A Bomb Built in Hell

Wesley’s first shot with the Beretta caught the young man in the chest, knocking him over two rows of seats. There was no reaction to the muffled sound. Wesley kept walking unhurriedly toward the auditorium doors. The Permabond went all around the openings of both doors, leaving the middle one open.

Wesley checked his watch—no more time. He snapped his fingers and the dog rose from where he had been resting. Wesley pointed toward the left-hand side door, said, “Guard!” and the dog trotted into position. Wesley quickly bonded the door and switched positions with the dog again, finishing the other one.

Leaving the dog lying down near the center of the stage, Wesley walked through the middle door toward the signs that said ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES.

The walls were all glass, floor-to-ceiling. Students were hanging over the long counter asking questions about clubs and transcripts and bickering over their schedules when Wesley walked in and swept the entire field with a long, screaming burst from the grease gun. In seconds, the whole giant room was red and yellow with human death. Wesley walked quickly around the counter and into the big office marked PRINCIPAL. A nice-looking woman, apparently the man’s secretary, was seated at a kidney-shaped desk with her mouth wide open. No sound was coming out. Wesley shot her in the stomach with the unsilenced piece and kept walking.

A chubby man was in the office, crouched down behind a desk. A solid-looking older woman was frantically speaking into a phone. “Florence! Florence, get the police! Florence...?”

Wesley walked in and they both fell silent. Wesley looked at the man. “You the principal?”

The lady stood up to her full five-foot height. “I’m the principal.”

She didn’t look frightened. Good—maybe she’d do what she had to do. “Get on the PA system and tell everyone to get into the auditorium,” Wesley snapped at her. “Tell them there’s been an emergency and to get a move on—”

“I won’t do any such thing! Those children are my—”

Wesley ripped her open with a short burst from the grease gun, thinking, Fucking women and children—I should’ve known. He spun the gun’s barrel into the face of the crouching man. “You do it. Do it fast!”

The man’s fingers were wet and trembly as he pushed the button for the PA system, but he couldn’t make himself talk—only spittle came out. Wesley shot him with the revolver and grabbed the microphone.

“Attention, please!” He heard his voice echoing and knew the man must have turned it on correctly. “There’s been an emergency. All students and teachers proceed at once to the auditorium. Enter only by the middle door from the back. Repeat: This is an emergency—we are under attack! Proceed to the auditorium at once!”

He stepped out into the corridor just as he heard the police sirens in the distance. His watch said six minutes still to go before the gas was sure to be ready. Wesley stepped over the bodies in the outer office and sprinted back toward the auditorium. The frightened students seemed comforted by the sight of the man in military gear, obviously armed to protect them. They were already milling into the auditorium as he rushed into the side door, smashing a path with the butt of the pistol. The dog was patrolling in front, keeping the students away from the stage.

Wesley ran to the stage. He turned to see a mob of terrified students streaming in through the middle door. A tall cop was trying to shove his way through to the front—Wesley waited until the cop almost got through and shot him in the face with the loud gun. The screaming got worse. The auditorium was nearly full of students and teachers, with all the others trying desperately to get inside—to safety.

Wesley aimed the grease gun at the middle door and screamed, “Get the fuck away from that door!” and cut loose with another burst before he switched clips. Bodies went flying out into the hall and the screams from the kids already inside made it impossible to hear anything else.

Wesley charged the one open door. The dog followed. Wesley cleared out what was left of the remaining people with the grease gun, jacked in his last clip in one motion, and ran forward. He managed to slam the door even against the frightened tide—they fell back when they saw Wesley and the gun.

The dog went berserk, mouth foaming, snapping, keeping the remaining crowd away from Wesley. Students ran to the side doors, now trying to get out—it was useless. The Permabond went around the middle door in seconds and Wesley turned and ran back toward the stage. He leaped up and grabbed the microphone with one hand, firing another burst into the ceiling. “Shut the fuck up! Keep quiet or I start blasting again! ” and the place quickly silenced except for occasional whimpers. One kid was crying and couldn’t stop. Wesley looked out at the horrified crowd, the grease gun still threatening the room.

“Stay quiet! The next one moves or screams gets killed!” He could hear the sirens clearly now—cops must be all over the place. His watch said three minutes until the gas would be ready. Wesley’s eyes swept the auditorium. He stopped at a husky-looking kid in a letterman's sweater. The kid caught Wesley’s eye, too, and tried to look away.

“You! Come up here! Quick!”

The kid slowly climbed up out of his fear and walked quickly toward the stage. Wesley held the gun at the boy’s face. He spoke without the microphone. “Climb up to that ledge by the side and go out a window. Tell the cops that I got me a few hundred hostages. Tell them I got enough dynamite in those suitcases to level this whole fucking school. Tell them I want to talk. You got that?”

“The windows don’t open,” the kid quavered “I—”

“Break the fucking windows! Move!”

The kid ran toward the side of the auditorium, causing a momentary stir. Wesley grabbed the microphone again. “Stay still! He s going out to get help for you!” and they quieted. The kid finally clawed his way out of the window and dropped to the ground. Wesley’s watch showed one minute still to go when he heard a familiar, bull-horned voice.

“You inside! What do you want? You can’t get out!”

Wesley grabbed the microphone—the volume was already boosted as much as it could go and he shouted at the top of his voice.

“I want a helicopter to take me to the airport and I want a motherfucking 747 to take me to Cuba! You got that, pigs?”