet, it had to be believable.

202-555-0171. Looks to be the best number for the PD in El Paso, I thought. I pulled out one of my twenty-something burner phones from my bottom desk drawer and started outside for a "smoke break."

"Thomas, where are you going?" Trisha asked rigidly.

"Just a quick smoke break."

"Hm. I'm sure that's just what you need to finish that report."

"Just clearing my head."

Yeah, I am so fired.

But that didn't matter. I needed to make the call. How do I make them believe me? How do I make them take real action? It's got to be too specific to ignore. My hands both tensed up and sweated profusely. I flipped up the screen and dialed the number. I didn't even like making normal phone calls, let alone making a terrorist threat to some Walmart three states away from me.

"El Paso Police Department. How can I be of service?

"Tomorrow, at about 10:30 A.M., there will be a shooting at the Walmart by Cielo Vista Mall. I'm going to kill every dirty Mexican I can in that store. Stop me if you can. The game begins now." I hung up, chucked the phone at a brick wall at the end of the alley, scooped up the pieces and threw them in the dumpster.

It was a little concerning how good I'd become at the whole psychopath-mass-killer shtick. But in America, there was a lot of time to practice, especially when half of the visions were total fabrications. But it had to be done, and the police had to respond–or those people's blood was on my hands.

I called in sick to work the next day. It wasn't even a lie. I wasn't sure if it was the constant migraines or the crushing weight of uncertainty. Regardless, there was no way I could go into work knowing what I knew–or didn't know. The timing was inconvenient as always; I was on pretty thin ice, but I'd finished the expense report that night and e-mailed it to Trisha. I could only hope that it would keep her off my back. As the clock neared 10:00, I obsessively refreshed the local news feed in El Paso. There wasn't a single article yet about a terrorist threat. Maybe they just don't want to make it public? That had to be it.

10:20. Okay, still nothing. But that doesn't mean they're not there. I should just call the Walmart and ask them about the situation. I Googled the number and got out another burner phone.

"El Paso Walmart, this is Cindy."

"Hi, Cindy. This might sound weird, but is everything okay there? Is there any weird activity, or police or something in the area?"

"I'm not sure what you mean. Everything seems to be normal. Why?"

How could they? Ignoring a legitimate terrorist threat? People could die. People will die. Unless I'm wrong. Please be wrong. But I have to think fast.

"Because in about ten minutes, I'm going to walk into your store with a loaded rifle and kill as many illegal, job-stealing rapists as I can. See you soon."

There's no way she'll brush that off. She'll call the cops, explain them the situation and...

They might not listen.

10:35. I continued refreshing the seven tabs I had open on El Paso news. I took two more Tylenol. Please be wrong. Please be wrong.

10:40. A tweet appeared. "Active shooter in El Paso Walmart, details unknown." I'm not wrong. It's difficult to describe the kind of twisted half-relief-half-terror I felt every time one of my terrorist warnings turned out to be justified. I was glad my phone call didn't cause a needless scare, but I simultaneously wanted to throw up in disgust and worry. Tell me they listened. I refreshed restlessly.

It wasn't until 11:30 when I got more details. "At least 15 killed and dozens injured in El Paso shooting." They didn't listen. How could they not listen?

As the day droned on, more details flooded in. 22 killed, 24 injured. Police arrived six minutes later. As if I never did anything. Because I didn't do enough. Those people died because I didn't do enough. Blood... so much blood... I cried myself into exhaustion and drifted off.

"Agh!" I jerked awake in a cold sweat, head throbbing. Was I dreaming? A nightmare? No, worse. Another vision. Dayton, Ohio. 10 dead, 27 injured.

It's got to be wrong. It's got to.