The Xtra- Volume One

by Oliver Willis

  Corchoran does his best to not think of any of them as a real human being. If he considers them in that fashion, he can't do what he needs to do. They have to be faceless, with no backstories or families to mourn them. They have to be malevolent creatures, who are part of a heartless machine that came after his people without a second thought.

  Otherwise…

  No, he puts the thought of out of his mind for the last time. This has to happen.

  "Pocket contents in the basket, anything metal," the guard announces.

  Corchoran reaches in to his back pocket, pulls out his car keys and wallet. He reaches in a side pocket and produces his phone. He drops all the items in the basket with a curt nod to the guard.

  The guard doesn't even notice him.

  Just meat, Corchoran thinks. They're all just meat. He helps the paper hurt me. Hurt all of us. He's not a man. Just meat.

  Corchoran sees red as he inflames himself with the angry thought. Relief is coming soon. He will finally get the justice he is owed.

  He steps through the metal detector. Nothing happens. He thinks for a second that maybe someone is watching over him, perhaps this is destiny. He is on a divine mission and someone, something up above is leading him on a path toward what he is owed.

  I'm on my way.

  Chapter 29

  The machine makes a buzzing sound. It isn't that loud but to Corchoran it might as well be deafening. People in the building are so used to false positives – always keys, people always forget to take out their keys – that nobody even bothers to look his way.

  "Gonna have to wand you, sir," the guard explains as he steps forward, his electronic device already pointed at Corchoran's chest.

  The guard makes his statement in the same tone he just used to speak about the Nationals baseball team. It is routine, part of the day. People don't listen to instructions and the metal detector picks it up. It happens.

  Wanding them is a perfunctory act, which up until this precise moment in his time working security at the Herald-Examiner, has always yielded the most mundane items. Once a man had a nail file in a jacket pocket.

  That's as intense as it got.

  Corchoran looks down. He doesn't want to see the guard's face. He doesn't want there to be a person there. It's just a blue uniform in his way, an obstacle that needs to be removed for the greater good.

  He puts his hand inside his jacket. Feels the hard metal of the gun. His fingers slide down.

  "Sir, I need to see your hands," the guard says. His tone has changed. He is no longer in automatic mode. Something has gone awry. "Sir, your hands," the guard repeats.

  Corchoran feels a jolt race through his entire body. It is like pouring a million gallons of caffeine into his veins with the sensation immediately hitting him everywhere at once.

  The motion he has practiced now comes to life.

  He pulls the gun out and fires it right away.

  The bullet hits the guard square in the chest and Corchoran can see the guard's shirt get damp with blood immediately.

  Without hesitating he swivels to the left and fires at the other guard. The guard is still holding the basket in his hand, his brain not registering at all the events occurring just a few feet away from him.

  Corchoran fires again, sending a second bullet into the guard, who is already reeling.

  The gunfire echoes in the lobby and immediately someone screams.

  A mass panic rolls through the room. The historic heart of the Washington institution is under attack.

  Chapter 30

  Corchoran's mind is racing. He tries to think about the plan and what he originally set out to do. But the guard's bodies are on the floor convulsing in pain, people are running in haphazard directions around the lobby, away from him and his gun, and he cannot concentrate.

  They did this. They did this to me. They all have to hurt.

  He extends his arm with the gun in front of his body. His hand is shaking, and he can feel the heat of the recently discharged weapon.

  More.

  With the initial wave of people out of the way, Corchoran sees another group before him.

  There's a tall black woman. An Asian woman. A pair of white guys. An older woman.

  They have to go. They have to go.

  "You did this to me," he yells.

  He gets ready to shoot and to set the world right.

  Chapter 31

  Taylor steps off the elevator before me, still yammering away.

  I'm about to say something to her as we step into the lobby when I hear a pair of horribly loud bangs. Maybe it’s some kind of construction going on? I don't remember seeing anything this morning, but I was preoccupied with just getting through a big crowd.

  But then I see people running. It's something we've now seen a million times in America, people in their offices, school, at work, running away from some kind of terror.

  "Oh my God," says one woman. "He's got a gun," says a another. "The guard – dead," says a man.

  It's not a normal lunch hour, but complete pandemonium.

  Then I see him. The man everyone is running away from.

  He's a slightly overweight man, wearing a jacket. And he's got a gun. He's looking in our direction and I just freeze.

  I can feel the hairs on the back of my arm stand up straight and I just want to run away like everyone else is.

  Taylor.

  She's standing still, as terrified as I am.

  Just beyond her I see one of the security guards on the ground in a pool of blood. My heart is pumping so fast. I've talked to this man, he told me about his daughter. Said she ran track. I gave him some thoughts on sneakers. Now he's dead.

  My heart is pumping faster.

  Very fast.

  So fast.

  I've been panicked before. But this is different. I want to figure out what it is but there's no time.

  What's going on?

  The man with the gun points his weapon directly at Taylor.

  There's a surge you get as you try to make that last push at the end of a race, that extra something you hope to get you to the finish line a microsecond before your competitors.

  "You did this to me!" The man yells.

  I feel the surge. But it's a million times stronger than I have ever felt at any meet. It is everywhere all at once. It is all consuming.

  I have to do something. Now.

  Chapter 31

  I am clearly not thinking as I make the single dumbest decision of my previously level-headed and rational twenty-five years.

  Because if I thought about it, logic would take over and find a way to stop me. To do what I am about to do defies reason and common sense. It is giving myself a surefire one-way ticket to an early grave.

  So, I do it anyway. Because I love my best friend Taylor Nguyen with all my heart, and if harm came to a single hair on her head, I would die a thousand deaths.

  I jump in front of her.

  The man doesn't react as I move forward. He still has that crazed expression on his face. Anger, sadness, and a rainbow of other emotions come and go in the blink of an eye. This man is not well. He is hurting and he is going to hurt someone.

  Me.

  I see him pull the trigger and everything slows down to a crawl. What was at full speed now slows down to a snail's pace. Time moves but barely.

  I hear the gun fire. My pulse quickens. I want to move. Duck. Hide. Cower. Get out of the way. Anywhere but here.

  I think about Mom. I think about how I felt her slip away and how empty I felt and now, as I see the bullet racing toward me, I think about how everything will go black soon and how I will see her again.

  I hope dad will be okay.

  I hope Taylor has enough time to get out of the way.

  I hope somebody will stop him and after I am dead and gone that someone will stop this mad man and prevent him from hurting anyone else.

  The bullet is almost at my chest now. I brace for impact.

  Hope it doesn't
hurt.

  What happens now?

  Will it all go black?

  Or something else.

  I'm going to know now.

  Chapter 32

  The bullet hits my chest.

  I'm dead, I think. My eyes are closed. This is death?

  It feels strange. A lot like life. I did not expect that. But then, I've never done it before. I feel a swirling feeling in the pit of my stomach, like at the top of a hill on a rollercoaster, right when the car starts heading down.

  Death is like a rollercoaster.

  I open my eyes.

  I'm still in the lobby.

  What?

  I look down at my chest, where I expect to see the bullet hole, the gaping wound, blood gushing as my life spills out onto the floor. The very expensive, polished, marble floor.

  I am whole. But there's no hole.

  I see the bullet. But instead of a deadly mini-missile that has ended my life it is a pathetic looking crumpled up silver-goldish disc, like one of those pennies you run through a machine at an amusement park or national park or museum for a souvenir.

  And it is falling to the ground, tumbling, tumbling down completely useless and harmless.

  It won't even scuff the ground when it lands.

  And it does, with a sad little tinkle.

  I look up to the shooter and he seems as confused as I am that I am alive and the bullet has lost its battle. He's so surprised that he squeezes the trigger two more times.

  Instead of closing my eyes this time, I do something even stupider. I keep them open and I look. I look at the bullets as they fly through the air toward me.

  They look much the same as the first one but this time I just really look at them.

  And they hit me in the chest.

  And I'm still not dead. I'm not scratched. I've never felt better in my entire life, except for the time I came in first at State in hurdles and that was more of an adrenaline rush than anything.

  Instead the bullets hit my chest and they just crumple. Like a ball of Play-Doh dropped against a concrete wall.

  An incredible thought rushes through my head. It sounds ridiculous the minute I have it. This thought goes against everything I've ever known for my twenty-six years. It runs contrary to the lessons my parents have given to me night after night.

  And certainly, for absolute sure, it makes everything I've learned in science class, from elementary school to high school and to college, a complete and utter lie.

  The thought?

  I am bulletproof. A gun can't kill me. I'm stronger than a bullet.

  I look up again at the gunman, and see the same thought reflected in his eyes. But instead of the amazement I'm having, he is now frustrated beyond all belief. He cannot believe what he is seeing.

  So, I step forward.

  Chapter 33

  I take another step and another, walking toward him. I briefly notice that the entire room is silent, save for the sound of one of the useless, crushed bullets still slightly spinning on the floor of the lobby.

  His outstretched hand still holds the gun pointed toward me. I don't have a plan in mind.

  I'm just going by instinct here, which is terrifying. I like to have a plan. I don't just… do stuff. That's more Taylor's thing. It's all Taylor's thing.

  But there's no plan for a moment like this. I'm supposed to be dead and on the ground, bleeding out from the bullet holes in my body.

  Instead I am standing inches away from a gun that was just fired. I am so close I can smell the gunpowder and even a hint of the heat of the barrel. Then I do something even dumber than all the (very) stupid things I've done so far.

  I grab the gun.

  My move is so sudden, so unexpected – to him and me – that I easily pull it out of his hand.

  It feels strange. I expected it to be heavy and hot. But instead it barely registers. It feels like a piece of paper, really. And I get intensely angry. At him. For threatening Taylor. And everyone else. And me, even.

  And I squeeze the gun between my fingers and it crumples as if it were a piece of useless tinfoil. I'm not even squeezing it that hard.

  It just collapses. I have barely flexed a muscle. I used more energy pulling on my pants earlier this morning.

  Chapter 34

  "No!" The man yells, sounding both angry and terrified. Both emotions mix in his voice and I have to think what the hell in the world could have brought him to this sort of crazy, mixed-up point in his life.

  Then I remember I just survived a gunshot and crushed a gun in my bare hands.

  What a weird day.

  The man then stops his yelling and pulls back his arm as if to slap me. I can see the anger translated into action and I know it will hurt. Instinctively I push him away with my right forearm.

  I feel, for a brief second, my arm hit his.

  He goes flying across the room, like a category five hurricane wind literally picked him and threw him away from me.

  He lands with a thud dozens of feet away.

  I hear him groan.

  I look down at my hands and my arms.

  They look the same as they always have.

  How the hell did I just do that. I'm not a weakling. I can hold my own. I go to the gym every few days and do a few circuits, just to keep in shape, a habit I picked up from Dad.

  But there's no way I could do that.

  What in God's name is happening to me?

  Chapter 35

  While I'm standing there, staring at my own arms like a dummy, going over what I just did in my head, over and over and over, I suddenly become aware of people.

  I look to my left and right and I see the other people who were in the lobby with me moments ago, their faces as confused as I feel right now. They're coming closer, walking toward me.

  It is still quiet but there are a few murmurs and whispers coming from the back. I can't quite make out what they're saying but I have no doubt they're talking about me. I sure would be.

  The crowd steps closer and closer.

  I can hear their footsteps. I look down at my arms and hands then back up to them. They're even closer now.

  They've walked past the would-be shooter and are crowding the space between me and him.

  Closer.

  "Oh my God," one says.

  "Did you see?" another asks.

  "That woman," the first person replies.

  "She." "Her." "Shot." "Not dead."

  What was a murmur and whispers now quickly increases in volume. They are a crowd. They are yelling. About me.

  They get closer now. And my heart starts beating in my chest. I feel a shortness in my breath and suddenly I have to make a very deliberate choice to breathe in and breathe out, reminding myself each time to do what should be natural.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  The crowd gets closer to me. They have encircled, surrounded me. They get within an arm's length of me. The expressions on their faces are hard to read. Fear. Wonder. Shock. And more.

  I can't deal with this. It's too much. I want out. I need to clear my head. Figure out what is happening, what happened, how this happened.

  The questions rushing through my head all at the same time give me an instant headache and the crowd closing in amplifies every bad feeling I have about the entire situation.

  Run. Run. Run. I think.

  I clench my fists. I make one last heavy exhalation.

  Out of here, now.

  And then I slowly levitate off the ground.

  Chapter 36

  At first, I don't realize what is happening. It feels like I'm on an invisible elevator. I move up in the air, gliding up an inch or two. Then three more. Then more.

  I'm now a good six feet off the ground and I can look down at the entire massive crowd beneath me.

  They've stopped advancing. They are quiet again and their mouths are agape.

  I'm as shocked as they are. People don't fly.

&nbs
p; Then, of course, people don't survive gunshots and they can't throw people across the room with such ease.

  But in the last five minutes I have done all of those things and I have no idea what the hell is going on. I want to undo everything that has just happened because it is all too frightening and weird to comprehend.

  I close my eyes, thinking maybe that will wake me up from the dream or delusion or whatever I am obviously experiencing right now.

  I reopen them and I'm still hovering in the air, floating above a crowd of people in the lobby of one of the largest newspapers in the entire world.

  It is all true. None of this is a dream.

  I have to get out of here.

  As soon as I have the thought, it is as if there is a wind to my back. Something that isn't there propels me forward and I'm gliding over the heads of the still astonished crowd.

  Every eye is on me and I can practically feel every single one. My skin grows warm with embarrassment just thinking about it. I dislike that sensation almost more than all this weird stuff I'm doing that is supposed to be impossible.

  The invisible gust of wind pushing me – or is it pulling me, I really don’t know – moves me even faster. I'm sliding through the air toward one of the large doors.

  The path is clear because the crowd has moved away on its original path to surround me.

  Out, I think again, and the force moves me faster.

  I grab ahold of the bar running across the door and push it open. The D.C. sunlight hits my eyes and I float out onto the sidewalk.

  Out, Out.

  With just that thought I float further upward, no longer limited by the ceiling. I float up and up into the air. Soon I am hundreds of feet above the city and the stupid, amazing, nonsensical, crazy thought comes to my head. It dominates everything that has been racing around because it is so ridiculous and beyond reasonable thought.

  I'm flying.

  I'm flying.

  I'm. Flying.