Open Carry

A Cautionary Tale for Gun Toting Teens

Phillip T Stephens

Mar 8, 2018·8 min read

Hunter infuriated his father when he left his gun at home. He attended James Butler Hickok High, Texas’ first open carry high school. Guns were the students’ best defense against school shootings.

Today, however, his forgetfulness saved his life.

Hunter closed his backpack. “Goddam it.”
He left his gun home again. A Taurus Millennium. He imagined his father’s lecture: “What’s the point of open carry if you don’t carry?” He never forgave Hunter for not wearing his birthday present, a concealed holster. Saddle leather, back of the belt, ambidextrous, two clip holders. Cost the old man $200, a figure he tossed out each time he walked into Hunter’s room and found it hanging in the closet.
His girlfriend Janet and her best friend Jai passed a roach under the fig tree next to the tennis courts. Hunter lifted his pack over his shoulder and joined the huddle. Janet passed the nubbin with the tips of her extensions. White Widow. Super hard to find in Texas, but Jai hooked up with a writer for Queer Fashion over Christmas break and cultivated that connection.
Jane’s eyes sparkled like cloudless blue skies. “Good day. No guns.”
“None on the horizon.” Hunter wu-banged the roach, doused it with his tongue and swallowed.
He pictured his old man eavesdropping. “What kind of pussy talk is that?”
What could you expect from a man who named his son “Hunter?” (His mother told him the old man wanted to name him “Thor.” She threatened to abort Hunter before naming him Thor.)
The old man didn’t have to cart Hunter’s gun from class to class, tucked into his ass. Sit in a school desk with the barrel poking his coccyx. Easier to carry it in his backpack. Except two or three times a month he’d put it on his desk while rummaging through the backpack. Forget to put it back.
Not that he’d ever need it.
Hunter attended James Butler Hickok High, Texas’ first open carry high school, founded by the legislature after a three month span with high school shootings in Louisiana, Montana, Mississippi, Alabama and even Alaska. States with lots of guns. More guns per capita than Texas.
Hunter attended James Butler Hickok High, Texas’ first open carry high school, founded by the legislature after a three month span with high school shootings.
Which meant Texas needed more guns, more guns in schools, and — most of all — students armed with guns. The Lieutenant Governor ran TV ads throughout the state. “No terrorist will carry a weapon into a classroom where thirty students and their teacher shoot back.”
Niles, the Flintlocks’ quarterback, jogged across the green. He fell into place at Hunter’s shoulder, and tugged the sleeves to show off his brand new letter jacket. “Did you hear Principal Faschler wants to replace Government with Second Amendment Class?”
Niles wore a drill team pin in the center of his football letter. Not girls’ drill team. Military drill team. Next to it he pinned a skull with a bullet hole. Next to that, Cthulu. He ordered both pins online.
Jai slipped a package into Niles’ pocket. “I told Ms. Spengler I’d bare arms for the talent show, and my whole chest too. She thought a monologue on gun rights was a great idea.”
Fifty yards away the contractors were finishing the gun range next to the football field. Principal Faschler lobbied the school board to add gun safety and target practice to next year’s curriculum. The school banner flew above the field — crossed flintlock muskets over a red shield. A proud display of the school’s colors: Confederate crimson and gray.
The school banner flew above the field — crossed flintlock muskets over a red shield. A proud display of the school’s colors: Confederate crimson and gray.
Two months into the spring semester, no gunman had opened fire on Hickok’s students. Proof, to his old man and the Lt. Governor, of the high school’s success. Proof of the law of averages, the superintendent who opposed the school said at every school board meeting.
Hunter and Janet followed the 8:50 warning bell to their English class. They crossed the entryway and into the academics building. Faux marble decorated the entryway, carved with the words: “Armata est paratus.” [1]
Hunter pushed ahead to hold the door for Janet. Her hand rested flat against the smudged window pane, the victims of students trying to push their ways through before the door slammed shut.
The second bell rang. Janet’s brows creased. She stared past his shoulder. “What the f…?”
The shout “mother fucker” smothered her voice. Shrill, as though the speaker’s balls had yet to fall. A single report echoed through the hall. Her brows, the shout, the report intersected in a quantum instant.
Janet stared past Hunter’s shoulder. “What the f…?” The shout “mother fucker” smothered her voice. A single report echoed through the hall. Her stare, the shout, the report intersected in a quantum instant.
Hunter grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the door, past the board and under the teacher’s desk. Jai remained in the hall. Before the door slammed shut, Hunter glimpsed him whipping his Colt defender from its side holster.
A dozen shots answered the first. Then a cannonade of gunfire echoed the length of the building. Bullets shattered the cinder block walls and whistled past to blow out the windows.
Hunter turned his back toward the hallway and pushed Janet’s hair from her white face. “Johnny Ledbetter,” she said. He leaned closer to hear. “Pulled his gun and fired. For no reason.”
The door opened. Niles and Jai backed into the room. Niles ejected his clip and slammed another into place. Jai fired twice. They kicked the door shut and crouched, trying to narrow their profile.
The rhythm of gunfire drummed locker doors, steel doors, cinder block and concrete. The door slammed into the wall. Ferris Muller stepped into the frame and took two shots. One to his hip, one to his shoulder. He lifted his good arm, his gun arm, and shot Niles in the chest. Jai dropped him in the doorway and reached for Nile’s gun.
Two sophomores leaped over Muller’s body, dropped to their knees and pulled their triggers. Jai fell in their crossfire. The shorter one, with the buzz cut, called, “room clear?” Before his partner could answer two girls from the track team took both out in a six round burst. The redhead pointed toward the stairs with her barrel. “That way.”
Seconds later, two debaters passed the door, chasing the girls. They had yet to win a debate in competition, and blamed the liberals. One of them lifted his Mark 12 and released a series of short bursts. Bodies collided with the wall outside the room.
Two debaters passed the door, chasing the girls. They had yet to win a debate and blamed the liberals. One of them lifted his Mark 12 and released a series of short bursts. Bodies collided with the wall outside the room.
Hunter squeezed Janet’s hand. Her skin lost color, temperature dropped. He pulled her macrame vest aside. “Christ, you’re shot.” The blood seeped through her blouse, a rust red river rushing down her waistband. He pulled his spare t-shirt from his backpack, the one he always carried because he spilled milk on his shirts at lunch. He pressed against her abdomen.
“Press down.”
No answer. He pressed harder even though he knew she no longer needed his help.
Sirens blared, tires latched onto the parking lot pavement. Doors slammed. Hunter glanced at his Apple Watch. The one his old man called a fag’s watch. Trendy crap that only Jai would piss good money to buy.
8:57. Two minutes since the second bell.
“Drop your weapons. We’re entering the building armed.”
A few seconds of silence then a shot sounded from the second floor. A barrage responded from the parking lot. Tear gas canisters sailed through the window. One rolled in front of the desk. Hunter pressed his face into Janet’s blouse, her blood still warm.
Boots rattled on the hallway floors. The firefight intensified. Then silence. Silence and finally the class bell. 9:00. Time to open books.
Today’s lesson? Something Shakespeare.

The President called it a “terrorist massacre.”
The Senate Majority Leader conferred with NRA lobbyists and called for legislation to allow “more training and deputizing of teachers and select senior students to make sure the response is adequate.”
Psychologists explained that when gunfire erupts, people panic. Those who return fire are just as likely to kill someone by accident as they are to stop the real shooter. But psychologists aren’t experts on guns and their opinions carried no weight.
Psychologists explained that when gunfire erupts, people panic. Those who return fire are just as likely to kill someone by accident as they are to stop the real shooter. But psychologists aren’t experts on guns and their opinions carried no weight.
Police sorted through the carnage for three days. None of the teachers survived. Only two pulled their guns from their holsters even though the staff trained for two weeks the previous summer. Seven students lived through the carnage. They hid when the shooting started. None returned fire.
Police said hiding saved their lives since they didn’t draw the shooters’ attention.
After a six-week investigation, police admitted every shooter was a student. No lone gunman walked onto campus and opened fire. How did they know? The only bodies were students and teachers. Surveillance cameras turned up no faces that didn’t belong.
Who was the first shooter?
Hunter reported Janet’s story, that Johnny Ledbetter fired first.
Why did he shoot? Police doubted they’d uncover a motive. But Hunter’s uncle was a first responder and ead the investigation. He told Hunter’s old man that Barrett Cantor’s father gave gave him a Desert Eagle for his birthday. Cantor drew it from his holster to show his friends and Ledbetter thought he planned to shoot a classmate.
Barrett Cantor’s father gave gave him a Desert Eagle for his birthday. Cantor drew it from his holster to show his friends and Ledbetter thought he planned to shoot a classmate.
Hunter’s old man accused his uncle of a cover-up. To keep the liberals happy. They never spoke again.
Hunter suffered through Janet’s funeral, Niles’ funeral, and Jai’s. Then forty more. Funerals of teammates, classmates, teachers. A handful of the services scheduled.
His old man gave him a Colt Python for his birthday. Gold inlay and wood grain grip. “Bet you won’t leave this baby on your desk.”
Hunter drove to Mourning Lake. Rented a boat. Rowed to the center. Dropped the Python, the Taurus and the holster over the side. The ripple passed under the bow, but after it passed, the water settled into a corpselike stillness.