Got Milk?

*Readers be aware that an active shooting situation is mentioned in this story. Please feel free to skip out on reading it* I used my name, but all other names and places (except NC) are made up.

One moment. One moment was all it took for me to become a 'hero' instead of a young woman trying to buy groceries for the week. My name is Brittnay, and I died today after throwing milk in a man's eyes.

The weekly scrutiny of prices on food should have ended how it always does, buying food to make than going to get fast food for a job well done. I also spent that time thinking of escape scenarios, like most people do, imagining how I would react if there was a sudden attack or bad weather event that targeted the specific headache-inducing, LED-lit Walmart I currently stood in. I wish I had done more strategizing.

Gunshots reverberating through my eardrums as I was trying to decide between name-brand milk or store-brand was disconcerting, to say the least. Yet as I stood in front of the refrigerated doors, my body recognized what was happening before my brain did, flinching down to make a smaller target. Instead of my first thought relating to potential death, I immediately pictured phones lighting up with yet another public shooting event that people would shake their heads at, swipe off their notifications bar with a mutter or two, and then forget about as they hit the next button on their laptops for another video. My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of a small girl crying as her mom tried to quiet her down and move her between aisles. It is strange how in a moment of pure terror, your brain can shut off the panic and instead figure out a plan, just as mine did then. Gunshots continued to echo through the building, getting closer as I ran toward the woman and child.

"Are we going to die?" I met the mother's eyes as I shook my head, having no idea how to comfort her or even answer that question. Instead, I pulled them back towards the refrigerated milk doors, opened one, and shoved back the rolling carts the gallons were placed on. In a moment of pure terror, my brain remembered something that I had always wanted to do as a kid. I ushered the two inside and motioned for the other people I could see in the area. Once everyone I could see had shoved through the door and into the refrigerated room, I went inside and pushed the milk cart back against the door.

"Move to that corner over there, hopefully, no one will see us," My voice came out a hell of a lot calmer than I was currently feeling, but the part of my brain that had always considered exit routes in case of this exact scenario was lit up. "If you are able, open the boxes of milk and gather the gallons. We can throw them or even splash them in the gunman's eyes if they try and come back here. Don't take the milk off the shelves; we don't want to let them see us. Has anyone called 911?" After a moment or two, five of the group stood and started to open the cardboard boxes while another man held his phone up, showing he was currently on the phone with a dispatcher.

"There are seven units already here, but there are at least three gunmen and they can't make their way back here yet. The dispatcher is asking if there is a way to get outside from our position?" Right as I was about to try and open the door on the back wall, there was a large booming sound and all of the lights went out. Worse, I could just make out a figure in all black walking towards our location with a gun propped on his shoulder. The young girl immediately made a sobbing sound and I turned to see her mother cover her mouth and start whispering in her ear. The silence that followed was deafening enough that I could hear the dispatcher asking for an update on our position through the guy's phone. The moment you are faced with the realization that you might actually die, the part of us that once lived on constant adrenaline and death shoves forward. I would like to say that I picked up a weapon and faced the potential attacker without a second thought, but what I actually did was open a gallon of milk and prepare to throw it in the attacker's face. Some small part of me that survived through humor chose that moment to ask, 'Got milk?' right at the same time that I locked eyes with the gunman between gallons of 2%. Well, shit.

"Throw the milk!" If I had known those would be my last words I would have tried to think of some inspiring quote, but instead, I threw myself towards the milk cart as the gunman opened the door to step in. I immediately splashed what I could of the gallon out and toward him, but apparently, milk isn't a long ranged weapon, most of it splashing on his neck and chest. I didn't stop though, instead, I shoved the cart forward and knocked the man off balance. I felt responsible for the people behind me and I wanted to save them, especially the young child now sobbing loudly again. Instinct pushed me into full fight mode and I jumped towards the gun to knock it away from the attacker who let out a few rough curse words. Have you ever watched a television show where the good guy and bad guy were fighting for the gun, the barrel facing harmlessly upwards as the two wrestled, maybe shooting off a few bullets during the struggle? Well, unfortunately for me the gun was facing directly at me as I jumped towards it. I got in a few shoves and felt others jumping onto the gunman from behind me but it took a few minutes of fighting to realize the gun had gone off directly into my chest. My ears rang and I landed on my back facing upwards. Someone leaned over me and started pressing down on my numb chest. As I stared up and watched the LED lights flickering, one of my last thoughts was that I was glad I couldn't feel anything.

*Ding* Today in Marshland, North Carolina four gunmen opened fire within the Walmart on Second Street. Police have confirmed that three of the accused gunmen are in custody while another is escorted by police to the nearby emergency room. At least 5 people are confirmed dead with 12 seriously injured...

~~~

I never thought that death would sound like beeping if I am honest. I also didn't think I would feel the worst of all headaches, yet here we are.

"I can't believe people were killed in Walmart, I was going to head over after my shift." That was also unexpected. I slowly opened my eyes to try and find where the voice had come from only to see a nurse dressed in maroon scrubs standing beside the bed I was on. She seemed just as surprised if the widening of her eyes was any indication. "You're awake! Great, I will be right back with the doctor!" As she rushed out I noticed another nurse standing beside a whiteboard. He was writing something on it when he noticed my attention.

"Are you in any pain? I can't really give you anything right now but I will make sure the doctor knows." His gentle smile surprised me into nodding.

"My head is pounding," Damn, my voice was scratchy.

"Understandable," I watched as he added it to the board of notes on the wall, and just as I was about to ask about it, the nurse from earlier came walking in with an older woman.

"How are you feeling? Is there any pain or discomfort?" I assumed she was the doctor so I told her the same thing I said to the male nurse. She nodded and then sat on the chair beside my bed. "The police are going to want to speak to you, can you do that? As your doctor, I can keep them away for a few more hours since you were knocked unconscious. Unfortunately, I can't keep them away forever, but I can try my best." I had never been much of a crier, but for some reason, my eyes immediately began to water at the way she was talking to me. It brought back everything that happened to the forefront of my mind and I grabbed at my chest causing the doctor to frown.

"Are you feeling pain in your chest?" When she brought her stethoscope down onto my skin, the coldness of it made me jump. "Your heart is beating fairly quickly. Are you feeling panicked right now?" Of freaking course, I was feeling panicky. I had been shot in the chest!

"I was shot, what happened," part of me still noticed the difference in my voice, but it was probably just hoarse since I had been unconscious. The doctor frowned and turned to the nurses who seemed just as surprised. Had they not noticed the bullet hole?

"The only observation made of her chest is a scar that resembles a decade-old bullet wound." The confusion on my face must have been as obvious as his because the doctor frowned again.

"You said you were shot, did that happen today at the Walmart?" I nodded and the older woman continued to frown and motioned for the chart. After several moments she turned back to me. "We didn't find any trauma except for the mild concussion that caused you to fall unconscious. From what I understand, you were covered in blood, but we couldn't find any injuries. We assumed it was from the gunman after he got shot by police. Would it be alright if I took a look at the scar on your chest?" Numbly, I nodded and she gently pulled the gown I was wearing until she could see the raised scar on the left side of my chest. We both frowned at it, especially after she prodded it in a few spots and sat back. "This scar is at least five or more years old. Maybe you thought you were shot when you fell?" I didn't answer, still looking at the scar I definitely had not had before I went to the store. If the doctor wasn't also confused, I would have accepted some new genius method of surgery, but the look on her face told me we hadn't advanced that far overnight.

"No, I was shot and I didn't have his scar before." She shared a look with the nurses before turning back to me.

"Alright, I am going to go speak with the police. Before I go, could you tell us your name?"

"Brittnay Laster," She nodded and left the room followed by the two nurses after they gave me a mild pain reliever. An hour later I was still spiraling when the need to use the bathroom won out over my need to not move in case my chest decided to burst open. After very carefully standing, I was surprised when I didn't fall to the ground. Instead, I only felt as though I had been lying down for several hours. A knock at the door surprised me a bit and as it opened I told the officers I would use the restroom and be right out.

Two things happened at once, I caught ahold of my reflection at the same time the policeman asked me for my name. This time when I hit the floor I wasn't numb. Oh, and I had blue hair.

~~~ Several hours later

Police custody wasn't as bad as how crime shows liked to portray it. The two officers didn't handcuff me when I was released from the hospital, and they took me to a room that looked a lot like my grandmother's living room, coffee and all. Plus, they ensured I was comfortable before asking me a million questions. Questions I also did not have the answers for.

"When I left my house yesterday morning I was a brunette with some extra weight that threw milk into a gunman's neck. Now I am a healthy-weight individual with blue hair and a scar. Did the hospital accidentally give me weight-loss therapy and a dye job?" Normally the physically fit figure in the mirror would have thrilled me, I had been trying to lose weight for years in an attempt to control my back pain with little success. Plus, I had blue hair in the past and thoroughly enjoyed it, but the upkeep was a pain so I dyed it back. The officers looked just as confused as I did, which didn't give me much confidence. Instead, the older officer leaned back and gave me the universal look for what the hell.

"If the bloodwork hadn't matched you to Brittnay Laster's bloodwork on file I would not be speaking to you right now. Her, your, history doesn't show anything about a previous gunshot wound and our medical professional finds it hard to believe you would have survived a shot to your chest right over your heart. Not only that but officers found Ms. Laster in a pool of blood, dead from a gunshot to the exact same spot. Yet when emergency paramedics arrived, you were lying there breathing with only a minor concussion, blue hair, and all. No one witnessed a body swap, and witnesses claim Ms. Laster saved them from the gunman when he attempted to enter the refrigerated room they were hidden in. In the space of the five minutes Ms. Laster's body was left unaccompanied, she became you. Camera footage was cut by a small bomb left by the attackers in the power room and generators only powered emergency lights. Can you see why we are confused by this situation?" Once the apparent detective finished his analysis I met his eyes and did the only thing I could. I shrugged.

"Sir, I am currently trying not to hyperventilate. Not only am I sitting here, not dead as you so politely stated, I feel the healthiest I ever have. My back isn't throbbing from sitting and lying down all day and night when normally it would be throbbing with a dull ache I've had since my back surgery and my breathing feels complete instead of mostly complete. I should be wrapped in covers screaming but instead, I am sitting here with you while we stare at each other without answers. So yes, I can see why you are confused, but do you see why I feel like I have been body swapped into the same yet completely different body?" I met his eyes as I took a sip of my bland coffee. A few moments later there was a knock on the door and the officers stood to leave.

"I understand and we will get to the bottom of this," His words should have been comforting but they felt like a thinly veiled threat.

What felt like an eternity later, a man and woman walked into the room in fancy suits. I stared at them as they took a seat, a small part of me worrying I was meeting the men in black.

"Hello, Ms. Laster. My name is Agent Richards and this is Agent Bowman, we were wondering if we might speak with you for a moment?" The woman, Detective Richards, reached forward to shake my hand. After introductions and permission from me, they both seemed to settle back into their chairs, and my suspicion that they were the men in black grew. Were they about to accuse me of being some kind of alien body swapper?

"We understand you must be confused and nervous, but I think we can help you."

~~~

Hours later I stared out of the plane window I had found myself seated in and tried to make sense of what the very understanding and patient agents had told me. Not only had I apparently been Doctor Who'd (regenerated into a new body) but I was also something that they compared to a Valkyrie from Norse Myth, a warrior given a second life when they died saving people in battle. Not only did I not feel like a warrior, but my weapon into this second life had been a gallon of milk, which at best gave your bones some calcium and at worse made my stomach feel like it was the one at war. Oh, and there were dozens of others like me in the world and we were all going to make up some dollar tree brand Avengers. Goody.