down and entangling her legs with his. They both fell and were nearly trampled by the spreading crowd. With unusual agility, he kicked and wriggled his way out of her grip and quickly stood up. Preston was no longer standing next to the podium. Allan screamed and ran towards the balcony like a hunter bounding to his wounded prey, his gun hand pointing straight up. The kill-shot was still possible, he thought. The reporters and onlookers quickly gave him a wide berth, opening a path directly to the staircase.
Micky stood up and motioned to the policemen behind her.
Clay buried his fist into his opponent’s teeth like a jackhammer, punctuating the rightness of opinion.
Peryson ran back out to the balcony, staring in disbelief at seeing Max and Preston huddled on the floor behind the podium.
Lilian and Darienne stood just outside the police perimeter, unable to express their fear in words.
Allan Henderson ran up the steps as if he was carrying the Olympic torch to victory, his gun hand raised high in triumph. He stretched his strides wide, skipping steps as he ascended to the balcony. As he neared the top, he felt what seemed like wet bean bags pummeling his body from behind, stinging through his jacket like the powerful lawn sprinklers he ran through earlier. He felt weaker with each step, and decided to pause to look at this warm, gushing fluid flowing through his clothes. He ran his fingers cautiously through his new apron of blood, and felt several strategically placed bullet holes cratering his trunk and legs. A deafening woman’s scream resonated around him, forcing him to cup his ears in pain. He glanced at the top of the balcony, then quickly wheeled around behind him. A row of policemen below stood ready, their guns drawn and aimed for their own kill-shot. Allan Henderson was now their target.
“Don’t shoot,” he screamed with a half-smile. “I’m a science teacher.”
He kept his gun hand pointed up. There was now more than urine and tears coating his body. He could taste the distinct flavor of iron on his tongue.
“Lower your weapon,” he could hear God saying. “Lower your weapon or we will open fire.” And Allan knew the Almighty never lied.
It was so cold standing on those steps, and he barely had time to enjoy the view of the rolling lawns or the balmy Bay breeze blowing across his hair. The woman’s screaming had stopped, and he laughed when he realized it was coming from him.
“Lower your weapon,” the divine voice repeated.
Allan Henderson dropped both his hands with a slap. He continuously blinked his eyes to regain his focus, but that didn’t help. They fell into a half-droop, with everything in front of him swirling into a blur. He knew he wasn’t drunk anymore, otherwise, he wouldn’t be feeling so much pain. He tilted his head to one side and smiled.
“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” he said to himself. He was a scientist, after all. Now he was going to experience first-hand how it would feel like to be shot and killed. He always imagined himself to go out in a blaze of glory, to attack the enemy in defiance and take as many of the bastards as he could with him.
Except this was not a movie, and he was a coward.
He quietly gave himself a countdown from ten. He was a man of science, so he didn’t believe in faith or prayer. Tears dripped like syrup from his eyes.
Allan Henderson swung himself around in a pirouette and aimed his revolver at the balcony. His finger barely touched the trigger when his vision, sensation, and life went to black, drowned in the middle of popping firecrackers.
* * *
Micky approached the balcony, walking slowly behind the policemen. Clay followed closely, gently rubbing his swollen knuckles and nursing a shallow cut above his left eye. The once-raucous crowd had all but fallen silent. A rag doll lay twisted on the steps, and what was to be a night of promise had turned into a dream of nightmares.
Max gleefully greeted the
Micky stood up and motioned to the policemen behind her.
Clay buried his fist into his opponent’s teeth like a jackhammer, punctuating the rightness of opinion.
Peryson ran back out to the balcony, staring in disbelief at seeing Max and Preston huddled on the floor behind the podium.
Lilian and Darienne stood just outside the police perimeter, unable to express their fear in words.
Allan Henderson ran up the steps as if he was carrying the Olympic torch to victory, his gun hand raised high in triumph. He stretched his strides wide, skipping steps as he ascended to the balcony. As he neared the top, he felt what seemed like wet bean bags pummeling his body from behind, stinging through his jacket like the powerful lawn sprinklers he ran through earlier. He felt weaker with each step, and decided to pause to look at this warm, gushing fluid flowing through his clothes. He ran his fingers cautiously through his new apron of blood, and felt several strategically placed bullet holes cratering his trunk and legs. A deafening woman’s scream resonated around him, forcing him to cup his ears in pain. He glanced at the top of the balcony, then quickly wheeled around behind him. A row of policemen below stood ready, their guns drawn and aimed for their own kill-shot. Allan Henderson was now their target.
“Don’t shoot,” he screamed with a half-smile. “I’m a science teacher.”
He kept his gun hand pointed up. There was now more than urine and tears coating his body. He could taste the distinct flavor of iron on his tongue.
“Lower your weapon,” he could hear God saying. “Lower your weapon or we will open fire.” And Allan knew the Almighty never lied.
It was so cold standing on those steps, and he barely had time to enjoy the view of the rolling lawns or the balmy Bay breeze blowing across his hair. The woman’s screaming had stopped, and he laughed when he realized it was coming from him.
“Lower your weapon,” the divine voice repeated.
Allan Henderson dropped both his hands with a slap. He continuously blinked his eyes to regain his focus, but that didn’t help. They fell into a half-droop, with everything in front of him swirling into a blur. He knew he wasn’t drunk anymore, otherwise, he wouldn’t be feeling so much pain. He tilted his head to one side and smiled.
“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” he said to himself. He was a scientist, after all. Now he was going to experience first-hand how it would feel like to be shot and killed. He always imagined himself to go out in a blaze of glory, to attack the enemy in defiance and take as many of the bastards as he could with him.
Except this was not a movie, and he was a coward.
He quietly gave himself a countdown from ten. He was a man of science, so he didn’t believe in faith or prayer. Tears dripped like syrup from his eyes.
Allan Henderson swung himself around in a pirouette and aimed his revolver at the balcony. His finger barely touched the trigger when his vision, sensation, and life went to black, drowned in the middle of popping firecrackers.
* * *
Micky approached the balcony, walking slowly behind the policemen. Clay followed closely, gently rubbing his swollen knuckles and nursing a shallow cut above his left eye. The once-raucous crowd had all but fallen silent. A rag doll lay twisted on the steps, and what was to be a night of promise had turned into a dream of nightmares.
Max gleefully greeted the
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