Tim Washburn - Powerless

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here discussing the assassination of a head of state,” the secretary of state fumes.

“We’re not assassinating anyone, Allison. At least not yet, anyway. I want a plan and I want it in the next two hours.”

Dallas

All of the classroom doors are open and what little light exists outside is enough to proceed without the flashlight. Zeke creeps down the hallway, only taking a moment with each classroom. He can’t see into the darkest corners but his ears are attuned for the slightest noise. So far he’s heard zip. He thinks about shouting out for Carl but doesn’t yet want to make his presence known. He’s weary from being in the saddle all day and all this lurking around has his every last nerve frayed.

He moves down the next hallway, clearing the rooms fairly quickly but the building seems to be never ending. He follows the dim tile pattern in the floor; making a left then a right, and now he’s so confused in the darkness he doesn’t have an inkling of where he is. At the next hallway intersection he makes a left and comes upon a large open area. Enough ambient outside light leaks through the panel of glass doors that he can make out a sign mounted up high on the wall declaring the room to his right the principal’s office. Working his way around the perimeter he clicks on the flashlight and shines the yellow light into the offices. Nothing.

It’s been a long time since Zeke attended high school, but he’s betting school designs haven’t changed much over the years. The people in them, yes, but most follow the same basic layout, which means the cafeteria should be close. And where there’s a cafeteria there will be vending machines. He ducks down another hallway and walks quietly, searching for the cafeteria. It needs to be a large space in order to have fed all the students in a timely manner. He steps across the hall and glances through a door to see a big, empty room. He stops and pivots a three-sixty, searching for the faint outline of a vending machine.

“Carl,” he whispers. “Carl.” He pauses to see if his whispers receive a response. A moan. He clicks on the flashlight and sweeps the beam around the area. The light falls on a man curled up in a fetal position next to a threesome of now-empty vending machines. He steps over and kneels down next to the man. “Carl?”

The man moans in response and Zeke puts his hand on the man’s shoulder only to have him try to scurry away.

“Carl, it’s me, Zeke,” he says, no longer whispering. He leans down as close to Carl’s face as he can. Carl’s jaw is hanging at an odd angle and dried blood coats his face in a heavy mask. “Carl… Carl…”

Finally he responds, trying to move his head in Zeke’s direction.

“What happened?”

“Some ugs acked me.” His jaw is not functioning enough to form the words.

“Can you stand?”

“Dunno. I ry.”

Zeke grasps him under the arms and gently lifts as Carl shouts out in agony. He gets Carl on his feet and turns him around.

“Anything broken besides your jaw?”

“Don hink so,” he stutters out. “My somach,” he says, drawing one of his arms tight to his body.

Zeke’s anger boils over at the sight of his injured brother-in-law. “How many were there?”

Carl holds up his five fingers.

“Five?”

Carl nods.

“How long ago?”

“Dunno, mus have passed ou.”

“What type of weapons were they carrying?”

“Aseall bas.”

“I’m going to take you home, Carl. Can you walk?”

“I hink so.”

Zeke drapes one of Carl’s arms over his left shoulder, leaving his right side open so he can get to the Glock in a hurry. He sweeps the flashlight from wall to wall, trying to piece together how to get back to the place he entered. To hell with it. He leads Carl to the front and hips his way through the first set of doors. They stumble across the small vestibule and crash into the final set of doors, shuffle-stepping out into the cool evening air. Zeke hadn’t realized he had been sweating as much as he had been and the westerly breeze chills his damp body.

“What happened to your gun?” Zeke asks, the question just now coming to him.

“Ook it.”

Damn, now he has to worry about someone around here toting the gun. He eases Carl down the steps to the sidewalk and pauses for a moment to listen. The only audible noise is Carl’s labored breathing. They crab to the left and go around the outside of the school. Progress is slow. Zeke is mostly dragging Carl along, trying hard not to put any more pressure on Carl’s damaged midsection.

They shuffle along the school’s flank like two drunks heading home from the bar. The journey is slow and Carl’s moans are a magnet for trouble in the otherwise still night. They pause between buildings for Carl to catch his breath. His breathing is ragged and Zeke begins to wonder if his injuries are more severe than he first thought.

Zeke helps Carl to the curb while he continues to scan for threats. Not only are there a group of thugs running around with baseball bats, now there’s a gun in play. The night seems brighter, but it could be an illusion after having spent the last hour in near-total darkness. After resting for a few moments, Zeke helps Carl to his feet and they trudge toward home.

As they pass what looks like a softball field, the sound of laughter pierces the silence. They come to a dead stop as a flash of uncontrolled anger floods Zeke’s system. Another burst of giggles and Zeke pinpoints the source. They’re concealed behind the concrete wall of what appears to be a dugout.

“That them?” Zeke whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Think you can sit here on the curb for a moment?”

Carl nods and Zeke gently lowers him down. He makes his way over to the softball field and cuts through an opening in the fence just past first base. Slowly, Zeke follows along the fence until he’s about ten feet from the front of the dugout. He pulls the Glock and glides up to the dugout opening. After a deep breath he swivels into the opening, the gun up and ready to fire.

The young men are seated on the long wooden bench at the far end of the dugout. They are so engrossed in what they’re doing they don’t notice that certain death is standing only a few feet away. Zeke steps closer. Their faces are awash in the spillover of a flashlight. The peach fuzz on their faces suggests they’re young—maybe high school age. They’re huddled together, intently focused on something. Zeke moves closer. A flash of metal in the wash of light. Carl’s gun.

“That gun belongs to me,” Zeke says.

They whirl around as if jolted with a cattle prod. Two shriek, one screams, but the boy in the middle, the one holding the gun, remains calm.

“What are you talking about, man?” the one holding the gun says.

“I want that gun.” Zeke’s voice is low, menacing.

“I found this gun,” the boy says. There’s now a slight tremor in his voice.

With his pistol pointed center mass on the gun holder, Zeke moves closer. A quick glance at the ground reveals a heap of wooden baseball bats.

“No, you took the gun, and I’m taking it back. I can shoot you and take the gun from your dead body, or you could just hand it to me.”

The other boys are putting some distance between themselves and the boy holding the gun. Zeke really doesn’t want to have to put a bullet in the young man in front of him, but he’s not leaving without the gun.

“Give it to him, Richie,” one of the boys urges.

Richie looks up at Zeke with a smirk.

Zeke moves closer, now only about five feet from boy and gun. “Richie, hand me the gun. Whether you live or die doesn’t matter to me. But your death might upset your parents.”