darkness once more
As far as hostage situations went, this seemed to be a particularly bad one. It was not, however, in as bad shape as the man actually holding the hostages, as well as a rather mean-looking pistol. If "train wreck" ever described a person, he was that person. His eyes, in addition to twitching fairly regularly, were so bloodshot that they seemed more like a comic portrayal of eyes than any sort of functional body part, and his clothes looked as though they'd been both worn and worn out for several days. In defiance of his appearance, the man had proven himself a good marksman, having already fired at several perceived and actual police attempts to start some sort of action against him.
The hostage situation was not so bad as not to have any hostages (a scenario which the local police regularly joked about), and these particular hostages were sitting in a huddled group in one corner of the college coffeehouse. Steve (as the man had introduced himself to the police when he first told them that he would kill a hostage an hour until his demands were met) had told the students that as long as they behaved themselves, none of them would have to die, and that motivation had inspired very behaved attitudes from the formerly exuberant group of friends.
"I'm scared," one sniffled to another.
"I am, too," the other whispered back. "Are we really totally helpless? It's been 58 minutes already. I think he's serious."
Someone--no one was ever sure who--mumbled wonderingly, "How many bullets could he possibly have left after all that shooting?"
One boy in the group looked intently at Steve, who himself was looking intently out a window, possibly skimming the police for potential threats, possibly counting news vans. "I recognize the gun model, but I can't remember how many shots he's fired." Everyone put their heads together, and they came to a conclusion. Steve only had one bullet left for the clip.
"Great," someone else whispered, half-relieved, "all we have to do is wait for the police to do something again, then they'll be able to take him down, because he'll have no more bullets, right?"
The boy who recognized the gun shook his head. "He'd be stupid not to have brought extra clips, especially the way he's been shooting at every little creak."
Someone new spoke with his head down. "So you guys charge him after he's out."
"'You guys?' What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I'll be in no condition to do it myself." He slowly lifted his head to meet the eyes of all of his friends, then stood up.
Steve had been thinking about where he could shoot the first hostage so that the TV crews could see it best. It was the popping of the boy's knees that broke his concentration. He'd gotten used to the students talking, but this noise was new and different. He waved the gun menacingly, telling the boy to sit back down with the others, but the boy just kept walking quickly toward him. Well, she always said I could never be decisive. This is where I prove her wrong. Then she'll come back to me. Steve pointed the gun at the boy's chest and squeezed the trigger.
For the people oustide, everything happened quickly. They couldn't see much over the police blockade, and it was a bright, sunny day, so the inside of the coffeehouse was obscured by their own reflections. They could tell when someone moved, though. It looked as though someone was walking towards the guy with the gun. There was a bright flash from another part of the room, then the sound of a gunshot. Everything was panic after that.
For the students inside, everything happened slowly. With every step their classmate took toward Steve, they prayed that what they thought was about to happen wouldn't. They knew what they'd have to do afterwards, and though it meant they would be safe again, they couldn't imagine getting it this way. They heard the sound of the pistol firing... then the sound of the pistol's slide locking back... then the sharp, metallic sound of the spent shell bouncing off of a table top. Everything was action after that.
For the boy, everything happened in darkness. From the moment he felt the impact of the bullet push him down, he'd had his eyes closed. He barely knew when he hit the floor. There was no pain, just a warmth that was spreading across his chest. He could hear the battlecries of his fellow students, followed by the soft thuds of their fists and feet demonstrating what they thought of Steve's treatment of them. He could hear, closer, something that sounded like a girl crying, followed by the feeling of warm drops falling on his face.
"You idiot," she sobbed. "You stupid, dumb, idiot. Why did you do it? Why did you do it?"
He could feel her wiping some his own spattered blood off of his face, and, before everything inside faded to black, he thought, I had to. For the people I love, I had to.
The hostage situation was not so bad as not to have any hostages (a scenario which the local police regularly joked about), and these particular hostages were sitting in a huddled group in one corner of the college coffeehouse. Steve (as the man had introduced himself to the police when he first told them that he would kill a hostage an hour until his demands were met) had told the students that as long as they behaved themselves, none of them would have to die, and that motivation had inspired very behaved attitudes from the formerly exuberant group of friends.
"I'm scared," one sniffled to another.
"I am, too," the other whispered back. "Are we really totally helpless? It's been 58 minutes already. I think he's serious."
Someone--no one was ever sure who--mumbled wonderingly, "How many bullets could he possibly have left after all that shooting?"
One boy in the group looked intently at Steve, who himself was looking intently out a window, possibly skimming the police for potential threats, possibly counting news vans. "I recognize the gun model, but I can't remember how many shots he's fired." Everyone put their heads together, and they came to a conclusion. Steve only had one bullet left for the clip.
"Great," someone else whispered, half-relieved, "all we have to do is wait for the police to do something again, then they'll be able to take him down, because he'll have no more bullets, right?"
The boy who recognized the gun shook his head. "He'd be stupid not to have brought extra clips, especially the way he's been shooting at every little creak."
Someone new spoke with his head down. "So you guys charge him after he's out."
"'You guys?' What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I'll be in no condition to do it myself." He slowly lifted his head to meet the eyes of all of his friends, then stood up.
Steve had been thinking about where he could shoot the first hostage so that the TV crews could see it best. It was the popping of the boy's knees that broke his concentration. He'd gotten used to the students talking, but this noise was new and different. He waved the gun menacingly, telling the boy to sit back down with the others, but the boy just kept walking quickly toward him. Well, she always said I could never be decisive. This is where I prove her wrong. Then she'll come back to me. Steve pointed the gun at the boy's chest and squeezed the trigger.
For the people oustide, everything happened quickly. They couldn't see much over the police blockade, and it was a bright, sunny day, so the inside of the coffeehouse was obscured by their own reflections. They could tell when someone moved, though. It looked as though someone was walking towards the guy with the gun. There was a bright flash from another part of the room, then the sound of a gunshot. Everything was panic after that.
For the students inside, everything happened slowly. With every step their classmate took toward Steve, they prayed that what they thought was about to happen wouldn't. They knew what they'd have to do afterwards, and though it meant they would be safe again, they couldn't imagine getting it this way. They heard the sound of the pistol firing... then the sound of the pistol's slide locking back... then the sharp, metallic sound of the spent shell bouncing off of a table top. Everything was action after that.
For the boy, everything happened in darkness. From the moment he felt the impact of the bullet push him down, he'd had his eyes closed. He barely knew when he hit the floor. There was no pain, just a warmth that was spreading across his chest. He could hear the battlecries of his fellow students, followed by the soft thuds of their fists and feet demonstrating what they thought of Steve's treatment of them. He could hear, closer, something that sounded like a girl crying, followed by the feeling of warm drops falling on his face.
"You idiot," she sobbed. "You stupid, dumb, idiot. Why did you do it? Why did you do it?"
He could feel her wiping some his own spattered blood off of his face, and, before everything inside faded to black, he thought, I had to. For the people I love, I had to.