by Jon Athan
Mason smirked – no, you won't. He slowly lowered his left arm and reached for his backpack. Despite the officer placing his finger on the trigger, the boy unzipped the bag.
Scott shouted, “Don't reach for anything! Don't do this, kid! I'm going to shoot!”
Mason laughed, then he said, “Relax, man. I'm just getting some water.”
“Stop, Mason! Don't do it! Don't–”
Scott stopped and furrowed his brow as Mason pulled a sealed jar out of his backpack. He couldn't identify the translucent liquid, but it did not pose an immediate threat. It wasn't a gun, it wasn't a knife – there was no absolute certainty. He took a step back, unable to neutralize the suspected shooter in good conscience.
Mason gently shook the jar and said, “I told you: it's nothing. You're not going to shoot me, are you? Shit, man, I thought you were different from all those other pigs. Just imagine what the news is going to say about you. They crucify cops for shooting kids with knives and you think you can get away with shooting a kid with water?”
Mason used the unstable sociopolitical climate to his advantage. Groups across the country placed cops under microscopes whenever shootings were involved, often jumping to conclusions before the evidence was even collected. He used the recent shooting of a knife-wielding teenager in Nevada as an example.
In modern society, shooting a child was difficult to justify – even when said child was a killer.
In a soft tone, trying to defuse the situation, Scott said, “Don't do this, kid. You can still get help. You don't have to hurt anyone. Put the jar down, put the gun down, then get on your stomach. This is your last warning. The other cops... They're not going to understand. Don't do this.”
Mason stared at the officer with narrowed eyes, as if he were seriously contemplating the offer. He burst into a chuckle, unable to contain his rampant deviance.
Mason said, “I don't need anyone's help. But, maybe you need a drink.”
He dashed to his right and tossed the jar at the lockers next to Scott. The jar shattered and the sulfuric acid splashed on the officer's head. Scott dropped his weapon and staggered to his knees as he shrieked. The acid caused the skin on his forehead, cheeks, and nose to wrinkle, bubble, and redden. Blood spewed from under his peeling skin. His eyes immediately reddened and bloody tears welled over his eyelids. His thin hair crepitated as it slowly dissolved. His scalp wrinkled and burned, too.
Scott fell to his side and rolled into the fetal position, debilitated by the acid. He frantically rubbed his eyes and cheeks, shocked.
Mason knew it was not enough to kill the officer, though. He pulled another jar from his bag, then he opened the container. He stood over the officer and stared at him with sharp eyes – infuriated by his lack of resolve and cowardice. You don't deserve to survive, he thought. He dumped the sulfuric acid on Scott's hands.
Without forethought, Scott foolishly moved his stinging hands away from his face. Acid splashed on his nose and dripped into his mouth as he screamed. His gums burned and his tongue wrinkled. Blood spewed from his mouth as he violently coughed. He accidentally swallowed some of the acid. The jar fell to the floor near him – empty.
Over Scott's shrieking, the teenager said, “You should have shot me when you had the chance, Mr. Webb. I'm going to kill everyone I see in this damn school. Your name is still going to be destroyed by the media, you damn pussy.”
As the officer squirmed, Mason lifted his foot over Scott's head. He waited for the perfect moment to strike, then he stomped down on Scott's neck. Scott's limbs stiffened and his head spun as he struggled to breathe through his crushed neck. The killer student spat on his face, then he chuckled. He jogged down the hall and headed to the west exit, leaving the officer to die an agonizing death.
***
The doors swung open and Mason stumbled into the sunshine. He leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees, wheezing as he caught his breath. He glanced towards his left and smiled. Drenched in sweat, a handful of male students sprinted into the locker room from the basketball courts. As expected, stragglers wandered the courts, fields, and tracks – despite the alarm.
Mason jogged onto the closest basketball court upon spotting a group of students running on the soccer field – two boys and three girls. The sweaty, exhausted students appeared to be heading towards the farthest gate at the back of the school.
The shooter pulled out his gun, holding it with both hands to steady his aim. He fired six rounds at the fleeing students. Five rounds thudded on the dirt, one bullet struck the raven-haired girl straggling behind the group.
The girl tumbled face-first as the bullet penetrated her spine at the center of her back. The girl cried out to her friends, but to no avail – she was abandoned. Her cries could be heard across the school – cries for her mother, cries for mercy.
Mason smiled as he listened to the weeping, as if he were listening to a song from his past. His joy was short-lived, though.
A barrage of footsteps emerged from his left. He turned and gasped upon spotting the gym teacher rushing him. He didn't have the opportunity to aim and shoot. He fired one round into the air as the burly bald man tackled him to the floor.
The man barked, “Drop the gun! Drop it!”
As Mason tried to squirm away, the teacher crawled forward and grabbed the boy's right wrist. He slammed Mason's hand on the concrete floor, trying his damnedest to break his grip on the handgun – and it worked. The gun slipped out of the shooter's hand and bounced a meter away from the wrestling pair.
Shit, shit, shit, Mason thought, it can't end like this, I didn't do enough. He didn't fear much in his life. He was attracted to extreme violence after all. The fear of failure was universal, though. He imagined himself being hauled off to jail with a fifteen-minute slot on the news – fifteen measly minutes.
It was bullshit and he couldn't allow it.
Through his gritted teeth, Mason said, “Fuck... you.”
He kicked the gym teacher in the crotch with all of his might. It wasn't enough to paralyze the man, though. So, Mason grabbed the teacher's head with his left hand, then he dug his thumb into his eye. With the gooey texture of the vitreous gel, blood ooze from his eye and plopped onto the shooter's coat. The man held his hands over his eye and screamed as he fell to his side.
Hair dangling over his brow, Mason frantically opened his backpack. He pulled the last jar of acid out of the bag, then he unscrewed the lid.
He barked, “Fuck you!”
He dumped the acid on the teacher's face and hands. He watched as the skin on his cheeks shriveled and tore. The acid splashed into his severed eye, too, maximizing the pain. His flimsy nostrils tore as his nose slowly melted.
Mason held his foot over the teacher's head, then he stomped on his dome. He stomped on the man's head until he heard a crunching sound – the sound of a skull cracking under pressure. With the final stomp, the teacher's head was caved in at the forehead. He stared at the man's crushed face, awed by his own savagery. He shook his head upon hearing a sizzling sound.
Wide-eyed, he glanced down at himself and gasped. Droplets of acid had fallen onto his coat. He quickly removed the jacket and tossed it aside, then he sighed in relief. Accidental suicide was not in his plans. He certainly didn't want to injure himself and survive, either – he wouldn't be able to endure the inevitable humiliation.
Mason picked up his handgun, then he glanced over at the locker room entrance. He whispered, “I fired five... No, I fired six rounds when I came out here. Then... I fired one more when this bastard came at me. So, six plus one equals seven. Seven minus fifteen equals eight. I have eight bullets left.” He grinned and said, “You see, Hicks, you don't need algebra to be successful.”
The smile was wiped from his face as he stared at the locker rooms. The students huddled in the locker rooms – the perfect prey. However, eight bullets could not stop eighty people. As soon as he ran out of ammunition, he would be rushed and restrained.
Mas
on shook his head and said, “No, I'm not going out like that. I... I need to take out a few more. I can make it to the double-digits.”
He glanced at the clock on his phone – 9:14 AM. He could hear police sirens wailing beyond the horizon. The school was being surrounded by the police. The cops had been around for a few minutes, but he didn't notice them earlier.
Mason nervously smiled and whispered, “It's almost time for my close-up. Oh, shit, it's actually happening.” Giddy, he hopped in place and laughed maniacally. He said, “I have to get to the library. It has to... It has to end in the library. I just need five more.”
Eyes filled with joy, Mason sprinted back into the building and headed to the library. He was anxious about the third and final step, but he was determined to finish the job. International stardom was only five murders away.
Chapter Eighteen
Step Three
“He's here!” a blonde girl yelled at the top of her lungs upon spotting the shooter. As she lurched down the hall, slipping and sliding, the girl cried, “He's here! Run!”
The other ill-prepared students who wandered the hall shrieked and scattered. Most of the students sprinted down the corridor, running away from the shooter. A few of the students banged on the neighboring doors, hoping someone would let them in. To their dismay, fear paralyzed the survivors locked in the classrooms.
Holding the gun with both of his hands, Mason aimed down the hall and pulled the trigger. The thunderous gunfire reverberated through the school. Bang, bang, bang – he fired three rounds at the students. The blonde girl was struck in the back of the head. A streak of blood and brains was spattered on the lockers nearby as she collapsed. The other bullets whooshed past the fleeing kids.
Mason shrugged and whispered, “Six down, four to go.”
He glanced over his shoulder as he ran down the hall – the coast was still clear. He slid to a stop at a set of doors towards the center of the corridor. A small sign next to the door read: Library. He peeked through the windows on the doors and smiled. Through the cluttered books, literary novels and outdated textbooks, he could see students huddling in the aisles.
Mason stepped in reverse, then he kicked the door. The frame groaned and the doors vibrated. He punted the handles with all of his might, trying to weaken the locks. The muffled sound of teenagers screaming and panicking in the library only fueled him. Sweat dripping down his brow and neck, he chuckled deliriously and kicked the door.
Out of breath, he said, “Fuck... this. I still... I still have five left.”
He inhaled deeply, catching his breath and calming his nerves, then he aimed at the handles. He pulled the trigger twice. The bullets penetrated the door to his right. He stepped back, then he kicked the door like a football player punting a football. The screaming in the library poured into the hall as the door swung open.
Mason whispered, “Three bullets left... Make them count.”
He stood in the doorway and glanced around the library. The circulation desks sat in the corner to his left. There were several tables with computers in the corner to his right; beside the computer area, there were several rows of tables used for quiet reading – or sleeping. Book shelves hugged the walls. Freestanding shelves formed over a dozen aisles beyond the sitting area.
The shooter took his first step into the library. His movements were quiet and calculated. He stopped near the circulation desks. Hysterical crying echoed from the aisles, but he was more interested in the whispers. He could hear someone whispering nearby. He walked around the table and checked under the desks.
As he reached the circulation desk at the end, Mason smiled and said, “There you are...”
Kathy Leon, the librarian, hid under the desk. Due to the hectic event, her white button-up shirt and black skirt were disheveled. Her black hair, which was tied in a bun, was also tousled. She held a black-haired boy, a timid freshman, close to her bosom – trying her best to comfort him. She stared at the shooter with glimmering eyes.
Teary-eyed, Kathy stuttered, “M–Mason... What... What are you doing?”
Mason squatted down in front of the pair. He said, “I don't know. I'm... I'm cleaning the school. You know? I'm getting rid of the trash. I'm giving America a wake-up call. I'm... I'm... I'm showing society its flaws.” He stared at the woman with a deadpan expression, then he smiled. He said, “No. No, I'm not. It's not about that self-righteous bullshit. I'm not a Twitter 'activist,' you know? I'm not here to get revenge, either. I wasn't bullied or anything like that. I just hate you and everyone like you. I hate people, you know? But, I don't mind the attention. There's only one thing better than killing people and that's scarring them for the rest of their lives.”
“What are... What are you talking about? Please, listen to yourself, Mason. Don't do this. Don't hurt us. Put the gun down and turn yourself in. End this.”
“I will end it, Ms. Leon – on my terms.”
“Wait, do–”
At point-blank range, Mason shot Kathy's forehead – directly between her eyebrows. The boy buried her face in the librarian's chest and screamed at the top of his lungs. His shriek was muffled, it wouldn't stop the shooter, but he didn't know what else to do. He was out of options.
Mason placed the muzzle of the gun on the boy's left temple, then he pulled the trigger. The crying stopped. The sound of blood plopping on the floor emerged. The dead librarian and student were left under the desk, huddled together and drenched in blood – a poignant portrait.
He whispered, “That's eight down...”
He gasped and staggered upon hearing a barrage of footsteps. A group of students stampeded his way. As if he were having a near-death experience, time slowed to a crawl and he saw glimpse of the future. A headline on the news read: Eight killed at a high school, not as much as the Columbine shooters.
The failure was humiliating.
The crying teenagers did not rush him, though. Instead, the group rushed through the doorway and evacuated the library. They didn't realize he only had one bullet left.
Mason wasn't going to allow them to leave without a fight. He aimed at the students near the back, then he fired his last round. To his delight, the bullet struck a young blonde girl through the ribs. She fell near the exit, wheezing and coughing. The girl squirmed as Mason approached.
With a cracking voice, she stuttered, “Pl–Please... Don't... Don't kill me.”
Mason huffed, then he said, “I'm not going to shoot you. Go ahead and crawl out of here. You're already dead anyway.” He chuckled and shook his head as he walked towards the aisles of books. He whispered, “Nine down...”
***
Mason quietly walked down the center of the library, strolling between the aisles. He stopped at the end of the room and leaned on the freestanding shelves to his right. He could hear his classmates whispering and whimpering in the corner. The sound of fear brought a smile to his face. The smile became a frown as he recognized a specific voice among the whispers.
In the corner, a male student said, “I love you, mom. I love you and dad and... and everyone.” He paused as if he were listening to someone. He cried, “I–I... I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't do it. He's already here. I'm going to die, I know it. I just wanted to say how much I loved you. I'm sorry for–”
Mason turned the corner with his gun raised, aiming at the frightened students. The teenagers shrieked upon spotting the shooter. Three of the students dropped their phones and stumbled away, screaming and crying. Their fight-or-flight responses told them to run like hell. Two students, a girl and a boy, remained in the corner – paralyzed by their fear. The boy looked down at the floor while the girl gazed into the shooter's eyes.
Mason aimed at the girl and said, “Get out of here. Hurry up before I change my mind.”
With a quivering lip, the blonde girl stuttered, “Th–Thank you...”
The girl ran off and followed her classmates, tears of relief spurting from her eyes. She bumped heads with pure evil and survived �
� relief was justifiable.
Mason crouched in front of the boy and said, “Look at me.” The young man shook his head and cried, refusing to comply with the shooter. Mason chuckled, then he said, “Come on. Don't you recognize my voice. Look at me.”
Mason smirked as he stared into the eyes of his close friend – Dominick. Dominick stared back at him, speechless. What would you say to a school shooter during an actual shooting?
As he stared at the gun in Mason's hand, Dominick stuttered, “It–It was you? You... You did all of this? You?”
Smug, Mason said, “Yeah, it was me. I came to school with my dad's gun and I shot everyone I could find. I killed a few kids, one security guard, a gym teacher... Shit, man, I practically killed one of everything. I guess you can call me an equal opportunity killer. I'm not a little bitch like that Dylann kid. Shooting up a church... What a fucking disgrace...” He chuckled and shook his head, amused. He said, “He gives people like me a bad name. Killers – real killers – they don't discriminate. I learned that a long time ago.”
Tears streaming down his cheeks, Dominick grimaced and scooted an inch away from the shooter. He was disgusted by his friend's vile speech. He knew Mason since kindergarten, but he never noticed the hatred in his heart. Like most of society, he missed the signs.
Dominick asked, “Will... Will you let me go?”
“Let you go?”
“Can I... Can I live? Please, Mason, I don't want to die. Don't do this to me.”
“Sure, I can let you go. I just need to know that you trust me first. You understand me? I need you to trust me.”
Mason lifted his arm and aimed the handgun at Dominick's forehead. Wide-eyed, Dominick squirmed in reverse and flailed his limbs in every direction.
Mason said, “Relax, Dom. I'm not going to hurt you. I'd never shoot my friends. You're my friend, right?”
Dominick stuttered, “Y–Yeah.”
“And you know friendship revolves around trust, right?”
“Yeah.”