Survival Island Response!
(A good break from studying for exams, lemme tell ya!)
"This is my response to the Survivor Island sixth challenge. If you like my story, please respond. The player with the most responses will win this challenge."
Hostage Situation
“Ten bucks says it’s the artist.”
“Jesus Christ, Stan. Have a little fucking respect.”
“They can’t hear us.” Officer Cromwell jerked his gun in the direction of the hangar. The ground crew had long since cleared out, leaving only the small white airbus. Beyond it, the hangar opened into a sprawling field; the sky was a vivid, cloudless blue, and if it weren’t for the cop-cars and SWAT teams pocking the near horizon, a kid kite-flying would not be out of place.
His partner sighed, flipping through the flight manifest. There were only six passengers-four male, two female-but any of them could be their man. All they knew was that the pilots were dead-even how was a mystery. A call from the airbus revealed little: a woman explained she wasn’t permitted to say anything except the demands and her name, Viola Colchester. The negotiator hardly had time to whistle “of the Colchesters?” before the connection was cut.
Even then, Cromwell’s partner, Easton, wasn’t so quick to dismiss her. “Even if she’s just an accomplice, Viola might want us to think she’s a victim so she can slip away when this is all over.”
Cromwell frowned, scratching at his stubble. SWAT was moving into place around the perimeter, ready to storm and smoke out everyone inside if it came to that. Cromwell hoped it wouldn’t; the manifest listed two seniors, Frank and Elma O’Reilly, and a kid, Thomas Bradshaw, who was flying solo with asthma. Any one of them might not be able to handle the gas.
“I still say it’s the artist.” He jabbed at the manifest. “Jason Engels. Thirty years old, already been institutionalized twice. The guy’s batshit.”
“Yeah, but the demands aren’t.” Easton nodded to the negotiator, who was deliberating with the chief over how to proceed. Viola had called in three orders: another plane had to be readied for take-off, ten grand needed to be waiting in one of the seats, and Sally Penfield in one of the others. “Extreme, sure, but looks like he’s got a plan. Do crazy people have plans, Stan?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Cromwell. “But double-fuck if we’re going to give him the woman.”
“They doing a background check on her yet?”
“Her and the rest of them, yeah.” He nodded to another hangar. “Meantime they’re getting a plane fueled.”
“Think the perp’s stupid enough to break cover?”
“I think he’s stupid enough to try.”
“Hey!” Cromwell and Easton looked up. Officer Trent approached bearing coffee.
“Thanks Nora,” said Easton, setting a cup on the roof of his cruiser. “What’s the word?”
Trent tipped her hat and nodded to the plane. “Viola’s family says she’s highly unstable and fixated on escape. Practicing medicine illegally in Africa-dropped out of med school to do it, which in my books makes her pretty fucking reckless.”
“And Jason Engels?” Cromwell tried not to sound too eager.
“Jason? Nah, couldn’t be him-he’s drugged up like you wouldn’t believe. On board with his brother, Scott, who’s taking him in until he gets better. The mother says Scott doesn’t want to see him in a nuthouse again, even after all that’s happened between them. I tell ya, that’s some brother Jason’s got.”
“Damn,” said Cromwell. Easton shot him a wry smile. “So who’s got the gun?”
Trent started to reply but suddenly all eyes were on the hangar, where the SWAT team was moving in on the plane. With everyone in position on all sides of the airbus, one shattered a window in the cockpit and threw in the gas.
“Holy shit!” said Cromwell, leaping up from behind the cruiser. “What the hell are they doing? There’s a kid with asthma in there!”
“That’s the point!” Officer Fielding called out from the next car. “Got a match on a Sally Penfield through the kid’s family! Said the kid’s obsessed with her, tried to kill his brother last month when she wouldn’t have him. Mother was sending him to his father, figured he needed a little older male influence!”
“Holy shit,” said Cromwell. He watched as the side door to the airbus opened and Thomas Bradshaw stumbled to the exit, tears in his eyes and gun waving madly. The SWAT team caught him as he fell off the edge, and just like that the crisis was over.
Trent frowned. “But how the hell did he get a gun on board?”
Cromwell’s face lit up and he nudged Easton. “Hey,” he said. “Twenty bucks says it’s not real, and the pilots died from something else.”
“Jesus Christ, Stan-” Easton scowled, then glanced at the plane, where all the hostages had safely been removed-a job well done. He relaxed; even managed a smile. “All right, all right,” he said. “You’re on.”
"This is my response to the Survivor Island sixth challenge. If you like my story, please respond. The player with the most responses will win this challenge."
Hostage Situation
“Ten bucks says it’s the artist.”
“Jesus Christ, Stan. Have a little fucking respect.”
“They can’t hear us.” Officer Cromwell jerked his gun in the direction of the hangar. The ground crew had long since cleared out, leaving only the small white airbus. Beyond it, the hangar opened into a sprawling field; the sky was a vivid, cloudless blue, and if it weren’t for the cop-cars and SWAT teams pocking the near horizon, a kid kite-flying would not be out of place.
His partner sighed, flipping through the flight manifest. There were only six passengers-four male, two female-but any of them could be their man. All they knew was that the pilots were dead-even how was a mystery. A call from the airbus revealed little: a woman explained she wasn’t permitted to say anything except the demands and her name, Viola Colchester. The negotiator hardly had time to whistle “of the Colchesters?” before the connection was cut.
Even then, Cromwell’s partner, Easton, wasn’t so quick to dismiss her. “Even if she’s just an accomplice, Viola might want us to think she’s a victim so she can slip away when this is all over.”
Cromwell frowned, scratching at his stubble. SWAT was moving into place around the perimeter, ready to storm and smoke out everyone inside if it came to that. Cromwell hoped it wouldn’t; the manifest listed two seniors, Frank and Elma O’Reilly, and a kid, Thomas Bradshaw, who was flying solo with asthma. Any one of them might not be able to handle the gas.
“I still say it’s the artist.” He jabbed at the manifest. “Jason Engels. Thirty years old, already been institutionalized twice. The guy’s batshit.”
“Yeah, but the demands aren’t.” Easton nodded to the negotiator, who was deliberating with the chief over how to proceed. Viola had called in three orders: another plane had to be readied for take-off, ten grand needed to be waiting in one of the seats, and Sally Penfield in one of the others. “Extreme, sure, but looks like he’s got a plan. Do crazy people have plans, Stan?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Cromwell. “But double-fuck if we’re going to give him the woman.”
“They doing a background check on her yet?”
“Her and the rest of them, yeah.” He nodded to another hangar. “Meantime they’re getting a plane fueled.”
“Think the perp’s stupid enough to break cover?”
“I think he’s stupid enough to try.”
“Hey!” Cromwell and Easton looked up. Officer Trent approached bearing coffee.
“Thanks Nora,” said Easton, setting a cup on the roof of his cruiser. “What’s the word?”
Trent tipped her hat and nodded to the plane. “Viola’s family says she’s highly unstable and fixated on escape. Practicing medicine illegally in Africa-dropped out of med school to do it, which in my books makes her pretty fucking reckless.”
“And Jason Engels?” Cromwell tried not to sound too eager.
“Jason? Nah, couldn’t be him-he’s drugged up like you wouldn’t believe. On board with his brother, Scott, who’s taking him in until he gets better. The mother says Scott doesn’t want to see him in a nuthouse again, even after all that’s happened between them. I tell ya, that’s some brother Jason’s got.”
“Damn,” said Cromwell. Easton shot him a wry smile. “So who’s got the gun?”
Trent started to reply but suddenly all eyes were on the hangar, where the SWAT team was moving in on the plane. With everyone in position on all sides of the airbus, one shattered a window in the cockpit and threw in the gas.
“Holy shit!” said Cromwell, leaping up from behind the cruiser. “What the hell are they doing? There’s a kid with asthma in there!”
“That’s the point!” Officer Fielding called out from the next car. “Got a match on a Sally Penfield through the kid’s family! Said the kid’s obsessed with her, tried to kill his brother last month when she wouldn’t have him. Mother was sending him to his father, figured he needed a little older male influence!”
“Holy shit,” said Cromwell. He watched as the side door to the airbus opened and Thomas Bradshaw stumbled to the exit, tears in his eyes and gun waving madly. The SWAT team caught him as he fell off the edge, and just like that the crisis was over.
Trent frowned. “But how the hell did he get a gun on board?”
Cromwell’s face lit up and he nudged Easton. “Hey,” he said. “Twenty bucks says it’s not real, and the pilots died from something else.”
“Jesus Christ, Stan-” Easton scowled, then glanced at the plane, where all the hostages had safely been removed-a job well done. He relaxed; even managed a smile. “All right, all right,” he said. “You’re on.”