“Terminator,” indestructible? The murderer’s weapon lowered, aimed straight at him. He saw the muzzle flash, a terrible shock struck him in the back. His lower body went numb.
Armor, he has body armor! Bob was in that instant inwardly amazed that he could recognize such a thing as he looked up, saw his opponent drawing closer, weapon at the shoulder, aiming down to deliver a killing shot to his head before moving on to murder more children.
Bob pointed his pistol straight up and squeezed off the last round, his bullet striking his foe just below the left eye, killing him instantly, so that the jihadist staggered backwards and collapsed into the room where he had been so gleefully slaughtering the defenseless but seconds earlier.
Bob laid in shock for long seconds, empty pistol aimed at the recumbent body across the school corridor, the legs of his enemy twitching spasmodically for several seconds before going still. He kept the pistol aimed at him, not yet registering that the slide of his pistol was fully back, indicating his weapon was empty. When he did realize it, there was a brief thought to look about on the floor for the single unfired cartridge he had ejected earlier. The floor around him was slick with blood. It was not registering yet that it was his own blood commingled with the blood of his enemy from his first shot to the jaw.
There was silence in the building except for the wailing cry of the fire alarm. Was there any way to turn that damn thing off? he wondered. Sprinklers in the hallway were still spraying out a mist of water, diluting the rivulets of blood seeping out of the scores of children, the principal, and the two teachers lying dead in the corridor.
More firing, thundering loud from down by the administrative area. He dared to peek out from the cover of the doorway. No jihadist was in sight but there was someone firing from that area, while from outside the building he heard sirens and what sounded like more gunfire.
A shadow, a dark face covered with a ski mask, appeared at the end of the hallway, shouting something that he assumed was Arabic. A query, an order? Another call. A sparkle-like effect appeared on the wall above him. Bullets fired from outside were impacting above the killer. The face disappeared and a couple of seconds later there was a sustained burst of automatic fire in reply.
Bob continued to look down the corridor. Was that the pathetic looking body of Mr. Carl in the middle of the hallway, blank eyes staring at him with warning, reproach, or orders to keep going, to keep fighting back?
He had seen three killers storming his building. Three against five hundred and thirty children and thirty-seven adults. He had without doubt dropped one of the killers, but that meant that two remained.
Chechnya. This was not some random act of madness. This was a well-planned attack by jihadists. Their mission was to kill as many defenseless innocents as possible before they themselves were taken to paradise. They were remorseless murderers. There would be no negotiating, for negotiating simply bought time to inflict more killing. He recalled a discussion on a news channel, a commentator who was bitterly denounced by various “friendship with Islam” organizations afterwards quoting their Koran, that ultimately negotiations with infidels were simply a ploy until true believers gained control and then the infidels were to submit or die. All bargaining was a sham, for each bargain would be a step backwards. The only way he could bargain now was to somehow get a weapon and continue to fight back.
Two killers still at large in his school and he had an empty gun. A complete sense of impotence overwhelmed him for a moment. At least his daughter’s class had gotten out. Wendy? He did not even know if she had made it through the kill zone or not and the thought of that filled him with rage.
Bastards. Damn cowardly bastards. Target us, the adults in the Trade Center and the
Armor, he has body armor! Bob was in that instant inwardly amazed that he could recognize such a thing as he looked up, saw his opponent drawing closer, weapon at the shoulder, aiming down to deliver a killing shot to his head before moving on to murder more children.
Bob pointed his pistol straight up and squeezed off the last round, his bullet striking his foe just below the left eye, killing him instantly, so that the jihadist staggered backwards and collapsed into the room where he had been so gleefully slaughtering the defenseless but seconds earlier.
Bob laid in shock for long seconds, empty pistol aimed at the recumbent body across the school corridor, the legs of his enemy twitching spasmodically for several seconds before going still. He kept the pistol aimed at him, not yet registering that the slide of his pistol was fully back, indicating his weapon was empty. When he did realize it, there was a brief thought to look about on the floor for the single unfired cartridge he had ejected earlier. The floor around him was slick with blood. It was not registering yet that it was his own blood commingled with the blood of his enemy from his first shot to the jaw.
There was silence in the building except for the wailing cry of the fire alarm. Was there any way to turn that damn thing off? he wondered. Sprinklers in the hallway were still spraying out a mist of water, diluting the rivulets of blood seeping out of the scores of children, the principal, and the two teachers lying dead in the corridor.
More firing, thundering loud from down by the administrative area. He dared to peek out from the cover of the doorway. No jihadist was in sight but there was someone firing from that area, while from outside the building he heard sirens and what sounded like more gunfire.
A shadow, a dark face covered with a ski mask, appeared at the end of the hallway, shouting something that he assumed was Arabic. A query, an order? Another call. A sparkle-like effect appeared on the wall above him. Bullets fired from outside were impacting above the killer. The face disappeared and a couple of seconds later there was a sustained burst of automatic fire in reply.
Bob continued to look down the corridor. Was that the pathetic looking body of Mr. Carl in the middle of the hallway, blank eyes staring at him with warning, reproach, or orders to keep going, to keep fighting back?
He had seen three killers storming his building. Three against five hundred and thirty children and thirty-seven adults. He had without doubt dropped one of the killers, but that meant that two remained.
Chechnya. This was not some random act of madness. This was a well-planned attack by jihadists. Their mission was to kill as many defenseless innocents as possible before they themselves were taken to paradise. They were remorseless murderers. There would be no negotiating, for negotiating simply bought time to inflict more killing. He recalled a discussion on a news channel, a commentator who was bitterly denounced by various “friendship with Islam” organizations afterwards quoting their Koran, that ultimately negotiations with infidels were simply a ploy until true believers gained control and then the infidels were to submit or die. All bargaining was a sham, for each bargain would be a step backwards. The only way he could bargain now was to somehow get a weapon and continue to fight back.
Two killers still at large in his school and he had an empty gun. A complete sense of impotence overwhelmed him for a moment. At least his daughter’s class had gotten out. Wendy? He did not even know if she had made it through the kill zone or not and the thought of that filled him with rage.
Bastards. Damn cowardly bastards. Target us, the adults in the Trade Center and the
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