by Brian Shea
“So, how about it? Is Dom going to pop those zits on your face with his fist or are you going to piss those pants?” Blake asked.
Sheldon weighed his options. His backpack now seemed heavier, and his mind raced for a solution. He knew that Dom would follow through with his threat. It wouldn’t be the first time. Facing the unbeatable odds, he yielded and released his bladder. The warmth spread out from his underwear, permeating the front of his jeans. It quickly cooled in the early morning spring air.
“Holy crap! He pissed his pants!” Dom yelled.
Other students cast looks as they passed by into the school.
“Smelly Shelly pissed his pants!” Blake yelled, calling further attention.
Sheldon listened to the laughter as classmates passed by, pointing and gawking. The only thing he could do was fight back against the well of emotion and prevent the tears so desperately pleading for their release.
Blake and Dom gave each other a high five and chest bump while running into the school, but not before snapping a picture on their phones. Another viral Sheldon picture that would reach every kid before Sheldon made it to his first class. He exhaled, collecting himself. Today would be different. Soon they would understand.
Sheldon allowed his current circumstance to solidify his resolve. The need to cry had subsided. On any other day he would have turned and made the long, embarrassing walk home. He had tallied an impressive number of absences over the last three years, but nobody seemed concerned.
The second bell rang, the tardy bell, and Sheldon remained outside the school, staring at his reflection in the doors, the front of his khaki pants now darkened with urine. He looked at himself and wondered if he would survive. Part of him hoped that he didn’t.
TARGETED VIOLENCE: Chapter 2
I’m not Smelly Shelly, not anymore. I’m Sasquatch_187. I’m the warrior elite and today I will cross over and become a legend. The first selected and hand-picked from a sea of others to make the leap, Sheldon thought to himself. A tenuous smile crept across his acne-covered face.
Sheldon’s hand trembled as he gripped the metal handle of the front door to Connerton-Jacobs High School. He knew that once the door opened, everything would change forever. There would be no going back.
He’d been told fear was to be expected, but the reward would be unimaginable. He was a Patriot. He was the first soldier in a new war.
One deep breath and he jerked the handle as he exhaled loudly, almost grunting. The door resisted slightly, the suction from the weather-stripping released, and Sheldon stepped inside, entering into the main hallway. The overhead lights bounced off the heavily waxed laminate tile flooring, casting a soft glow. Purple and gold, the colors of the Connerton-Jacobs Cougars, covered the lockers lining the hallway. Those colors would forever cause his stomach to turn, and the sight of them now added fuel to his hatred of the place.
An obnoxiously loud squeak accompanied each step of Sheldon’s left foot, his puddle of urine had soaked his left sneaker. His worn sneakers barely had any tread left, and coupled with the wetness, he moved more gingerly, taking shorter steps to accommodate for this. His backpack remained slung over his shoulder and, in the quiet of the empty hall, its contents banged loudly. He laughed, envisioning himself as a one-man band. A silly thought, that on other days, would have provided some degree of mental escape from his current circumstance. Sheldon could not allow his mind to drift. The plan was simple enough, but its execution would require his absolute focus.
He stopped in his tracks. At the far end of the hall he saw Darryl Hawthorne, the school security guard. Sheldon froze, hoping the barrel-chested man wouldn’t notice him.
To his dismay Officer Hawthorne turned, smiled and waved. Hawthorne had interrupted many of Sheldon’s bullying incidents and was probably the only person in the school who seemed to be looking out for him. The deep voice of the middle-aged guard had sent students running, though Sheldon knew he was a gentle giant.
“Hey, Sheldon,” Hawthorne said with a broad smile. The whiteness of his teeth contrasted with the darkness of his skin and black, stubbled beard. “A little late this morning—oh damn, what happened?” Hawthorne’s eyes had obviously caught sight of the pants.
Sheldon swallowed hard and failed to answer the big man. His nervousness caused him to sway anxiously, even though he knew Hawthorne wasn’t a threat.
“How about we get you to the nurse’s office? Maybe call your mom and get you a change of clothes?” Hawthorne asked with genuine concern. He began closing the distance to Sheldon.
Sheldon regained his composure. “No thanks Officer Hawthorne. I’ve got a pair of sweatpants in my gym locker,” Sheldon said quickly.
It was a lie. Sheldon never dared to go into the dreaded boys’ locker room, and on gym days would resign to wearing his sweaty attire all day. Thus one of the reasons he’d earned the nickname Smelly Shelly. It was a price he was willing to endure because he knew, for a boy like Sheldon Price, entering the boys’ locker room would be the equivalent of a zebra entering a lion’s den just before feeding time.
“Alright, just make sure you stop by the office and grab a hall pass before heading on to your first period.”
“Will do,” Sheldon said. As Hawthorne began walking away Sheldon called out to him. “Officer Hawthorne, thanks for always being kind to me.”
“Sure thing, buddy,” Hawthorne said, turning and walking away in the opposite direction.
Sheldon hated everything about this school. The design layout had all of the eight corridors converging to one central common area, referred to as the Commons.
The Commons had an octagonal design. Three steps brought students down to a smattering of couches, benches, and tables for them to study and socialize for the ten minutes between classes. It was roughly one hundred feet across and, for the socially accepted, the Commons served as a hangout. Sheldon’s schedule forced him into the Commons several times a day during the transitions. Popular kids loved it and reveled in the few minutes of socialization before the next block of instruction, but to kids in Sheldon’s ranks it was a guaranteed block of public humiliation. Not today though. And never again.
Today the two hundred and twelve students of Connerton-Jacobs High School would learn a terrible lesson.
TARGETED VIOLENCE: Chapter 3
The Commons was vacant. Typically, few people lingered in the space during the first instructional block of the day. In the absence of other students Sheldon felt at ease. It was a strange sensation and one he’d not experienced previously.
Sheldon walked into the center and sat on a bright red couch, a spot reserved for only the most popular students. He knew the soft fabric would absorb some of the urine, and he rejoiced in the thought of some unsuspecting popular kid sitting in Smelly Shelly’s piss. He unshouldered the backpack and rested it on the floor in front of him. It was heavy, but unlike normal days, it contained no books or notebooks.
He looked down at his watch. He had ten minutes until the bell would ring, releasing the horde of the student body into the hallways for class transition. He unzipped the backpack and peered inside. The instructions had been clear and simple. Set it on the ground. Flip the switch to activate. Press the green button on the remote to detonate.
Sheldon looked around and was pleased to see that the halls leading into the Commons remained vacant. He looked up at the black convex lens of the security camera and smiled for posterity. He knew that Officer Hawthorne was the only person who monitored the cameras and knew, seeing him only minutes before, that he was out conducting his rounds. He slid the heavy metallic frame of the device from his pack and gently put it beside the couch, toggling the switch upward. It hummed and a red light came on.
Sheldon dug his hand into the bag and retrieved the remote. He then went back into the backpack and removed the last item, his mother’s Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm semiautomatic handgun. She had bought it the month after his father left them. She told Sheldon it was for home defense, b
ut the gun sat in a shoebox on the top shelf of her closet. He took it a month ago and she’d never noticed. It came with a spare magazine which he had filled to capacity. Sheldon had never actually fired a real gun, but Sasquatch_187 was a pro. How hard could the real thing be?
The empty backpack now loosely covered the device and he slipped into position, tucking himself into a far corner hidden by a locker. He hoped it would provide enough shielding from the blast.
The gun felt heavy in his hand. The extra magazine was stuffed in his damp front pocket.
He waited.
TARGETED VIOLENCE: Chapter 4
The bell rang. The sound interrupted the silence and startled him, causing his pulse to quicken. Then he heard the sound he was waiting for. A loud rumbling filled the hallways. The eight arteries feeding into the Commons reverberated with the bang of lockers and voices. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him at the thought of what he was preparing to do, but the laughter of several students nearby quickly reminded him of why he was doing this. The first few students entered. His instructions had been to wait as long as he could. The Commons filled. No one noticed Sheldon wedged in the corner. This fact didn’t shock him. He often felt as though he were a ghost moving among the living.
Couches were quickly filled by students that didn’t care about the ten-minute time constraint allocated for socialization before scurrying off to their next class.
Sabrina Wilmont, Blake’s girlfriend of the month, sat in the exact spot Sheldon had just occupied moments before. He watched as her nose curled and she gave an exaggerated sniff of her surroundings as she looked for the source. Her face contorted in disgust as she shot up from the couch and screamed, patting her butt. Blake stood nearby and began laughing at her. His laughter activated Sheldon Price’s internal time bomb and he stepped out from the corner, revealing himself.
Without saying a word, he raised the gun, pointing it in the direction of Blake Tanner. He heard a ripple of screams from students seeing the threat, but the beating of his heart seemed to drown out the noise. Sheldon squeezed the trigger. With each kick of the gun he aimed in a different direction.
“Sasquatch 187!” He screamed his war cry, bellowing wildly.
His classmates began running, ducking, and screaming as they tried to predict the next volley of shots. Sheldon continued clicking several times before he realized the gun was empty. He reached into his pocket, frantically grabbing for the spare magazine. In his haste he mistakenly put his hand into the pocket containing the detonator. Before his mind comprehended the error, his finger hand depressed the green button.
The Commons erupted in a bright light immediately followed by a deafening bang, cancelling his ability to see or hear. Sheldon was no longer standing. The blast had knocked him into the corner and his head struck the metal of the locker he’d hidden behind. The secondary impact with the locker had propelled him forward onto the floor. The laminate flooring no longer shined and his reflection was distorted by the blood pooling out from him.
Sasquatch_187 was gone and Smelly Shelly stared back, scared and dying, until his eyes closed to emptiness.
TARGETED VIOLENCE: Chapter 5
It was cold. Not a cold that any thermostat or workout could fix. It projected from within his heart and coated his bones. The room’s endless gray added to it. The only color came from the faded orange binding of the one book he kept on his otherwise empty shelf. The timeless words of Sun Tzu had been committed to memory, the book now only served as a reminder of its teachings.
Nick stretched his body and gazed at the ceiling, retracing the cracks as he’d done a thousand times before. The maze of coils designed to support his frame penetrated the cot’s thin mattress, poking at him like a blind acupuncturist with a penchant for pain. He’d already gone through his morning workout routine and figured he would get in another round of exercise before his next meal.
The last year had been the hardest of his life. And Nick Lawrence knew hard. The first few months of confinement had left him depleted, sleeping most of the day and barely eating. During his trial he’d lost nearly thirty pounds. Each time he closed his eyes he willed himself to die. Each time he woke he realized it wouldn’t be that easy. He’d been shot, blown up, and stabbed, so starvation seemed an unlikely cause of death for someone with his uncanny ability to survive.
One morning he woke to the silence of his surroundings and understood that he had died. At least a death in the proverbial sense. His trial had ended. Nick, a former agent with the FBI, was convicted of five counts of murder. The woman who had brought the case against Nick was a far deadlier killer than he ever was, but she’d amassed a treasure trove of evidence against him.
Nick suffered greatly at the hands of that woman. She destroyed him, tearing away any connection to the people he loved. She’d managed to disguise herself as a man and slip into his mother’s medical facility. His sweet loving mother, whose recall of life’s joys had mostly been washed away by the spreading decay of her dementia, was killed by this madwoman. His mother was the last living member of his once close-knit family. Her murder had initially eluded investigators, but DNA had tied her to the crime.
More devastating than his mother’s murder was the loss of Anaya and their unborn child. Anaya hadn’t died, but after losing their child something inside him died, and she never forgave Nick for what happened. The strength of their love was tested and failed.
A lifetime of service to his country cut down by the judicial process. He’d killed Montrose and several of his henchmen. At the time, it made sense. Killing Montrose was justice served for the young girls’ lives he’d destroyed. The same system that had failed to convict a human trafficker had no problem in closing the case on Nick.
The guilty verdict was delivered after Nick’s plea, and he was handed his sentence, destined to serve out the remaining years of his life with the types of criminals he’d worked so hard to put away. On the judgment day, eight months ago, he was reborn. Everything he had was taken, ripped from his hands. What was left was an empty vessel, and he committed to never losing again.
Since his rebirth Nick had regained the lost thirty pounds and added close to fifteen more, all of which was muscle. It was amazing what you could do in a six by ten space when you put your mind to it.
Nick rolled off of his cot, landing in a push-up position. His long hair flopped forward as he warmed up his joints with a quick thirty, and then he began putting in the work that would occupy the next forty-five minutes of intensity. Each workout focused on different muscle groups, enabling him to attack every session.
He’d not cut his hair or shaved his beard since the day he entered Masterson Federal Correctional Facility. His attorney had warned him about his appearance, saying that the judge would see him as a savage. Nick knew his case was a lost cause. Simmons had collected an impressive amount of evidence against him. It also didn’t help when he, against his lawyer’s recommendation, pleaded guilty to the murder of five people. Five consecutive life sentences later, Nick was still alive.
Time had been a cruel gift. Each ticking second carried its own life sentence. Nick had no cellmate. None of the inmates in D Wing did. The justice system had deemed his neighbors to be unfit for the general population, or gen pop, due to the violent nature of their crimes or the volatility of their psychological makeup. Nick apparently fell into both categories but knew the deeper rationale in placing him in relative isolation was because he’d been FBI, a fact that wouldn’t be lost on some of the residents. It would be a huge feather in the cap of any inmate capable of sticking a broken piece of plastic into his neck.
Only twice a day were the prisoners of D Wing allowed to mingle, during the lunch meal and the games hour. Some psychologist had the genius idea of putting a group of killers together to play chess. Obviously, this person had never spent an evening of deep conversation with Bill “the Blade” Culver, who spent his twenty-two hours of isolation three doors down from Nick.
Nick
knew Culver’s story, as did most of the world. Culver had carved his way through thirty-seven known victims. He was selective in most of his attacks but sometimes rage got the best of him and impulse took over. It was for that reason he’d been caught.
In a moment of road rage, Culver had killed a Georgia State Trooper. The incident was caught on the dash camera and its brutality made him a legend. He had been shot by the Trooper, but it didn’t stop Culver. He managed to disarm the lawman and used the Trooper’s gun to beat him to death. The most disturbing scene in the video occurred when Culver stood, blood covered, and smiled at the camera. That image had been plastered all over the Internet. During a rare and candid interview Culver was asked why he killed the trooper and his answer was eerily simple, “Because I could.” Among the prison population he was notorious. His large, three-hundred-pound frame was given wide berth when on the move. Although a disproportionate amount of his girth was comprised of fat, he was strong and surprisingly quick. Nick had witnessed him on more than one occasion address a newcomer who, unknowingly, crossed his path.
A newbie, some tough-looking skinhead, had bumped Culver accidentally while moving past him during the lunch wave. Before the guards could react, Culver had snatched the man by the neck and slammed him to the ground. While the guards attempted to separate the large man from his toppled prey, Culver had managed to crush the Neo-Nazi prisoner’s windpipe. It was a devastating attack and was over within seconds.
Culver managed to avoid the death penalty by making a trade. He’d given the locations of one of his previous victim’s gravesites in exchange for life. A grieving family’s need for closure trumped a judicial need to execute a killer. And so, Bill “the Blade” Culver had guaranteed he would be a lifelong member of Masterson’s D Wing.