Chapter 4 - Survival

(You might want to read Chapters 1 - 3 before continuing on. This picks up right where 3 left off. That's one of the disadvantages of posting this on a blog, you need to read it from the bottom up. This is only the first half of the chapter, next post is the PDF of 4 & 5.)


“Hi, Terry,” Allen said. “Come with me. I need your help.” The .45 was back in its holster under Allen's arm; in its place he held a small .22 pistol that looked, to Terry, like a cannon. Terry's mouth moved, but there were no words in it. The gun swung to his left, over his shoulder, and barked once. The bullet ripped through his wife's throat, shattering the plexiglas picture frame. Before the pieces even hit the floor, the gun barrel was aimed back at Terry's chest.

There was nothing else to do; Terry Owens left the cubicle and walked at gunpoint down the corridor. He kept his eyes straight ahead, avoiding glimpses at the carnage on either side, barely registering the growing pools of blood he somehow managed not to step in. Fabric open cube walls ended and solid plaster broken by glass doors took their place. Past the four sales offices, phones eerily silent, then Bill's office on the left, Amy's on the right. Finally the two executive's opaque doors – Jack, the president had occupied the larger office on the right. On the left, Allen's door was ajar. A trail of blood led there from the hallway. Terry felt cold round metal behind his ear and heard Allen's calm voice say “in here.” They stepped inside, and Bill knew that he had waited too long.

“You might as well come on out, Bill. It's all over now. Unless you want to see Terry hit the floor.”

Bill stood slowly up behind the desk. One white sleeve was soaked crimson and that arm hung lifeless at his side, but his eyes were sharp and his head clear. It wasn't his first bullet; Marine training lasted a lifetime. He took in the situation in an instant and it didn't look good. Allen was standing in the only exit, his left hand holding a pistol to his hostage's ear. It was a small caliber and Bill might be able to move quickly enough to avoid a fatal shot even if he couldn't save Terry. It was the sawed-off shotgun nestled in Allen's crooked right arm that worried him – the pressboard desk would be no protection. That, plus the fact that Allen didn't look nervous at all. He wouldn't be caught off guard. Allen motioned with the shotgun barrels and said “sit over there, in one of the visitor's chairs.”

Bill complied.

“Face the desk. You're in a meeting.”

Bill straightened himself in the chair. His only chance was to talk his way out, or to stall until help arrived. A small hope, but he grasped it.

“Why, Allen?” he asked in his steady deep voice.

“Why not?” Allen replied. The shotgun blast was deafening, echoing in the small space; the back of Bill's head dissolved then splattered grey, white and red against the desk, chairs and back wall of the office. Terry finally found his voice and screamed “oh, shit!” as his bladder emptied itself unnoticed on the floor. Unnoticed by Terry, at least – Allen looked in disgust at the small clear puddle and said “Christ, look at the mess you made. Go sit at my desk.” After a beat, he added “Now.”