Wednesday, August 1, 2007

The Catalyst, chapter 8: MASSACRE
BANG.
Another gun-shot. Another scream. Another death.
And then, the sound of more frantic running and more merciless gun-fire. Panic! at the high-school.

It's been going on like this for about half an hour now, I suppose. It feels more like an eternity though. I don't know what they are doing here. Or what they are after. Or why they have to obtain it so violently. Hell, I don't don't even know who they are. All I know is, I'm locked in a broom closet and it's damn dark in here. (The good news is, it's a broom cloaset that's big enough to be a bath-room with 5 stalls. So it's not exactly a claustrophobia-provoking room, thank God.) Well, no, that's not that ALL I know. I also am perfectly aware of how quickly this transformed from nothing but a typical, harmless, mundane Monday into a gore-filled catastrophe fit to put Jack the Ripper to shame. Yeah, you'd never believe it from looking at this scene now. But one eternity or half an hour--or however long it's been--ago, I was just minding my own business, in class, staring blankly through my literature teacher as usual, who was currently attempting to rationalize something about Mark Twain without boring our asses off. Attempting to rationalize something about Mark Twain without boring our asses off, and failing miserably. (Oh well. At least she tried.)

And then, I had to go to the bath-room. So I asked for a hall-pass, got it, exited the class-room, and began to banally make my way over to the ladies room. That's when it happened. Or, rather, that's when I heard it. The voice of an intruder, a mere turn-of-the-corner away.

"All right, kid." snarled the trespasser, obviously fed up. "I'm going to ask you one more time: WHERE. IS. SHE?"

"I....I... Don't know." Stammered a familiar voice. "I-I saw her earlier today, but we don't have all the same classes together, so..." It was Danny.

Out of the most stupid and cautionless curiousity you can imagine, I peeked around the corner to see Danny painfully suspened between a row of lockers and the intruders rough grip. Which was currently holding DaRo ridgedly by the shirt. Now, I couldn't see much of the creep who seemed to be interrogating Danny, due to his back being turned towards me. But from what I could see, I gathered that he was quite a musculer man and stood at least 6 and a half feet tall. He looked to be about 35. So, unless my school is running some sort of educational program that I don't know about, which allows police academy students to practice their interrogating skills on Paul McCartney-look-a-likes who look nothing like Paul McCartney, this guy was deffinately an unwelcome guest. But just because he wasn't a potential police-men, that apparently didn't mean he should be at all ashamed of brandishing a gun. A gun which was currently pointed threateningly into the side of Dannys' bangs. (Hmm... I can't decide if this is my worst night-mare or a dream come true.) He also seemed to be wearing a uniform of some sort. No, it wasn't a British school-girl uniform. Or that of a naughty nurse porno cliche. Or that of a bikini-advertising super model. (EWWW!! HAIRY GROWN MEN IN BIKINIS!! Twitch, twitch, twitchy, twitch...) It consisted of a long, black, insidious-looking robe-like garb with a white border, black pants beneath, and a very futuristic-looking brand of black shoes. I also saw something floating around the center of his head, which was circular like goggles, but resembled more of a black, semi-translucent halo of glass. I'm guessing it was sapposed to be a mask of sorts. (Meaning, if I was looking at him from the front, the halo would probably be covering his eyes.) He looked a little like the grim reaper. A very futuristic grim reaper who had just attended some sort of demonic cult meeting. Not that I was paying much attention to his clothes. Oh, don't get me wrong, I liked his look and all. But it would just seem somewhat odd to me to spontaneously run up to a gun-wielding alleged mass murderer, who was currently threatening to reduce your crushes brains to bloody bits of confetti, and inquire as where he bought "that fabulous black dress, er, robe." That said, let the spying continue!

"So you have no idea where she is...?" half-stated, half-asked the creep, as the frustration seeped through the mock humor in his voice.

Now, I have no idea why, but for some strange reason, I got the feeling that the creep was after more than Dans lunch money. Maybe it was the fact that upon hearing he didn't know the location of the precious "she/her," Mr. Death-wanna-be shoved his pistiol farther into Dan-Dans fore-head. Or perhaps it was the "scared shitless" expression that was currently decorating that beautiful face of you-know-which-scene-causing-scene-kid. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that once Danny noticed me peeping around the corner, he struggled as best he could to loosen Mr. Death-impersonaters grip upon his beloved Underoath T-shirt, ended up kicking Death-but-not-really-Death in the you-don't-want-to-know-where area, and screamed unto me: "MELINDA!!! RUN!!!" (It's BELINDA, dumb-ass.) So, of course, I turned and ran. And kept running But as I did so, I heard the sound of gun-fire behind me. And then, a moan from Danny as his allegedly bullet-pierced body hit the floor. Damn it. This couldn't be happening. This could not possibly be happening. Unfortunatley I was too scared to turn around and check if it was. Fear drove me forward. Oh, but how I WANTED to turn back. How I wanted to see if Danny was still alive. How I wanted to act as a particularly cruel dose of karma for his killer.
And, most of all, how I wanted so badly to get help. But I didn't know who to ask. (Well, besides God, of course.) After all, these guys had GUNS. AND the balls to use them. The most any of the teachers had were rulers. Flimsy, wooden, anti-bullet-proof rulers. What could they possibly do against an army of grim-reaper wanna-bes? (I knew there was more than one of them because I kept catching breif glimpes of them in the hall-ways, as I ran.) I mean, the teachrs probably couldn't even stop one of them, let alone 100 or so. Telling them about the reapers now would only make them panic. And that really wouldn't do any good seeing as how they had all of the class-rooms blocked.

I sappose I could've called the police but I didn't have my cell-phone. Besides once the paranoia set in, which was the instant I heard Danny being shot at, I just couldn't think clearly. I kept re-playing the mental video of Danny dead and bleeding on the floor over and over in my mind. So obviously I could barely even concentrate on where I was going much less formulate a plot to got everyone to safety. Which would explain why I bumped right into the school janitor, Mr. Kleyre, while making my escape. "Oof!" I grunted as I fell to the floor, being forced down by a combination of the impact of crashing into Mr.Kleyre's stomach and gravity. "Oh, Mr. Kleyre! Somebody got into the school! Somebody with a gun an-and he..." My voice got choked off and my eyes started to burn with tears. 'And he killed Danny.' There was no way I could say those words and make it out with any trace of hope at all. Even if I had been thinking them, I simply couldn't say them. I just could not bring myself to admit that Daniel Keyth Rossurie was dead. It didn't matter if he ever lied to me. It didn't matter if he ever took me for granted. It didn't matter if he ever broke my heart. All I could remember was the good times in which Danny had been my friend. Now that he was dead, I felt nothing but the permanent loss of a loved one. All betrayals were forgiven.Therefore, there was no way I could admit he was gone without crying. But fortunately I never had to finish that sentance just then because evidently Mr. Kleyre already knew. (Already knew the school had been invaded, not already knew Danny was dead.) Either that or was just in the habit of taking high-school girls by the hand, leading them to a very near-by broom-closet, telling them to stay concealed in said broom closet until it was all over, and locking them in with the promise of his return with armed authorities in the very near future. So there I was. Left in the dark. With nothing but the so-called "calm" before the storm. Or, in my case, the paranoia before the panic. For, soon after I was locked in, there was more gun-fire. And more running. And more screaming. And more bodies hitting the floor. These men in the black robes truly are grim reapers.

Meaning, there is nothing keeping me from Death but the wooden, flimsy, locked door to a darkened broom-closet and a few cleaning implements which might be used as weapons if said door breaks. Translation: I'm screwed. Screwed and probably soon to be dead. (Oh, don't you just love these thriller/horror novel cliche's?)
Anyway, like I said, it's been half an hour since I was first locked in here. And obviously Mr. Kleyre has yet to return with the police. Translation: I'm still screwed. But oh well. It could be worse, right? Right. I mean, I could be one of those poor teenagers trapped in the hellish haze of hysteria and violence directly behind this door. Not to mention, the legions of "Death, but not really Death" have yet to find me. I may be screwed but for the moment, I'm still unharmed. I attribute this to the fact that the entire time I've been in here, I've been praying decades of the rosary for myself and everyone out there amongst the gun-fire and corpses. I lost count of how many decades I've said so far, but I estimate it to be somewhere around 15. And evidently someone Up There must admire my persistence because just as I finish up concluding my 17th decade, I notice every thing's quiet. No more screaming. No more gun-fire. No more hysteria. Total silence. (Yeah, it'd be kind of a relief if it wasn't so damn creepy.)

Apparently the massacre is over. Or, at least, it seems to be... (HA! See? This is proof that God listens to teenagers!.... Especially when they've got nothing but a broom closet and a few mops separating them from 100 or so strong men with guns and vast mental instability.) Then again, the army of Death-impersonators could've just moved on to the next floor or something. "Hmmm..." I half murmur, half muse."Just to be safe, I think I'll wait a little longer." So I do. Still quiet. And then, about 5 minutes later, I hear Cori call me: "Ohhhhh, Beli-waaaaaaaaa... Where are youuuuu? You can come out nooooooow. It's all safe. Coast's clear." 'CORI!' I thought, as my heart lept with joy. So she WAS alive. So they HADN'T succeeded in killing off 2 of my friends. So she WAS unharmed. So the massacre WAS over. Oh, goodie, goodie gum-drops!
And now for the bad news. Unfortunately, the instant I sprang from the now-unlocked closet with a cry of euphoria at seeing that Cori was unharmed, I was immediately seized by 3 of the reapers. Caught. As they carried me off, I desperately looked to Cori for help. That's when I saw it. The glint in her eyes. The sneer on her face. The sheer "I-just-got-rid-of-a-huge-burden!" expression on her face. It was obvious. She sold me out to these reapers. Stabbed me in the back. Well, goodie, goodie gum-drops indeed.
Comments (4)