by Jon Athan
Dominique gazed into her attacker's eyes, baffled. Her bottom lip quivered as tears streamed down her rosy cheeks. The fear clinging to her pupils was blatant.
In a croaky tone, she stuttered, “I–I know you. Oh, no, I... I know you.” The killer nodded, then he stood to his feet. As her attacker lifted his boot over her head, Dominique stammered, “Pl–Pl–Please, don't–don't do this. I'm so–”
Mid-sentence, the killer stomped on the nape of Dominique's neck—breaking her spine and crushing her throat with the brutal stomping. He lifted his foot up, then he stomped her again. Two gashes formed on each side of her neck. Blood leaked from the gashes and spilled on the floor like soup from an overflowing bowl. A large, boot-sized indentation formed on her neck—a crater. That crater caused her chin to lift up from the floor and cocked her head up, her hollow eyes staring at nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
Love & Tragedy
“He killed her!” Stephen shouted as he lurched down the hallway. Eyes welling over with tears, he yelled, “We have to leave! We... We have to get the hell out of here! Fuck!”
Hand on his stomach, Stephen staggered into the doorway of the classroom. Coughing and grunting, he leaned on the doorway as he stared into the room. His vision was blurred by his tears, but he could see four figures in the classroom—his friends and the teacher. They all appeared to be standing and holding textbooks, ready to fight any intruder.
Wilson shined his light at the doorway. He dropped his textbook on the table and said, “It's just you. What are you screaming about, kid? What–” He stopped upon spotting the blood on Stephen's hands and shirt. He asked, “Is... Is that blood?”
Stephen nodded and said, “He... He stabbed me. That bastard shanked me in the restroom, man! We have to get out of here!”
Teary-eyed, Charlene stepped forward and asked, “What happened over there, Stephen? Who did this to you? Where's Dominique?”
“Who did this to me? A bastard in a mask... Fuck, man, he got Dominique, too. We need to leave. Now.”
Wilson rushed to Stephen's side. He gently slapped the boy's cheek and asked, “What did you just say? Huh? What happened to Dominique? Where is she?” Stephen breathed throatily as he struggled to cope with the pain. Wilson hit him again and asked, “Where is Dominique? What do you mean he 'got' her? Talk to us, damn it.”
Stephen pulled away from the teacher. He said, “Shit... Stop hitting me. I told you: he got her. I didn't see her die, but I saw her dying. She was... She was on the restroom floor. There was blood everywhere. She couldn't move, man. I didn't know what to do. I tried to fight him, but... I couldn't do it. I–I was too weak.”
His bottom lip trembling, Wilson stepped in reverse. He was shocked by the devastating news. His high school lover was either dead or dying. Either way, their future was no longer bright. Everything would be revealed in due time.
Seizing the opportunity, Adam stepped forward and said, “It was you. You killed her, didn't you?”
Stephen grimaced and said, “No. No, man. I'm fucking bleeding over here. I'm dying!”
“That doesn't mean shit. That could be fake blood. Hell, you could have asked your partner to stab you, just like the movie.”
“P–Partner?”
“Don't lie to us. You sold weed to Nico once, didn't you? You're helping him now, aren't you?”
“No. That's wrong.”
“It's right.”
Charlene pulled on Adam's arm and asked, “What are you doing? You're not thinking straight.”
Adam responded, “I am thinking straight, Charles. He knows where we all live, he knows all of our numbers. He just left with Dominique and now she's dying. Can't you see? It all leads to him.” He grabbed Charlene's hand and dragged her away. He said, “We have to get out of here.”
Charlene tried to pull away from his grip, but to no avail—Adam was just too strong. As she was pulled out of the room, she took one final glance at Stephen. From the look in his eyes—a look of sincere fear—she knew he wasn't capable of killing them. Yet, against her will, she followed Adam's lead.
Britney glanced at Wilson, then at Stephen. She refused to stay with the men. She whimpered as she ran out of the room and followed the couple.
Stephen glanced over at Wilson and weakly said, “You... You have to call 911. Help... Help me. Please, don't leave me.”
Wilson jabbed his index finger at Stephen's face and said, “If you laid a single finger on her... I swear, I'll make you pay.”
The teacher slipped out of the room, then he ran down the hall. While his students took a left and ran towards the front of the school, he ran towards another corridor to his right and headed to the girls' restroom to save Dominique.
With a trembling hand, Stephen flicked the light switch and illuminated the classroom. He hoped the light would attract the police. He couldn't do much more, though. He was running out of energy. He fell to his knees and indistinctly mumbled to himself as he waited for the rescue party—or death.
***
Wilson slowed from a jog to a stroll as he approached the restroom. Light poured through the open doorway and illuminated the corridor. He couldn't hear a struggle in the restroom, though. Aside from the buzzing lights, he didn't hear anything at all. The silence was horrifying.
He stopped at the doorway, shocked. Tears dripped from his eyes with each rapid blink. He wheezed and mumbled indistinctly, his mouth flooded with saliva. His legs wobbled, his heart raced, and his teeth chattered. He was heartbroken by his horrific discovery.
Dominique lay on the floor, brutalized. Due to her broken neck, her head was cocked up and tilted to the side. Her chin rested on the linoleum floor. Puddles of blood formed under her neck and waist. A plopping sound emerged in the room as blood dripped from her wounds. A moist squelching sound emerged from her body, too.
As he took his first step into the restroom, Wilson stuttered, “Wh–Who... Who did...” He tightly closed his eyes and grunted, overwhelmed by his sadness. He barked, “Who did this to you?! God, who could do such a thing? Why... Why would someone do this? Why?!”
Barbaric murder often did not have answers. He fell to his knees in front of Dominique's body. He held his trembling hands over her head, afraid to touch her—as if she were a gentle artifact that would crumble with the slightest touch. Still, he couldn't resist. His heart told him to attempt to soothe her pain, despite her death. He gently caressed her cheek, as if he were trying to comfort her.
He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “I'm sorry, princess. I loved you. I always loved you. We should have never came here. We should have ran off, baby. Why didn't we just run away? Why didn't we leave this damn city behind? They would have never understood our love anyway. I'm sorry...”
The sound of thudding footsteps approached. The steps stopped behind the tragic scene of love and death.
Wilson, trembling with rage, said, “Stephen... Stephen, you bastard dope-head. I'm going to kill you.” He staggered to his feet and shouted, “I'm going to kill you! I'm–”
He stopped as he glanced over his shoulder. He found himself staring at an uninvited guest. The burly person wore a black raincoat, dark jeans and a white Bauta paper-mâché mask—the same mask the person wore when he killed Michael. His sharp blue eyes matched the angry expression on the painted mask.
Wilson was awed. He had never seen the killer before. He read the news, he heard the rumors, but he didn't watch any of the videos. Seeing the mask in the restroom flooded his mind with a thousand complex thoughts. His students weren't lying—he recognized the mask. It belonged to Casey. It can't be Stephen, the teacher thought, he couldn't have changed so fast, right?
A lump of anxiety forming in his throat, Wilson asked, “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” The killer did not respond. As he wiped the tears from his eyes, Wilson asked, “Nico, is that you? Have you been doing this for... for your brother? For Casey?”
Again, the killer did not respond.
Wilson took another step forward. He slowly lifted his hands in a peaceful gesture, hoping to calm the killer. He wanted to stop the masked person from attacking while extracting information from him. He sought an upper-hand—an advantage.
The sound of blood plopping on the floor echoed through the room. The sound was minuscule, but it was loud to the teacher. Each plop was louder than the last. The dripping sound drilled into his ears, like the shrill sound of nails scratching a chalkboard.
Wilson closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying his best to contain his anger. He couldn't ignore the tragic facts, though. His girlfriend was viciously slaughtered and the masked person was responsible—he was certain of that.
Wilson wagged his finger at the intruder and, through his gritted teeth, he said, “You bastard... You can't kill people like this because... because of what happened. You're sick. You... You...” He grunted and groaned, infuriated. He barked, “You're a sick bastard! I'll kill you!”
As Wilson ran towards the doorway, the killer raised his right hand from behind his back, revealing the taser in his hand. Without any hesitation, he pulled the trigger. Wilson didn't have the opportunity to dodge the attack. The prongs penetrated the teacher's stomach and shocked him, causing him to tumble to the floor.
Wilson's body tightened, his limbs locked in place. He shuddered uncontrollably and indistinctly mumbled, stunned by the attack.
The killer stepped over his body. He pulled Wilson's arms back. A clicking sound echoed through the room as he tightly handcuffed his wrists behind his back. He didn't waste any time, either. He handcuffed his ankles, then he dragged him closer to Dominique's body. He forced the lovers to lay in the same puddle of blood—one was alive, the other dead.
As he cried, Wilson asked, “What... What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?”
The masked person knelt down in front of Wilson. His glistening eyes, moist with tears, could be seen through the holes on his mask. He reached into his coat pocket, then he pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper.
With narrowed eyes, Wilson watched as the intruder unfolded the paper. His eyes widened upon reading the sheet. The killer held a printed news article from the previous year. The title read: Local teacher tried to stop bullying of suicide victim, hailed as a hero. The article referred to Casey Marshall's tragic suicide. Collin Wilson, Casey's teacher, was the supposed hero. The mere fact that he tried to help was enough to win over the public.
The killer clenched his fist and crumpled the paper. He tossed it aside, then he pulled another folded sheet from his coat pocket.
Wilson's eyes watered as he stared at the second article, horrified. The headline read: Hero teacher reaches publishing deal, hopes to help students cope with bullying. The second article revealed the sad truth about the situation. Wilson was susceptible to human flaw. He saw an opportunity and he took it. He didn't save Casey, but he happily capitalized off of his death. He used his student's suicide to propel himself to a B-list celebrity status.
Tragedy—the death of the innocent—sold books.
Tears streaming across his cheeks, Wilson said, “I didn't hurt him. I really tried to help him, but... but these assholes wouldn't leave him alone. I tried. Everything else, it... it was a mistake. I needed money. I–I... I really wanted to help other kids, too. You have to believe me.” He glanced over at Dominique and wheezed. He stared back at the killer and stuttered, “He–He wouldn't want this. He was... He was a good kid. Please, don't hurt me.”
The killer crushed the paper, then he tossed it aside—never taking his eyes off of the greedy teacher.
In a hoarse tone, raspy and sonorous, the masked person said, “You didn't help him. You're no hero. You're a piece of shit... and shit must be flushed.”
“Wha–What? Wait... Wait a second, damn it! Don't do this! Don't–”
The killer pulled a large Bowie knife from a holster under his coat. Without saying a word, he stabbed Wilson's stomach below his belly button.
Veins bulging from his neck and brow, Wilson gasped. He panted like a dog during a hot summer, his lungs vacuumed with the stabbing.
The killer wiggled the knife up-and-down as he slid the blade across the teacher's stomach. With each wiggle of the blade, he widened the deep wound. Blood squirted onto his coat and spilled onto the floor, but it did not deter him. He was determined. He sawed Wilson's stomach from one hip to the other. He hooked his arms under the teacher's armpits, then he dragged him into the neighboring stall.
Wilson's head swayed every which way, dazed due to the loss of blood. His vision was blurred and his breathing was erratic.
The killer shoved his fingers into Wilson's wound. He used his fingers to widen the gash on his stomach until he could see his organs. He twisted the blade, cutting through the teacher's thick abdominal muscles. He reached for Wilson's small intestine. He didn't have time to find the beginning or end of the long organ, so he cut through it—he made his own end.
With flickering eyelids, Wilson watched as blood spilled from the gaping hole on his stomach. He panted as the killer began pulling his small intestine out of the hole. He was in shock—utter disbelief. He felt as if the situation was impossible, but it was happening—and no one could say anything about it. He watched his own disembowelment.
The killer tossed the end of the small intestine into the toilet while the organ was still connected to Wilson's body. He gazed into Wilson's eyes, savoring the fear in his soul, then he flushed the toilet.
Wilson's legs trembled as his small intestine quickly unwrapped itself and swam down the pipe. Thud—the deep, sonorous sound echoed through the room as the organ clogged the toilet.
Wilson's bloodied guts were slung over his shoulder and clogged in the toilet—still attached to his body. The bloody water started to rise in the bowl, then it spilled over the edge. Groaning and squelching sounds emerged from the toilet. The teacher vacantly stared at the ceiling, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
The killer gazed into Wilson's hollow eyes. He wanted to memorize every detail of his gruesome death. He shook his head, then he walked away. His boots splashed on the water and blood on the floor. His squeaky steps echoed through the empty school as he exited the restroom.
The massacre was not over. There were still three targets on campus.
Chapter Eighteen
No Escape
Charlene, Adam, and Britney sprinted down the hallway, ignoring the sound of Stephen's crying and Wilson's footsteps. Charlene and Britney stopped near the front entrance while Adam clashed with the doors. The doors rattled, but they didn't open.
Adam glanced at the bottom of the doors, then at the top. He pushed the door again and murmured, “What the hell? Are we locked in?”
Surprised, Charlene repeated, “Locked in?” She rushed forward and peered through the windows on the door to the left—a chain and a padlock were wrapped around the handles outside. She said, “Oh, shit, you're right. Someone locked us in from the outside. It... It doesn't make any sense. If someone locked us in from out there and attacked us in here, then there must be someone el–”
“Enough of the investigative bullshit, Charlene,” Adam snapped, clearly frustrated. He kicked the door, then he tossed his body at the barrier—but to no avail. He shouted, “Fuck! Piece of shit!”
“Calm down, Adam. Do you want to draw him—or them—to us? Huh? We have to think about this.”
“You're right, you're right. We have to think about how we're going to get the hell out of here. No more of your goddamn theories. They've gotten us into enough trouble. Drop it. Just drop it. Okay... We're... Damn it, what the hell are we going to do?”
Charlene grabbed Adam's hand and said, “The first thing we have to do is go back to Wilson's classroom and get Stephen. We have to help him.”
Adam shook his head and said, “No. No, fuck that. He could be the killer. I'm not risking my life to help some drug-dealing psychopath. I can't do that.”
�
��He's not the killer, Adam. We both know that. He couldn't hurt a fly. He's soft. He's always been soft. And, even if he was somehow capable of killing all of those people, it would be better if we kept him in our sights—but he's not the killer. He's our friend. We can't leave him back there. We can't let him die like that. Let's help him. Please.”
Adam gazed into Charlene's eyes, baffled by her ability to trust during the most hectic times. He could see something else in her eyes, too—passion. She truly cared about Stephen. Does she love the stoner?–he thought.
Adam slowly shook his head and said, “I can't do that. Not for him, not for you, not for anyone.”
Teary-eyed, Charlene took a step in reverse and tilted her head to the side. Just as Adam was amazed by her unwavering kindness, she was shocked by his heartless response.
Sensing an argument brewing, Britney stepped forward and said, “I care about Stephen and Dominique... and even Wilson, but we can't stand around here and do nothing. We have to find a way out of here. The sooner we're out, the sooner we can get help. It's not like we can stop the bleeding. We need the police, the paramedics... everyone.”
Wide-eyed, Charlene glanced at Britney and asked, “Did you call the cops?” Britney shook her head. Charlene said, “We have to call 911. No one ever does it in the movies because they're all contrived and shit. We have cell phones, though. We have brains. Call 911. Hurry.”
Before Britney could pull her phone out of her pocket, Adam grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him. The look in his eyes was feral—evil in its purest form.
He sternly said, “We don't have time to call the cops right now. What are they going to do? Teleport here? We have to leave before that psycho catches us. Okay?” Tears dripping from her eyes with each blink, Britney rapidly nodded—okay. The young man released her and said, “The front door is locked. We can't go through the back 'cause Dominique died near there.”