Someone moaned for help from the other side of the door.
Bradley’s stomach flip-flopped. He couldn’t wait any longer. He rose to his feet and turned to face the door. He pressed his ear to the cold metal and listened, but he was met with silence.
He placed his hand on the handle. The blood made his grip slick as he turned the knob.
The door slid open quietly. He peeked, and then ducked back. When no bullets found his head, he opened the door an inch and, with one wide eye pressed to the opening, took in the scene.
A body lay on the ground next to the row of cubicles. Five or six shell casings laid scattered on the floor. A foot stuck out of another cubicle.
He dropped to a crouch and entered the room as silently as he could. If the shooter was still here, he didn’t want to give away his entry.
Turned out there was no need for him to be quiet.
Bradley sucked in a breath when he stepped onto the eighth floor. His hands shook and his vision once again narrowed.
Garry may have been the moaning man. It was hard to tell now because no one moved. As he crept along the cubicles, he found nothing but bodies. Some had sought shelter under their desks, others behind filing cabinets. They had been shot in their work spaces and most finished off with a round to the head.
Bradley pushed his fingers against Garry’s neck but didn’t find a pulse. He counted six bodies. Some were people he had known, worked with for half a year. Others were the sort who barely said a word to him. Albert Cross had been a friendly guy in his sixties who had shared Bradley’s love of the Chicago Bears. He and Albert had struck up a work friendship that involved sending football stats to each other during the last season.
Albert was face down. He had a bullet hole in his hand, three in his back, and his head had been partially blown open. Blood and pink matter seeped from the wound.
“Hollow points,” Bradley muttered. Nothing else left wounds like that. “Jesus save us.”
Then he ran.
* * *
The only safe place he knew of in the building was his cubicle. His mind reeled as he took the stairs two at a time. Get his bag. His stuff. Get the hell out of this hell hole. He needed to run. Just run until he couldn’t run anymore. Bradley would never characterize himself as a coward, but the war in Afghanistan had changed him in ways he didn’t understand. Monica had urged him to see someone, a specialist who dealt with PTSD, but he had never made an appointment. There were men who had suffered much worse than him.
But the overwhelming feeling of dread and horror clouded his mind. The narrow focus of his vision kept intruding. He was lightheaded and understood on some level it was because he was taking short and sharp breaths. His heart raced in his chest and made him feel queasy.
He hit the second floor and did something stupid.
Bradley flung the door open, took a left, and headed straight for the IT department. The door was open, and he dashed into the work area. That’s when a pop sounded. Someone screamed and a man yelled for mercy.
He came to a halt as he nearly barreled into someone who had his back to the entryway.
Bradley came up short and gasped.
Ed Reels stood there. He had on black body armor, which molded itself to his portly frame, and what appeared to be a black Molle combat vest filled with magazines. Another gun rode high on his right hip in a molded holster. He had a combat helmet on his head with straps hanging along his ears. He held one gun in his right hand, which he worked. An empty magazine hit the ground and fast as a whip, Ed slapped a fresh magazine home and triggered the slide release in what appeared to be a well-practiced move.
Bradley got a look at the guns and was pretty sure they were Glocks. Then he got an even better look as Ed turned and met Bradley’s eyes.
Paul lay on the ground clutching his midsection. He groaned and, when he saw Bradley, he whispered for help.
“Looky what the cat dragged in, and just the fucker I was looking for. Such a smart guy, right? Such a smart guy,” Ed said.
His face was livid, eyes wide, cheeks covered in a spray of blood that had even splattered his lips and teeth.
The gun. That was all Bradley saw. It rose, a looming hole that carried his death. Some part of Bradley’s mind realized the barrel was large and he guessed it fired .45 rounds. That would explain the wounds. If they were indeed hollow points, he was surprised Paul was still alive.
“Ed, no! Think about what you’re doing!” Bradley yelled as he lifted his hands so they were level with his head.
Ed moved toward Bradley until mere feet separated them. “What I’m doing? What I’m doing? You assholes don’t deserve to live in this fucked up world. Bunch of kiss asses for a president who hates you. Do you know how bad it is out there now? You don’t because it’s all being suppressed. Doesn’t matter anyway. Won’t matter to you anymore.”
Ed’s trigger control was excellent as was his grip. He had practiced it, that much was obvious. This wasn’t simply a workplace shooting brought on by sudden rage. With the gunshot wounds Bradley had witnessed, as well as Ed’s military inspired garb, he had to have had this in the works for a long time. All of these thoughts swirled in his head. His heart already labored, kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His vision widened as he considered the fact that he was about to die.
“You’re right, Ed. You’re right,” Bradley tried.
“I know I’m right. No, you’re right, like in Rightsville. You guys all love that. Doesn’t matter now. Bye, Bradley.”
Instincts kicked in.
Bradley swept his hand perpendicular to his face and slapped Ed’s wrist. Then he locked his fingers and pulled as he moved in. His left hand shot up and grabbed the slide of the gun as it went off. The sound was deafening in the space. The slide ripped along his palm, sending searing pain up his arm.
But Ed was a big guy and barreled into Bradley until they both struggled for the gun. Bradley used his right knee and drove it into Ed’s hip. He’d been going for a ball shot but he was working in a panicked state. Ed pushed as he struggled to get his gun back, but there was no way Bradley was going to let go.
His left hand screamed in pain where the slide had hammered against it.
Bradley whipped his leg around until his right foot was behind Ed, then he pushed with his hands holding onto Ed’s wrist. The move should have taken Ed off his feet, but they both ended up going down.
Ed went crazy. He thrashed his legs, striking Bradley over and over as they rolled. Ed’s breath was a rancid mix of old coffee and plain bad breath.
With Ed having weight on Bradley, it was a struggle just to maintain his grip on the gun. It fired again and the bullet whizzed past his head and struck the wall. The sound was an ear-splitting blast that made his head ring.
Bradley wretched the gun sharply until Ed screamed. He pushed again and something snapped, probably Ed’s finger that was locked against the trigger guard.
Ed smacked Bradley in the face so hard he saw stars. He nearly lost his grip on the gun but managed to hang on. He pulled again, and this time it came free.
He rolled off Ed, and then came up in an unsteady crouch, gun at his side.
“Screw you!” Ed screamed. “Screw all of you!”
Bradley lifted the gun and put two left of center mass, then he shifted and put one in Ed’s right eye. Then he fired again as Ed’s face took on a blank look. This time the round punched into Ed’s chin and blew him off his feet.
Ed flopped to the ground and his legs kicked. His bowels let loose with a rip and the smell of shit suffused the room.
Bradley fell on his butt, gun extended. He pointed it at Ed and mentally dared the man to move again. He didn’t even realize his finger squeezed until the gun bucked and the bullet struck Ed in the chest. Maybe he had been wearing body armor, maybe it was just part of his Molle combat vest. Didn’t matter because Ed was dead, man. Dead and gone from this world, and Bradley had killed him.
Brad
ley pushed with his feet until he scooted to the wall. He pressed his back there and held the gun trained on Ed. His face ached from where Ed had gotten in a punch. He panicked and ran his hands over his body. The gun had gone off several times, maybe he was shot and didn’t even know it. The right side of his head ached from the concussion of the gun, and his hearing was gone in that ear, replaced with the pealing of bells.
But his hands didn’t find any wounds. When he pulled them away from his body, they were still stained with Jessica’s blood.
He sucked a in breath and fought the overwhelming panic that threatened to engulf him.
But he was alive and the shooter was dead.
As he did his best to focus on his breathing and bring himself down, his vision once again narrowed to a pinpoint tunnel, so he turned his attention to the gun in his hand. It was a Glock, as he had suspected. a Glock 37 to be exact.
Time passed at a snail’s pace.
He turned the gun in his hands and studied the weapon that had killed at least eight people. Was it that many? He hadn’t checked that many bodies, not that he had to. They had all been killed execution style with shots to the chest and head. Except for Jessica, who had managed to escape immediate death only to die in his arms.
Paul groaned and turned his face so he could meet Bradley’s eyes. The two stared at each other until Paul shuddered and went still.
The sound of whining sirens reached him at some point. He finally lowered the Glock and ejected the magazine. Then he worked the slide and ejected the unfired round. He placed the gun on the carpeted floor next to his leg and waited for the police to arrive.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Chapter Four
Chris Miller hunkered down so he could avoid the neighbor’s line of sight.
The house was thought to be abandoned, but he and Ryan Fudge had found a couple squatting on the home’s second floor. They also found needles and candles. A mattress covered in piss and sweat. There was a sleeping bag on top, but it smelled like it had been dragged through a dung heap. The floor probably had carpet at some point, but now it was just abused sub-flooring that was covered in stains. Someone had used the southeast corner to pee in.
The room had only natural light. The ceiling was sloped and might have been a converted attic. Without electricity, there was no way to turn anything on so they had dragged a small generator up to the space and run a vent out of a side window.
Chris was supposed to have the blackout carpets in place by now, but he’d been held up, ironically, by a massive protest near McKinley park. He had nearly missed the delivery man. Chris had to chase him down when he pulled away from the home.
But the packages were in place, thanks to Lawson, or whoever his boss was.
The woman had squinted her eyes at him when he had entered the upstairs bedroom. The man didn’t move at all except to let loose with a huge snore. He slept on his stomach. One arm hung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor.
Ryan had moved to the other side of the bed and placed his items on the floor. Chris smiled at her and showed her a fifty dollar bill. She pushed the blankets down her revealing a Guns and Roses tank top. She didn’t wear a bra and had ample breasts that spilled out. She might have been attractive at one point, but her skin was sallow and she was clearly malnourished. Needle marks marred her arms.
She pushed the blanket off, and then slid her stained gray sweat pants down to her ankles and kicked them to the floor.
Chris smiled and motioned for her to roll over. She nodded and held out her hand. He placed the fifty there and smiled back at her. She rolled onto her stomach exposing her ass.
Chris leaned over and gently took her wrists. She complied and let him move them behind her back. He moved fast, slipping a pair of plastic cuffs over her hands, he tugged them up and then tightened them with a quick jerk. The zip ties were practically unbreakable, especially by this heroin addict.
“Hey, man, I’m not into that kinky shit,” she protested.
He shook out a thick plastic bag. Across from him, Ryan did the same thing. The man had awoken and stared around with bleary eyes. Ryan took out an Al Mar SERE knife and poked the man in the back of the neck.
“We’re not here to cause trouble. Do what we say and we’ll set you both free in a few minutes,” he said.
The man’s eyes widened as the knife drew blood.
“Please, we don’t have anything. Dope’s all gone,” the man pleaded.
“Just put your hands behind your back. I promise you we’re going to be quick,” Ryan said.
The man complied. Ryan placed zip ties over the man’s wrists and pulled them closed
“Ow, that’s too tight,” the man said.
Ryan picked up the clear plastic bag, and then kneed the man in the back. He slipped it over the guy’s head and pulled it down.
Chris went to do the same with the woman. She fought him, so he sat on her. She thrashed under his weight but he had a good fifty-five pounds on her.
She jerked her head left and right but Chris just moved with her. He got the bag over her head and then pulled it to her neck. He grabbed a larger zip tie out of his back pocket. Her eyes widened, and she screamed. He placed his knee between her shoulder blades and held her down. Chris worked the black plastic strip under her neck and ran it through the eye. He pulled until it wouldn’t go any tighter. She bit at the bag and screamed again so he punched her in the face.
Ryan’s kill hadn’t put up much of a protest.
“I guess that guy believed you,” Chris said.
“Fuck this waste of air. Probably on welfare and food stamps. Besides, I didn’t lie. I’m setting him free.”
The man thrashed beneath Ryan as he realized what was happening.
“It probably won’t take more than a minute for him,” Chris said.
“Should have timed it. I bet she’s gone before he is,” Ryan said.
“Got a fifty here,” Chris Miller nodded toward her hand.
“You’re on,” Ryan nodded.
“Shame she’s wasted her life on this shit,” Chris said. He grabbed one of her bared cheeks and gave it a squeeze. “She’s got a nice butt.”
“I win. Look at this one,” Ryan said.
“Guess so. You can pry it out of her hand.”
The woman shook a couple of times, and then went still. Then her bodily functions let go and the smell of fresh urine and shit filled the room.
Chris pulled the blanket back over them both, and then retrieved a large sheet of plastic and covered the bed. They moved the bodies until the pair were wrapped together, then secured the ends with more plastic wraps.
The mattress was shoved into the corner and quickly forgotten.
* * *
“What time you got?” Ryan asked.
“Quarter to eight,” Chris checked his watch.
The generator hummed away in the corner of the room. They had dragged a small microwave oven up the stairs and plugged it in. Chris heated up a couple of burritos. His was chicken and bean, but it tasted like crap. Ryan didn’t say a word while he devoured his.
“What other kind of food you bring?” Ryan asked as he licked his fingers clean.
“That’s it,” Chris said.
“That sucks.”
“You do SERE?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, at Fort Rucker. How’d you know?”
“Your blade,” Chris said.
Ryan dug out his knife, flipped it once, and handed it to Chris. “SERE Nomad. Ain’t cheap.”
Chris snapped up the blade out and tested the edge against the back of his arm. It parted the hairs from his skin as smooth as a razor. Chris wiped the knife’s blade on his pants, and then folded the knife up and handed it back.
“After this job, maybe I’ll pick one up,” Chris said.
“It’s close to time, right?” Ryan said.
Chris cracked the plastic on the pre-paid cell phone and slid out the device. He removed the SIM card hol
der and put a fresh one inside. Then he powered up the gadget and waited for it to find service.
Ryan took off his black combat boot and examined the sole. He dislodged a small pebble and tossed it in the corner of the room.
Chris studied the device patiently. The bars lit up and it registered service. He waited another minute and a message popped up. He clicked on it, read it, then installed a small VPN app. He forwarded the message to his private server once he was connected to a server in Finland, then deleted it. He popped the back off and took the battery out, then removed the SIM card. He snapped the phone in half and threw it next to the bodies. Then he got up and put the SIM card in the microwave and set it for one minute.
The card sizzled within seconds and sparks fired inside the oven. When he was satisfied, he opened the door and blew on the partially melted plastic for several seconds. Then he scraped it off the glass and tossed it into the corner as well.
Over the next thirty minutes, the rest of the team arrived and filed up the stairs.
Chris checked his watch and nodded at the men who had assembled.
It was going to be a long, bloody morning.
Chapter Five
… pro Henderson demonstration turned deadly today when opponents of the president clashed in Chicago. The September 18th protest, organized at a national level, with protesters marching in the majority of large American cities, was in direct response to the president’s call for forced expulsion of muslim immigrants legally living in the country.
The protest turned violent when the two groups met and exchanged profanities. Dozens of people were taken to local area hospitals, and seven people were killed. We’ll bring you more as the story develops…
Bradley pulled into his driveway in a daze. His Bronco had seen better days about fifteen years ago. But the thought of buying something newer just wasn’t in the cards. Especially since he had stopped working security and taken an IT job. He knew it would get better, he would get some valuable experience and be able to find a higher paying job.
DRUMS OF WAR: A Dystopian Thriller Series (Broken Patriot Book 1) Page 3