Don’t Fight Old Folks:
.................................................................................................................................................................................
They’ll Just Kill You.
The old trucker didn't want to do this. He hated shopping. He hated shopping centers with a passion. He had to do it though. He was out of cat food. Lars didn't have any more 'Stinky Food’. Lars got grumpy without his 'stinky food'. A grumpy Lars was an ornery Lars. Life got real exciting around an ornery Lars . Sedrick O'Connor, an old trucker, didn't need any excitement.
Truck-stops and with their so-called 'convenience' stores sometimes carried dog food. Very damn seldom did they carry cat food. If/when they ever did they charged way too much. Sedrick hadn't restocked in months. He REALLY hated to go shopping. CatFood and CatLitter were about gone as were baby wipes, bottled water, socks, cigars and t-shirts. (the old man also HATED to do laundry. He'd buy new t-shirts before he'd wash them.)
So.......a trip to WorldMart was inevitable. He still hated it. The idiot four wheelers (automobiles) would NOT give him a break. They cut right in front of him, got RIGHT behind him, zipped past with no warning from either side and turned, stopped and backed up with no rhyme nor reason. WorldMart parking lots were hell.
He'd finally found a place out on the back side and parked his rig. Luckily he could enter the super-center through the Automotive section....right past gardening. Pet Supplies and Hardware were in that area so he shouldn't have to brave the main store, much less the adjacent mall. He wouldn't have to deal with soccer moms and old ladies. He'd just get his stuff....and get out. Shouldn't take too long.

Sedrick had done his shopping and was in line with a bunch of other old farts at the check out counter in automotive when he heard the first shot, and then the screams began. He glanced up at the monitors behind the counter. For some reason that's where the monitors were in many WorldMarts, perhaps that's where the night watchmen sat? One monitor showed a gunman. Apparently this dingbat thought he was another Holmes, the guy who shot up the Movie Theater in Aurora Colorado a while back. He was decked out in a similar fashion No gas mask though.

Sedrick sat there for a second thinking. This wasn't any of his business. He could pay his bill and push his loaded shopping card on out the back way to his truck and probably drive on out of there before things got all snarled up. It wasn't his kids, his friends or his relatives getting slaughtered. Hell he wasn't even in his home state. Sedrick , was however, a former Marine. This was his country.
Sedrick shuddered and shook himself like a dog shedding water.
"Oooh Rah!" he muttered, psyching him self up, then again "Oooh Rah!" he said louder. The old farts had been looking at the monitors also and now looked at him. Most were clueless. A few knew what he was doing and nodded. "This ain’t right" Sedrick muttered. "This is wrong.”
Sedrick looked up as if just now noticing the crowd. “I’m gonna stop it. Ya'll with me?"
The clueless just stared at him. An old guy here and there caught on to what Sedrick was saying and nodded grimly.
"I'm gonna put a stop to this or die trying" Sedrick repeated.
Sedrick looked at the Knife Display on the counter, then at the clerk. "Gimme a couple of those.”
The clerk did that, not saying a thing about payment. Sedrick turned around and headed toward the gunfire. "let's see how well he shoots with a gizzard full of cold steel.”

Some of the old coots followed him. Some of the young guys just kinda stood there wondering what had just happened.
Sedrick sprinted as hard as he could till he got closer then he dropped to a crouch and continued to move TOWARD the disturbance, staying behind cover as he went. Some of the other guys were with him off to one side or the other. Hell there was even an old fart in an electric wheel chair zipping right along, making his way toward the disturbance, what the hell was he carrying anyway? It looked like a damn spear. Where did he find a spear in world mart?
Didn't matter, They was getting closer, it was a BIG fricking store. A WorldMart SuperCenter they called it. The old man snagged a shopping cart full of canned goods that had been abandoned as he went by it, then he swung it around in front of him, pushing it ahead for cover, moving as fast as he could. Some of the other guys saw what he did and did the same thing.
It seemed like hours, but could only have been a minute or two, before he come upon the disturbance. The punk had a carbine and was shooting people. A whole group of people had jammed a door trying to get out and the punk was standing behind them calmly shooting one right after another as they were trying to flee. It appeared that all the electric doors were out order and there was only the one manual door. Everyone was trying to get through it at once. Several people were on the floor, some shot and some trampled.

Can't have that.
A sniper attack is a form of ambush. The best way to handle an ambush is to fight THROUGH it. In other words, counter attack. If you run you’ll just die tired. Sedrick intended to attack. He had no weapons (this was a victim disarmament state) other than the knife he'd picked up at the counter, and some canned goods.
He pulled a can of green beans out of the shopping cart he was pushing and threw it at the gunman. Sedrick hadn't been a ball player or anything in school but he could chunk a rock with the best of them. A can of beans fit his hand just about like a rock and did just as good a job. He hit the gunman upside the head.
It got the gunman's attention, which was the plan.
The gunman turned and was astounded to see several fat men huffing like steam engines, each pushing shopping carts from which they were extracting canned goods and then throwing them at him. About that time another one of the old geezers got the range and a can of tuna smacked him in the nose, breaking his eye glasses. It was a horizontal hail storm of canned goods. The old codgers were bearing down upon him like a wall of lard. He immediately turned his gun upon them and began shooting.
And missing. He was no longer shooting fish in a barrel. He was shooting at moving targets and taking incoming, after a fashion. After being beaned by a can of beans, tapped by a tuna and conked by a can of cookie dough he was having a harder time concentrating on his shooting.It didn't help that he wasn't that much of a marksman to begin with. It looked a lot different in the movies.
Damn Shopping Carts. He had to shoot the shopping carts to get at the geezers pushing them. The shopping carts were full of groceries. His .223 round that the news media had called "powerful" just didn't seem to penetrate all that well. His shots were deflecting ever which way.
He got one, or at least the guy fell down. It was hard to tell. They were coming AT him. This wasn't fair. They were supposed to run. It was almost as if the old farts knew what they were doing. They were using infantry tactics against him. While he was aiming at one geezer who ducked behind a shopping card the others would move forward, throwing things. He was getting hit on a regular basis now.
It HURT.
He had tomato paste running down over his face, and spaghetti across his eyes. He couldn't SEE. Not only that but some of them had stuff in their hands. Not just can goods. Knives, baseball bats, sledgehammers and garden implements. He didn't like that at all. He didn't aim any more as he fired shot after shot. They didn't stop coming, surely he was hitting them?
Wasn't he?
He was getting rattled. He was beyond rattled. Some of his shots went straight up, into the ceiling. Some into the floor. This wasn't going as planned. He should have gone to the School. Yes, he should have targeted the school, it was a no gun zone. Kids and teachers didn't have guns. No mean old farts at schools either. That would have been better.
But these old guys weren't using guns. They were using canned chicken noodle soup, ash trays, ball bearings, and baseballs. One of them threw a hatchet at him.
They were getting closer.
The gun jammed. The hundred round double drum magazine that was supposed to be SO lethal,jammed. The old geezers were only a few feet away, closing fast even though they were huffing and puffing like steam engines, and he held what amounted to a clumsy plastic club in his hands.
They were going to get him! It wasn't fair. He dropped the 'assault rifle' and grabbed at his pistol, unsuccessfully attempting to duck Delmonte and Campbells soup cans. They were raining those damn cans upon him, they all had the range and knew ALL about ‘time on target” He was getting hit by five or ten at a time. A can of something HURT hime when it hit his elbow, causing him to shoot himself in the calf.
That was it.
The bullet had done some serious damage. He could barely stand up and it HURT. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to GET hurt. He supposed to hurt THEM. Then he was supposed to peacefully surrender to the police and be a hero. The anti gun crowd would be in love with him. The liberals would praise him. He might get to go on Oograah. He'd get a book contract. It wasn't working that way, he turned to run and ran right into a sharp stick held by an old man in a wheel chair.
It was an electric wheel chair and the rider had zipped around behind the gunman while flanking the other old geezers. The rider was holding the 14 foot extendable paint handle like a knight would hold a spear. He'd sharpened the end of the handle with a knife and he had a pointy stick. The Geritol Knight had a pretty good roll on and was moving pretty fast when the gunman turned. The stick kinda skewered the gunman. Apparently that wasn't real armor he was wearing.
That shocked the gunman pretty bad, having a pole go right through the guts tends to do that. He stopped, dropped his gun and started caterwauling. That was the last thing the gunman ever did.
The old codgers swarmed him.
They hit him high and they hit him low, they smashed his nuts and they shattered his elbows. Several old men and by god a woman or two had various types of tools, kitchen utensils and garden implements, not to mention knives, and proceeded to beat and cut the gunman to a bloody pulp. Even with the crowd holding him up the gunman slowly fell over and hit the ground.
The old trucker was some distance back with the shopping cart attack crew. He saw one little lady swing a golf club, it might have been a five iron, and scoop the punks eye right out. The eye went sailing across the room and stuck to a far wall. She didn't stop, she hit him repeatedly. Nose, other eye, both gone, then she began putting divots in his forehead. Both cheekbones were smashed, teeth were all gone. The old lady was screaming
"Shoot at MY grand baby will you!”
as she pounded his head to goo.

The crowd closed around the gunman. The trucker could no longer see what was happening. Some of those Grandmas KNEW how to take a chicken apart. The gunman was just bigger. There were several grandmas. Blood flowed on the floor.
Approximately five minutes had elapsed since the first shot.
When seconds count the police are only minutes away. Sirens were beginning to sound from outside.
The old trucker turned to go. No need for him to hang around here any longer. This wasn't his town any more than any other town was.
He'd just take his cat food and Get the Hell Out’a Dodge.
