M McDonald - March Into Hell

Mark ignored the fact that Kern seemed to think he was bestowing a great honor upon him. "I'm nothing to believe in, Kern. Save that for God."

Jim appeared to have regained his awareness of what was happening as his right hand inched behind him. Mark hoped it was for another gun, but he tried not to watch, not wanting to signal Kern with his eyes.

"Speaking of God. Are you ready to meet Him?" Kern pulled the gun from Jim's head and pointed it at Mark.

At the same time, Jim spun and ducked, escaping Kern's grip.

Almost simultaneously, four shots sounded. Mark flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for an impact that never came. He risked a look when something hit the stage with a loud thud.

Kern lay motionless on the stage, his eyes open and unseeing. Mark took a step back and glanced at the gun he held. Had he shot Kern? He bent, releasing the weapon to clatter to the floor. Had he killed a man?

Jim knelt, his weapon still pointing at Kern, but his other hand rubbed his throat. Jessie and Dan rushed the stage.

Dan said something into his shoulder mic, then went to Jim. "Lie down and let me get a look at you."

Jim shrugged him off. "I'm fine." He moved to a sitting position though, despite his protests.

Jessie checked Kern for a pulse, then turned to Mark. "How about you?"

Mark had a hard time tearing his gaze from Kern's body, sickened that it had come to this. "I don't know." He rubbed his chest, even though it did no good through the thick Kevlar. "I'm okay, I guess. I think I've used up my lifetime allotment of miracles though." He gave a strangled laugh.

She nodded and came to him, her arms opening. He pulled her into a hug. Jessie tilted her head, her eyes locked on his as she said, "When the shots came and you went down, I thought you were dead." Her voice shook.

"Me too." Mark gave her a gentle squeeze, then grunted when she returned the favor with a little too much feeling.

She stepped away. "Sorry." With a deep breath, she seemed to regain her composure, her bearing once more that of a detective. "Let's see the damage."

Mark tugged the robe over his head with a grimace. Three slugs remained embedded in the vest, flattened into a mushroom shape. He willed his hand to stop shaking.

"We'll need the vest for evidence."

"Here, you can have it." He ripped open the Velcro straps and shrugged out it.

"Just put it on top of the robe. Then sit down until the paramedics check you over."

"I'm fine." He lifted his t-shirt, examining the ugly bruises, two on the left side of his chest, and one on the lower right. "I think I was just stunned from the impact."

"It's standard protocol, Mark. You could be bleeding internally and not know it. Besides, you were out for several minutes."

The implication slammed into him. "So for several minutes, you thought I was dead?"

She shrugged, but avoided making eye contact. It hit him full force why she'd left him. The pain in his chest had nothing to do with the shots he'd taken. He nodded. "I understand."

He knew Jessie caught the meaning behind his words because her eyes flew to his and her lip trembled before she bit it and returned the nod.

Police and paramedics swarmed into the warehouse, some approaching them on the stage, but a few tending to people on the floor.

"What happened while I was out? I kind of remember another shot. What did he," Mark inclined his head towards Kern's body, "mean about some innocent taking her own life?"

Jessie darted a look at a group gathered around someone on the floor of the warehouse, just in front of the stage. "It's Medea, although we don't have a positive ID yet."

Like another mule had tattooed him, Mark staggered. "She killed herself?"

"I don't think so. I think Kern shot her on purpose after he shot you. It was pretty chaotic though, so I can't say for certain. We'll have to watch the tapes to know for certain."

He pushed past her to the edge of the stage. Judy Medea lay crumpled, a paramedic in the act of covering her with a yellow blanket, but he caught a glimpse of her before it settled over her face. His stomach flipped, and it was all he could do to hold onto its contents.

Mark backed away, pointing towards Medea. "Two people are dead, Jessie. And for what? I don't understand." The shaking that had been present since he'd come to, intensified. "It's so damn pointless!"

"You're in shock, Mark. You need to sit."

"I don't want to sit. I want to get the hell out of here."

She reached for his arm, but he shrugged her off, and made for the back of the stage. He ignored her calls to come back and heard Jim tell her to let him go. Back in the office, he ran both hands through his hair, bent at the waist as he tried to choke back the anger and sorrow. It didn't help. The pain intensified and he sagged to sit on the edge of the old desk. He was supposed to have stopped this. It was why he had the dreams, but it hadn't worked. Their attempt to manipulate the dream had failed.

Voices approached the office. Why wouldn't anyone just leave him alone? He straightened and grabbed his jacket before pushing out the door and into the alley. Instead of the solitude he sought, he found police cars, flashing lights and dozens of people. He turned to the front of the building, intending to find a cab or walk to the 'L', steeling himself to pass through the throngs of people and police.

"Mark Taylor!"

As soon as the crowd spotted him, he didn't have a chance to escape unnoticed. The crowd closed in. Police reacted quickly, corraling the people behind a cordon of yellow tape. News vans already parked along the street, their blinding lights focused on the warehouse. It was a madhouse.

"Mr. Taylor, could I speak with you for a minute?"

The voice was familiar and Mark turned, seeking it out. A woman waved him over. He recognized her from somewhere, and he started towards her. When he was close enough, she stuck out her hand. "Hello Mark. I'm Denise Jeffries. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago."

Mark stopped dead. The reporter. His throat tightened. So many images flashed through his mind. His crucifixion, the crowds pawing at him and Medea lying dead in the warehouse, her brains splashed across the floor.

"You!" Ignoring her hand, he pointed at her. " You did this! You wanted your story, and didn't give a damn who got hurt. Well, now you have an even bigger story. Congratulations."

He didn't wait for her to respond, but turned and shoved his hands in his pockets as he stalked past the crowds, glowering at anyone who came near.

A block later, the crowds were gone and the street all but deserted. He headed for the closest 'L' and climbed the steps to the platform. It was empty and he wasn't sure when the next train would come, but it didn't matter. Eventually, one would arrive.

Mark eased down to sit on the bench, holding his ribs. It was as quiet as night time in Chicago ever got. Distantly, sirens wailed, a door slammed and the ever present hum of traffic filled the air. A shudder coursed through him. With nobody around to see, he allowed the sob, stifled for so long, to escape .