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Episode
017
“This may be the commander in chief’s navy, but this
Gene Hackman, Crimson Tide
The morning was marked with blood.
The university was deathly quiet, as the streets remained empty.
The doors to the giant buildings of the expansive college remained shut
closed and locked. In the middle of the giant, brick courtyard in the
center of the university, the bricks were stained with the gentle rain
that washed over the city, trying in vain to cleanse the fear and horror
from it’s mind. Out
in the front of the main university building, where all could see, the
American flag flapped in the constant wind. Battling bravely against the
rain and the wind, it whipped the air as it struggled to remain a loft.
It flew at half-mast.
“Two police officers are dead this morning, along with the
suspect in a burglary crime. They were escorting the suspect to the city
courthouse for questioning.” Said the reporter, the small television set
waving in the fuzzy, antennae reception.
“Oh my god.” Kim said, watching in horror from the head of
Ruwani’s bed. She hugged the pillow she held closer to her body, closing
her eyes at the very thought of the report that came in through the
television.
“I can’t believe it.” Malcolm said in a whisper, sitting at
the computer desk, with Ruwani sitting at his feet, leaning against his
knee. In the cramped dorm room, the bulk of the World Alliance sat,
watching in shock.
“That’s six so far, right?” Tim asked, looking like he was on
the verge of tears. Malcolm nodded, saying nothing. Tim turned back to the
television, swallowing hard as he watched. He tried to take a deep breath,
but he sputtered it out, unable to hold it in.
“Six people.” Marilyn said in disbelief, leaning back against
Victor, who held her with his arms around her waist. “Why would someone
. . .” She stopped. She didn’t want to know.
“The shootings occurred this morning, around 2:14 am.” The
reporter looked to the camera, her brown trench coat still stained from
the slight rain that flew behind her, landing against the courthouse.
“The police say they still have no suspect.”
“What do you think?” Armand asked, looking at Everett, covered
in a sheen of morning sweat. “Think it’s the same guy?” He asked.
“Has to be.” Everett said, sitting on the opposite side of the
couch from Armand. In his lap, his sword rested quietly. Like Armand, he
was still sweating from the workout now forgotten. “No one else would do
something like this.”
“Might be a copy-cat.” Armand said morbidly, his eyes glued to
the television set as the reporter continued.
“I don’t know why, but I doubt it.” Everett said, also
mesmerized by the report. “Just . . . just doesn’t fell right, you
know? A copycat? No. I just don’t see it.”
“I guess.” Armand said, unconvinced. He turned back to the
television, his silence carrying more weight then his words.
“And while the police say they have no suspects,” The reporter
went on. “They do believe they have identified the weapon.”
“The same one from the other shootings.” Morgan said, staring
at the map, his back to the television. He stepped back from the detailed
city map; three new pins added to the other three. “Question is, four or
five?” He asked to himself, his arms crossed under his chest. He opened
his eyes wide, looking no longer at the pins but at their location on the
map. And at the map itself. “And where?” he asked, rhetorically.
“The weapon appears to be a 22 caliber rifle,” The reporter
said to the camera. “The same weapon that appears to have been used in
the other shootings, leading police to believe that this was the work of
the same shooter.”
“Of course it was.” Roland yelled at his radio, as he waited at
the traffic jam. A long line of cars ahead of his beat-up truck ended at
the police blockade. The three-land highway had condensed into a single
lane, one that was being stopped at every car and searched by the police.
“I’m going to get arrested.” Roland said, glancing back into
his back seat, the handle of his katana sticking out from underneath his
heavy rain jacket. “I’m going to get arrested. They’re going to
think I’m the sniper and they’re going to arrest me. He let his head
fall back to the headrest of his seat. “Bad enough that classes got
cancelled, after I got up so early to get here.” He grumbled to himself.
“Now, I got stuck here, trying to get home.” He shook his head,
letting his chin fall to his hands on the steering wheel. “Now, I’m
going to get arrested. I know it.”
“Police have already set up traffic check-points, in an attempt
to identify the shooter.”
“Thanks for telling me.” Roland said to the radio.
“Won’t do any good.” Edgar said, as he stood patiently on his
balcony, his body covered in sweat as he held his rapier in his hand, the
hanging rings before him. On the railing of the balcony, the portable
radio rattled off the reports.
“He’s too entrenched.” Edger went on, more to himself.
Without any hint or warning, he lunged forward, thrusting the weapon out
away from him. His form sent the sword blade through the first two rings
without flaw, but the tip of the blade nicked the third ring. He retracted
the blade, disappointed. He took up his stance again, the nimble blade
held ready.
“The police are still trying to identify the bullet type, in the
hopes that I may lead to identifying the rifle’s owner.”
“It won’t work.” Jericho said with a pleased grin, sitting
behind his stained oak desk, staring at the giant, wall-mounted television
on the opposite wall from his giant window. “Our bullets can not be
traced, nor can their origins be identified.” He templed his hands in
diabolical delight, leaning back in his chair. He turned form the
television, smiling.
“The community’s in an up-roar.” He said. “The police are
more panicked then the populace. Even the basic city functions are slowed
or shut down.” He smiled, his eyes closed. “How marvelous.” He said,
with almost a laugh.
The reporter continued. “Meanwhile, the community is in mourning
as the death toll slowly mounts in these heinous crimes.”
“They should be mourning.” Aaron said, sitting back in his own
desk. He held out his hand, the remote calling the television to mute
immediately. Alone in the room, he stood up with an exhausted motion. He
turned to the large window, looking outside. “I
bet this is Jericho.” He said to himself, shaking his head as he stared
at his reflection in the daylight window. “This has his style written
all over it. Maniacal, diabolical, and more than a little bit cruel.”
Aaron turned from the window, glancing at the silent television.
“But why? Why would he be doing this now? Is this for the Triumvirate?
Did they order this?” He thought about that. “They couldn’t have.
They’ve always been so patient and calm and slow and . . .” He shook
his head. “This just doesn’t seem like them.”
He turned back to the television, holding out his remote. The red
dots on the bottom of the screen spread over the bottom, as the volume
rose. “And still, community leaders are at a loss for what to tell the
people.”
“Start with the truth.” Ledger said, pulling himself straight
up on his chin-up bar. His jaw crossed the bar and he lowered himself back
down, barely even paying attention to the radio in the corner of the room.
He dropped down from the bar, his thin tank top soaked in sweat as
he stepped back from the bar, his hands curling around to grip onto his
fingerless gloves. He glanced over his shoulder at the radio, waiting for
the next bit of bad news. “Tell them that the shooter’s got a pattern,
you just can’t figure it out. Tell them that the shooter’s been able
to avoid arrest because people keep interfering. Tell them anything and
everything, guys, but tell them the truth.
“But one thing remains certain.” Said the reporter, her voice
coming over Ledger’s radio as half static. “The longer this shooter
remains at large, this community will not be able to rest easily.” |