really true, where was the righteous anger now? In the same way Christians by the tens of thousands rose up in anger against the evils of the Westboro Church that harassed the families of dead soldiers returning home in caskets from the Middle East, and taunted gays and anyone who was different?
He had enough of an interest in history to recall, even in these few seconds, Winston Churchill’s sarcastic response and warnings against the appeasement of his nation’s leader in 1938 and the terrible price it would eventually cost Great Britain and the free world.
And that price had now come due again, literally in the corridors of his school, his daughter’s school, and he was at the very tip of the spear of that price. And now he prayed that in the next few seconds he could do something, anything, to slow them down, to buy time and, if need be, to die, to die well doing what was right.
He checked on Patty, who was guiding her charges up and out of the shattered window, encouraging each to run the moment they hit the ground. To his horror, he saw two of them drop, caught in the gunfire raging outside the building, but the others were making it through. It did not take a trained expert to know that a moving target was infinitely harder to hit than one cowering in a corner or lying prone on the floor. If some of them were getting through, it was better than waiting here for certain death.
Patty’s gaze caught his eye as she helped the last child up to the window before climbing out herself. She was crying, staring straight at him.
“God be with you, Bob,” she mouthed the words, nearly silent, then turned to drop out the window behind the last of her children.
There were six more classrooms down the long hall beyond the one he was holed up in, plus the room across the hallway where the murderer was finishing off the last of his victims. He prayed that the teachers in those rooms had followed Patty’s lead, but knew they had not. One was Margaret Redding’s classroom. Last he had seen her, she was cowering in the faculty lounge, her teaching assistant left in charge of the classroom. That poor, harried elderly woman was afraid of her own shadow and would follow every order by Margaret, which would include ordering the children to lie down as sheep and await slaughter.
He saw no other children sprinting across the playground. There was no view to the other side of the building but he had to assume that far too many classrooms still had victims waiting for their executioner, who would call out to his alleged god as he put a 9mm bullet into the head of each child before moving on to the next room. He could hear the sirens outside, the thumping of at least one helicopter which he hoped would bring succor. He did not know that it was a news helicopter filming and transmitting the insanity rather than a SWAT team, which, in reality, was still forming up in downtown Portland and not yet in the air.
The shooting and screams in the room across the hallway stopped. The fire alarm was still wailing its incessant numbing shriek, sprinklers continuing to douse the corridor. He was down flat on the floor at the doorway, pistol raised, aimed at the open doorway across the hall. He kept going over in his head the training he had received for the concealed permit: breathe in, half exhale, aim and squeeze… breathe in, half exhale. But it did not still the hyperventilation of fear and nervousness. Three bullets, I've got three bullets. He has hundreds. Breathe, half exhale. Hail Mary, full of grace…
He started to pray, though it had been years since he last attended mass, on the day he and Kathy married.
A tall, dark shadow appeared in the doorway across the hall.
Now!
He squeezed off two rounds, aimed straight at the chest, the center of the body. The shadow staggered backwards for a moment but then just came forward toward the doorway where Bob was waiting. A flash moment of terror. What in hell was this, the
He had enough of an interest in history to recall, even in these few seconds, Winston Churchill’s sarcastic response and warnings against the appeasement of his nation’s leader in 1938 and the terrible price it would eventually cost Great Britain and the free world.
And that price had now come due again, literally in the corridors of his school, his daughter’s school, and he was at the very tip of the spear of that price. And now he prayed that in the next few seconds he could do something, anything, to slow them down, to buy time and, if need be, to die, to die well doing what was right.
He checked on Patty, who was guiding her charges up and out of the shattered window, encouraging each to run the moment they hit the ground. To his horror, he saw two of them drop, caught in the gunfire raging outside the building, but the others were making it through. It did not take a trained expert to know that a moving target was infinitely harder to hit than one cowering in a corner or lying prone on the floor. If some of them were getting through, it was better than waiting here for certain death.
Patty’s gaze caught his eye as she helped the last child up to the window before climbing out herself. She was crying, staring straight at him.
“God be with you, Bob,” she mouthed the words, nearly silent, then turned to drop out the window behind the last of her children.
There were six more classrooms down the long hall beyond the one he was holed up in, plus the room across the hallway where the murderer was finishing off the last of his victims. He prayed that the teachers in those rooms had followed Patty’s lead, but knew they had not. One was Margaret Redding’s classroom. Last he had seen her, she was cowering in the faculty lounge, her teaching assistant left in charge of the classroom. That poor, harried elderly woman was afraid of her own shadow and would follow every order by Margaret, which would include ordering the children to lie down as sheep and await slaughter.
He saw no other children sprinting across the playground. There was no view to the other side of the building but he had to assume that far too many classrooms still had victims waiting for their executioner, who would call out to his alleged god as he put a 9mm bullet into the head of each child before moving on to the next room. He could hear the sirens outside, the thumping of at least one helicopter which he hoped would bring succor. He did not know that it was a news helicopter filming and transmitting the insanity rather than a SWAT team, which, in reality, was still forming up in downtown Portland and not yet in the air.
The shooting and screams in the room across the hallway stopped. The fire alarm was still wailing its incessant numbing shriek, sprinklers continuing to douse the corridor. He was down flat on the floor at the doorway, pistol raised, aimed at the open doorway across the hall. He kept going over in his head the training he had received for the concealed permit: breathe in, half exhale, aim and squeeze… breathe in, half exhale. But it did not still the hyperventilation of fear and nervousness. Three bullets, I've got three bullets. He has hundreds. Breathe, half exhale. Hail Mary, full of grace…
He started to pray, though it had been years since he last attended mass, on the day he and Kathy married.
A tall, dark shadow appeared in the doorway across the hall.
Now!
He squeezed off two rounds, aimed straight at the chest, the center of the body. The shadow staggered backwards for a moment but then just came forward toward the doorway where Bob was waiting. A flash moment of terror. What in hell was this, the
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