Slash – A Serialized Disaster: Part 6

I followed Officer Brown as he walked quickly through the concourse. Jadey scurried behind us. She tugged at my sleeve.

“Jadey,” I said sternly, “I told you if you were going to follow…”

“I know. I know,” she protested. “I just thought – these guys don’t know who you are or what you look like. Maybe it’d be better if you weren’t right on the cop’s hip.”

I wanted to correct her. I really, really wanted to correct her, but dammit, she was right. I signaled to Brown to keep up ahead and slowed to a more polite pace with Jadey at my side. She slid her hand into mine in response and gave it a firm squeeze.

“Keep your eyes peeled, kid,” I whispered, and squeezed her hand back.

I swore under my breath as a break in the current game suddenly caused a huge influx of people into the concourse as they made their way to the bathrooms and concessions. I could just keep my eye on Officer Brown as he also navigated the growing throng, but I tried not to fixate on just him. Jadey struggled to stay close as we shuffled through the lines of people.

Up ahead, Officer Brown made quick eye contact but continued forward. We cleared the worst of the congregation and tried to keep pace.

“Dad! Dad!” Jadey hissed as she indicated a direction with a jerk of her head. “There!”

Sure enough, just as Officer Brown passed the nearest portal into the arena, a figure quickly shifted around behind him. It was a white guy in a pit-stained T-shirt. His messy hair looked matted and disheveled. He kept his head on a swivel but was clearly targeting Brown. Jadey clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a gasp as the man reached into his pants pocket and produced a small object – a plastic gun.

I hurried forward, making sure to muffle my steps on the polished concrete floor. I reached him just as he was bringing the gun up with both hands, chopped down on his wrists with one hand while pushing the gun down and out of his grip with the other. Before he could respond, I took him off his feet with a twisting elbow to the throat. A handful of surrounding spectators gasped.

Officer Brown paused, but I signaled for him to continue. A few concerned citizens approached as I restrained the perp and wrestled him under control. We removed his gun – it appeared to be 3D–printed– from the situation.

“You two,” I called to a couple of big, country-looking guys. “Can you help hold him down until help arrives?”

They looked like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this. One spun his baseball cap around backwards and took to the floor like he was going to pin the guy for points. The other one simply sat on the small of his back and took over my grip, holding the guy’s hands crossed behind his back.

“You,” I called to a nearby woman. “Please call 911 and tell them you need police assistance at the arena because of an armed assailant.”

She appeared to be with the two country boys and was more than ready to participate – her shaking hands betraying her steely resolve.

Without warning, a loud volley of gunfire broke out through the facility. Screams erupted from everywhere, and everyone instinctively hunkered down in place. Jadey and I exchanged a look.

“Stay here with these folks,” I commanded. “You cannot come with me.”

Tears immediately welled in her panic-stricken eyes, but she complied.

“You’re right here with me, baby,” the woman on the phone said, curling her meaty arm around Jadey’s shoulder.

I produced my pistol from its holster and hurried after Officer Brown before the chaos inside the arena could spill out into the concourse. I only made it around the next corner before I found him. Officer Brown was lying on his side, blood running out of a shoulder wound. He was attempting to use his shoulder radio, but his hand could not clutch it correctly. His twisted fingers struggled to gain purchase on the unit or its button. I grabbed it myself and held the button down.

“Officer down. Officer down,” I called into the radio. “We need maximum response to the Event Center’s main area. We have multiple active shooters making a potential move towards the governor with intent to kidnap or harm.”

Another wave of good Samaritans descended upon the officer. He appeared coherent and breathing, mostly okay beyond his shoulder wound and possible nerve damage.

I trotted ahead, coming closer to where the executive suite would hold the governor. The panicked crowd continued their quickly growing exodus. I tried to weave through them – many shrieked at the sight of my gun. I thought of Jadey’s advice about not giving away my identity and trying to blend in. I took a moment to re-holster my gun and moved around the final corner.

The entrance to the executive suite sat at the base of its own dedicated stairwell. The doorway was flanked by two more of the sweat-stained assailants. One had a mess of curly blonde hair. The other was Asian – his straight black hair sticking straight up all around. They did not have their weapons out and visible but were clearly standing guard and ready. I had rounded the corner in a mass of folks evacuating, but most of them had continued running while I slowed to a stop. The Asian perp just seemed to notice me.

“Guys,” I called to them, moving closer. “We’ve got to get out of here. Didn’t you hear the gunshots?”

They did not respond but glared at me. At five feet away, I could already smell their unmitigated body odor.

“Oh hey!” I feigned, pointing. “There’s an officer! Hey, help!”

They both looked just in time for me to grab the closer one – the white kid – and pull him into a half head lock while pulling out my pistol. The Asian guy went to pull his piece – another 3D-printed handgun, but before he could aim, I shot him in the hand, removing a couple of fingers in the process. His friend, whom I was still choking, cried out in terror and started squirming.

“Drop your weapons, or you’re losing fingers too,” I snapped, spinning his body as I pushed him away.

He slowly pulled out his gun and slid it over to me. His accomplice was too busy gripping his bloody fingers with his good hand.

“Slide his over too,” I demanded.

The jerk complied. He was young, but not a teenager. His tear-filled eyes darted between my gun and his friend’s injured hand.

“How many more are in there?” I demanded.

Matt Hebert is an engineer and self-published author. His dopamine-fueled creative pursuits have spanned from chicken keeping, sand sculpture, acting, and public speaking, but writing is nearest and dearest to his heart. He lives in Bellevue with his wife and two daughters. You can find him on Instagram at @jerkofalltradeshebert or email him at matt.hebert.books@gmail.com

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