He holds up a glass cylinder. Inside is some kind of device.
“When you pull the trigger,” Flagg says, “the small charge in the XREP shell activates, propelling the projectile down the barrel of the shotgun. A rip cord connecting the projectile to the shell tightens and snaps. This activates the battery, arming the electric shell.”
He will load one into the barrel and ratchet it into the chamber.
“When the projectile hits the target, four electrodes pierce the clothing and skin of the subject. Six Cholla electrodes unfold. Cholla because of the cactus, with barbed spines.”
For emphasis, he will take aim at a nearby cactus.
“When shot, most people reach instinctively for the impact site. That’s not such a great idea with the XREP. See, when you touch it, the microprocessor in the XREP diverts electricity to your hand, creating a circuit, and—ZAP.”
When he says it, he will pull the trigger. The projectile will hit the cactus and stick fast, releasing an arc of blue light.
“So it won’t kill anyone?” Simon will ask.
“Just a whole lotta pain.”
Simon will take the shotgun. Flagg will show him how to hold it, with the stock nestled in the meat of his shoulder between collarbone and socket joint. He’ll hand Simon a Taser cartridge. It is a feat of modern engineering.
“And they sell these at Walmart?” Simon will ask.
And Flagg will chuckle and adjust Simon’s grip on the stock.
“I was like you once,” Flagg will tell him. “A child of liberal values, touting the holy scripture. Guns are taboo. But it’s a tool. That’s all. A tool for a specific task. A gun task. Think about it. Recognize your belief system for what it is—their bag. Your parents. The media. Now, look around. Do you see any of those people? No. We gotta make up our own minds.”
Squinting in the sun, Simon will turn the shotgun in his hands. Flagg will show him how to check the chamber, how to eject a shell.
“You load it here—four shells. Ratchet and aim. When you fire, the gun’s gonna kick, and the barrel’s gonna wanna come up, but you need to hold it down.”
With the sun setting, Simon will practice loading and unloading it. Flagg will watch him, smoking.
“In the libraries of liberal democracy,” he’ll say, “guns are like unicorns—mythical creatures from a far-off land. But out here they’re like rats. Fucking everywhere. They’re truck mutts panting in the shiny beds of pickups, or three long guns mounted on the wall in the TV room. If you’re classy, the gun case is in the den, all polished wood and glass. Except out here they’re not called guns. They’re Just Guns. Weed whacker, lawn mower, twelve-gauge shotgun, just guns. Check Grandma’s purse next to the candies. Look under the Christmas tree when Junior turns twelve. Just guns. A nine-millimeter by the bed for personal defense. Soft cases and hard. Out here gunsmiths cast their own bullets. Melt the lead, set the primer, file the tip. Store-bought can cost you fifty cents a round, and that’s real money.”
Beside him now in the van, Duane reaches over and touches Simon’s cheek. Simon pulls back before he realizes.
“You’ve got an eyelash,” Duane tells him, holding it up for Simon to see. On the other side of the van, the sun has gone behind the hills, and the dull brown scrubland has turned a dusky red. Simon looks at his eyelash resting on the pad of Duane’s index finger. A part of him lost, like another day of his life.
“Make a wish,” says Duane, holding the lash up to Simon’s lips.
So he does.
*
At 12:01 they synchronize the watches they stole from Walmart （$59.99）。 Cyclops and Flagg set off on foot for the front gate. Katniss takes Simon and the Prophet and flanks to the south. Duane and Louise finish loading up the supplies and take their van back to the main road. They’ll head for the detention center, headlamps dark, steering by the light of the moon. When the battle is over and the prison has been liberated, Cyclops will signal them in.
Simon looks at his feet as he walks. He is a city boy, ill prepared for uneven ground. He thinks about copperheads and rattlesnakes. There is a Remington 870 Express Super Mag Synthetic Pump-Action shotgun strapped over his shoulder. It weighs seven and a half pounds, with a black stock and matte-black metalwork. It’s loaded with thousands of volts of Taser shells that boast true knockdown power, as Flagg described them. Carrying this, Simon feels both more anxious and less anxious at the same time. He knows how to swing it down from his shoulder, to flick off the safety and chamber a shell. It is a practical, tangible task, a visceral, physical response to fear—when you feel threatened, you shoot—not a placebo or a time-release capsule offering mild sedation. It’s a poker raise, a defiant fuck you to fear itself. The gun as a solution to fear. But also its delivery device.