One Department

by Thomas A. Young

  “The thing that people need to take away from this,” he finally said, “is that when you target and murder police officers, they’re going to get you. They’re going to pull out the stops to do it too. We got Christopher Monfort, we got Maurice Clemmons, and now we got Randolph Gustin too. And when the smoke clears from this, it’s going to be business as usual again. Because we’re not giving murderers what they want. All that would accomplish is to insure there would only be more murder.”

  He hung up the phone. That answer was going to have to suffice until tomorrow, because it was time for him to go home.

  There was a knock on his office door, then it opened and Carol Roden stepped in. Her face was red and tears were on her cheeks. “What’s the matter now?” Burt asked.

  “Nothing’s the matter, there’s pepper spray in the building.”

  * * *

  Burt hustled down the corridor toward the lunchroom, and it was clearing out in a hurry. “Did somebody discharge pepper spray?” he demanded, and no one had an answer. “All right, we’ve got a leaking canister somewhere. Everybody out front now.” No one needed to be told twice.

  As everyone evacuated, Burt returned to his office and grabbed his gas mask from a drawer. He pulled it on, took out his flashlight, and began his search. He went first to the tactical supply room where most of it was kept. But upon lifting his mask momentarily, the smell there was no stronger than it was anywhere else. He moved into the locker rooms, first the men’s and then the women’s, but nothing seemed unusual there either. He tried the bathrooms, and then went back to the lunchroom. It was possible someone had a canister in a lunch bag that had gotten triggered, so he began to look through those.

  The news was still on the television, and the words “Breaking News” appeared in a caption as he continued his search. “We have just received a report,” the pretty blonde face on the screen announced, “that the two missing children from the sawmill blaze in Forest Hill have been found alive.”

  Burt shot up straight, and went to the TV to watch.

  The camera view shifted to a shot of the two kids being examined by paramedics. The boy was pointing at a nearby Sheriff’s Deputy and apparently telling the firemen to keep him away. “It is unknown how they escaped, and at this time they are refusing to speak to authorities. Fire officials are saying that it is apparent however that sewer tunnels played a part in their escape.”

  The anchorwoman went on about the amazing recovery, and then Burt had a most disturbing thought come into his head. He shined his flashlight up toward the ceiling, and saw a very light white mist coming out of one of the ventilation ducts. He followed the duct along the ceiling, to where it connected to the central ventilation system, which was located on the roof. It would be discovered later that a smartphone purchased at Wal-Mart had been used to pull up a satellite view of the building and locate the ventilation intake, where a pepper spray grenade could be lobbed, but right then Burt didn’t have a second to waste wondering about such details.

  He grabbed the microphone of his radio as he bolted for the front door. “Everyone back in the building now! NOW!” He ran through the hall, into the lobby, pulled his gas mask off and then burst out through the front door of the building.

  What he saw was like a surreal scene from a zombie movie. Smoke drifted through the lot, generated by smoke bombs that had been set off in advance on the upwind side. A pickup truck sat parked just outside the parking lot, it’s bright headlights illuminating the smoke and the people within it. It had recently been stolen from a driveway where it had been left warming up. All of Burt’s remaining officers were spread out in the parking lot, facing a lone man who stood in front of that truck, silhouetted in the headlights. He was holding an M1A Scout rifle, wearing a Glock pistol, and loads of magazines. His clothes were partially burnt, the left side of his face was blackened from smoke, and his pant legs were soaked. Burt’s people were frozen.

  “Shoot him! SHOOT HIM!” Burt screamed. His officers grabbed for their guns, and Randy swung his rifle up and opened fire.

  The officers all dove for cover, as Randy had already found he could rely on them to do. Randy fired wildly, or so it appeared to them at first. He fired in enough different directions that they all felt the need for solid cover, and so they ducked behind and under their patrol cars. As slugs slammed into the cars, making the engine blocks ring, some of them attempted to crawl low to get a shot from underneath. Burt was raising his own pistol as a rifle round hit the bricks beside him. A small fragment of the bullet jacket struck the white of his left eye, just deep enough to become imbedded. He screamed and lurched back inside the door.

  As soon as all the cops had ducked behind cover, the shots came a little slower, and they all struck the cars. He was using the sights on top of his scope so he could fire quickly, and the shots hit the cars mostly close to the rear ends. One cop still in full SWAT gear named Henry Engel attempted to draw a bead on his kneecaps from beneath the rear end of a cop car. A rifle round struck the gas tank, and sprayed him in the face with fuel. A couple others actually got off shots from beneath a car, but a few rifle rounds hitting the pavement in front of their faces and spraying them with asphalt made them drop that plan in a hurry.

  “Stay where you are,” Byron Palmer yelled at the others. “His clip’s almost empty.” A few more shots, and a few more impacts on vehicles, and his prediction came true. Randy had made a mess of their vehicle fleet, and spilled gasoline was everywhere, but he hadn’t hit a single officer.

  Pretty much as he had intended.

  As twelve cops stood and raised their weapons, Randy threw the M1A aside. It landed on the asphalt with a loud clatter that hurt his ears. At the very least the scope was knocked out of zero, but he didn’t figure that would be a factor any longer. As the vengeance-thirsty police officers drew beads on him, Randy brought up his own Glock and drew his bead. Not at any living target though, he aimed for the asphalt beneath the cars and fired.

  Right into the gasoline.

  The Zippo lighter flint that was jammed into the nose of the slug sparked on impact, ignited the gas, and seven cop cars were engulfed in a ball of fire. A few of the cops were engulfed along with them. The gas tank that Henry Engel was still beneath burst, spraying him with even more burning fuel. He jumped to his feet screaming, completely engulfed in fire. That provided another momentary distraction, but then the cops turned their attention back to the man who was advancing to kill them.

  Randy raised his pistol as he marched forward and yelled, “HERE COMES PAPA!”

  Randy broke right at a full sprint and fired a burst at the ones who still stood in the open. While most of the others ran for new cover, Carol Roden, Ralph Waturbury, and Raymond Ward stood their ground in the open and returned fire. Unfortunately for them, Randy was able to hit targets while on the run better than they were able to hit moving targets while under fire. Carol Roden wore no vest, and one round connected with her aorta. Another round hit Ralph Waterbury in the vest, where it was stopped. Randy reversed directions on a dime, now sprinting to the left, and stuck his gun out to his right. He aimed lower, and a hit below the vest took out Ralph’s femoral artery. The man dropped to the ground and began to bleed out.

  Raymond Ward saw how this was progressing, so he dived behind a car that wasn’t burning. A couple rounds struck the pavement beneath the car, spraying his legs with debris and fragments, some of which broke skin. He jumped up to return fire and Randy drilled him in the head.

  Randy’s regular clip ran empty, so he quickly dropped it and loaded in a 30 rounder. The eight cops who were still in fighting condition had taken new positions of cover behind other cars, and they now prepared to fire. Complicating his plans further, the burning Henry Engel came running from the right, screaming and waving his burning arms. So Randy broke left this time to avoid him and fired another burst, making the other cops duck again. Some of the others were preparing to fire from underneath the cars again, so Randy put anothe
r burst underneath the cars to dissuade them from that. Then he dropped on his right side, flipped on the weapon light and took more careful aim. The first shot hit Sean Merey square in the forehead. Right next to him, Chris Mesen stood and tried to fire over the hood. Randy put another aimed shot into his ankle, blowing it to fragments. He screamed and fell on his right side, where he found himself staring straight at Randy’s next shot from beneath the engine compartment. That one didn’t miss either.

  Sergeant Byron Palmer saw how this was playing out and he didn’t like it. He shouted, “All at once, NOW!” then he and the other five remaining stood to fire all at once. But the best feature of the big clips Randy was using was that it allowed for generous amounts of suppressive fire. He bolted to the right again while pouring another burst into the two cars they stood behind, and it worked. Three of the cops ducked again, and the ones who hadn’t still couldn’t hit him. He continued on to another car and took some cover of his own. He didn’t waste a second putting it to proper use though, he dropped on his side and fired beneath the car and into people’s legs. Lori Freye was hit in the foot and Lawrence Ridge was struck in the shin. Both fell to the ground screaming.

  The other four got a proper bead this time and poured rounds both underneath the car, and above him where they would strike him if he tried to stand. Randy scooted behind the front wheels where he had cover from both the wheel hubs and the engine, and he swapped magazines while bullets rang the metal all around him. Then he prepared to fire again, this time doing it old school. He poked his head around the front end and fired a more carefully aimed burst at the four cops. Byron Palmer was hit in the right shoulder, and he dropped down behind the car, his right arm made permanently useless. Palmer thought quick and screamed to the three others who were still on their feet. “Do what he’s doing, charge him!”

  They gave it a go, but they didn’t have Randy’s level of practice at it. Cory McCarson, Owen Hubbs, and Lance Hubbs charged at him from three directions, one on each side and one straight on. The two coming from the sides intended to run right around his cover and bury him in fire, so he didn’t have time to waste. Randy leaped to his feet and into the open, charged Lance Hubbs, the one on his right, and poured a burst into him. Then he ran up and grabbed the mortally wounded man to use as a human shield while he dispensed with Cory McCarson.

  Owen Hubbs saw the manner in which his dying brother was being used and went berserk. “That’s my brother!” He began a sprint straight at Randy. “You fucking killed my brother!” It didn’t seem right to use a man’s brother as a shield, so he dropped Lance, took careful aim at the wildly shooting man and fired one shot straight into his chest. Owen stopped for just a moment, then raised his gun again, and Randy planted another one. Owen looked at his already-fallen brother and considered his next step for another second. Then he raised the gun a third time, and this time Randy finished out the magazine on him. He finally dropped.

  Randy changed mags and walked up close to the man. “No need to be lonely, you can have a spot of ground right next to him.” He shot Owen once in the head.

  Randy took a look around the scene. Most of his opposition was dead, but some were only wounded. Unfortunately the nature of his mission precluded the taking of prisoners. So he moved in and dispatched the remainder of the force.

  There was just one more outside the building who was still alive, and that was Henry Engel, who had been engulfed in burning fuel, and pretty much still was. He had finally fallen, and was on his back convulsing. His skin was blackened and he was barely recognizable anymore. Randy approached, put a bead on his forehead, then hesitated. “You know what?” he asked. “You’re actually not one of the bad ones. I’m gonna let you live.” Engel wouldn’t live, of course, but Randy figured it’s the thought that counts. He turned away and walked to the road to pick up his rifle.

  * * *

  Esther Keel plucked at the metal fragment in Burt’s eye, but it wasn’t easy with him shouting, cursing her and yanking his head away every time she tried. But they both sensed that time was running short, so Esther finally got a firm grip on it and yanked. It came, along with a small white piece of eyeball and a hearty scream, but it was out and Burt could see again.

  When Burt had calmed himself from that, he told Esther to find a safe place while he made ready for the attack. She went to where she had always felt safest, behind the bulletproof glass at the front desk. Burt went down the hall to the weapons locker to dig up a shotgun.

  * * *

  Randy opened the front door of the building and stepped into the lobby. Since the door was plate glass, they probably hadn’t seen the point in trying to lock it. He caught movement behind the protective glass at the front counter and walked over to it. “I have an appointment to speak with the chief,” he said.

  Esther wasn’t biting. She sat in her chair and remained quiet, even after Randy leveled the rifle at the glass. “You know this glass is only made to stop pistol rounds, right?” Esther seemed to recall hearing that once, long ago, but the subject hadn’t come up since then. But there wasn’t much she could do about it now.

  Randy wasn’t getting any service, so he decided to let himself in. He fired one round into the glass, shooting at an angle just to be on the safe side. The glass stopped it, but there was a crater halfway through. Randy fired one more, and glass fragments sprayed him in the face, luckily missing his eyes. He covered his face and blasted several more rounds, finally blowing a halfway respectable hole through it.

  Esther was now beneath a back counter, no longer feeling the slightest bit safe. Which was not unfounded, because Randy wasn’t feeling especially merciful. He poked the rifle through the hole toward her. “You armed?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t carry a gun and I don’t hurt anyone.”

  “No, you just give the directions to the people who do,” Randy shot back. “There a weapon in here anyplace at all?” She shook her head again, and he had to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Lucky you.” Randy swung the rifle to the right and poked the muzzle into the button that opened the door. It buzzed, and he grabbed the handle.

  * * *

  The pepper spray had mostly been cleared by the ventilation system, which was fortunate. There was enough left to cause some irritation, especially in Burt’s injured eye, but he could at least breathe.

  “BURT! HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT YOUR LAST WORDS ARE GOING TO BE?” Gustin’s voice boomed through the hall at him, and then a blast of gunfire followed it. The walls were far less bullet resistant than the glass at the front, and every rifle round penetrated several, blowing chunks of sheet rock, wood, and all other manners of debris through the air. “I RECOMMEND ‘FUCK YOU,’ OR ‘SEE YOU IN HELL!’” The voice moved closer, and Burt readied his shotgun, as a few more rounds plowed through the building. “’TELL MY WIFE I LOVE HER’ WILL NOT GET YOU REMEMBERED BY ANYONE. YOU GOT THAT?”

  Gustin was almost there, and Burt needed him to show himself. Plus, there was a comeback on the tip of his tongue he couldn’t keep to himself any longer. “Well if those are my choices,” he shouted back, “then fuck you Gustin, I’ll see you in Hell.” Randy heard where his voice came from and moved closer to the door. “And if it’s not too much trouble, tell my wife I love her!”

  Randy raised an eyebrow. “Very well stated!” he shouted in reply, then he opened the gunfight with a salvo fired through the wall into the room. Burt knew that Randy was trying to make him go to ground though, and he didn’t do it. He saw where the rounds came through and put one round of buckshot through the wall in return. But Randy had just leapt into the doorway, and he began firing from there. Burt had no choice but to hit the floor, but as he did so he fired another round wildly.

  This time he got lucky though. Some wood and plaster debris blew out of the ceiling where the buckshot hit and sprayed Randy in the face. Randy recovered quickly, but Burt capitalized just a little bit faster. He fired another round, which went wide left, but a couple pell
ets hit Randy’s right forearm. The impact and the pain made Randy spin partway to the right, and then Burt put his next shot right on target.

  Into his back.

  Randy landed on the floor with a thud, as powerful tingling jolts rocked his entire spinal column. Burt got his breathing under control, then got up and approached with his shotgun trained on Randy’s head. He fully intended to pull the trigger the moment Randy made any kind of move. As his rifle was still in his right hand, it wouldn’t be hard to justify, even if his right arm didn’t appear to be much use at the moment. He moved up a little too close, and that’s when Randy moved.

  His left hand shot out and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. But instead of twisting it away, he pulled it closer, straight toward his head. “You still lose,” he said. “You’ve lost everything, just like I have, and I took it from you. Not only that, I proved you’re not so mighty, and that’s something people will never forget.” He let that sink in for a second. “You don’t own us anymore. Now send me on my fucking way.”

  Burt’s thoughts went back to some of Randy’s own words. Copycat shooters are inspired when the original shooter gets what he wants. Randy wasn’t suicidal, and would never shoot himself like the typical mass shooter would, but he was perfectly fine with going out in a blaze of glory. What if he gave Randy what he wanted, and that proved to be the inspiration that the copycats who were waiting in the wings needed? If any more like him were to spring up, this really could become the next national shooting trend, and he couldn’t risk that. Besides which, the last thing on Earth he wanted was to give Gustin what he wanted.

  Burt pulled the muzzle of his shotgun back. Part of him hated the idea of mercy, but part of him felt grim satisfaction at knowing that revenge would be dished out over a much longer period of time.

  “No such luck for you,” he said.

  Chapter 17