The World in Shadow (Eternal Warriors Book 2)

by Vox Day

  Chapter 26

  Steal, Kill, and Destroy

  I feel forces all around me

  Come on raise your head

  Those who hide behind the shadows

  Live with all that's dead

  —Creed, (“Bullets”)

  It was as if he was living in two different worlds, Brien thought as he slowly turned over a twelve-gauge shotgun shell in his fingers. It was kind of like The Matrix, where the day-to-day world in which he got up, ate breakfast, went to school, and then came back again didn’t even exist, it was just a superficial layer that only served to hide the real world. The real world was a more exciting place, where important things happened, and where decisions of life and death were being made all the time.

  Sometimes it was hard to keep up the pretense, and he felt like he would burst open at any second if he couldn’t tell the terrible secret he was keeping tucked away inside him, and at other times the whole situation struck him as just being horribly funny. He walked through the halls during the day lost in a mystic haze, like a god of death disguised among his unknowing worshippers. Perhaps that one would die, struck down by his fateful hand of vengeance, or perhaps that one. They didn’t know, they were such idiots that they had no clue at all that their doom was already walking among them.

  At such moments, he could barely repress the urge to giggle with delight, and he found that he could barely force himself to wait the two long weeks until the first. One day, as he found himself caught within the post-sixth hour press on the stairs leading up from the cafeteria, he suddenly realized that this was exactly what undeath must feel like for a vampire. To experience the fullness of that which sets you apart, that which makes you superior to the crowd, is to become something fundamentally different from what you were before. He and Derek had somehow become the legendary daystalkers, those who did not have to hunt by night. The Nottambuli were just a silly, juvenile conception of that which lay at the true heart of all power, the ability to destroy.

  “You ready?” Derek asked him. “Remember, if we get caught, you’ve got to stick to the whole high school prank thing. Since the end of the year’s coming up, they’ll find it easy to buy the idea that this is just some kind of stupid dare.”

  “Yep,” Brien nodded. “I still think I should be the one driving, though. You can run faster than I can.”

  His friend shook his head.

  “If it comes down to running, we’re screwed, dude. The whole point is to not get noticed. Besides, I’ve got a record and you don’t, so if we did get busted, they’d be more likely to believe a bullshit story from you.”

  That was true. Derek had also changed since they’d made their momentous decision just ten days ago. He was quieter and more thoughtful now, almost to the point of being philosophical. He reminded Brien of a character in a Herman Hesse novel, an initiate filled with a calm tranquility that was tangibly serene. Derek didn’t even smoke much anymore, it was as if he was beyond the drugs now, as if getting high would actually be bringing him down, or something like that. Brien shrugged. It was hard to articulate, exactly, except that his friend was starting more and more to resemble a holy man, or a priest.

  Only a holy man was seldom going to come up with a plan for taking down twenty-six people. That was their target number, which was almost double the number of the last school shooting and was also two times thirteen, which was Derek’s lucky number. In truth, Brien didn’t really care, as long as Jim Schumacher was among the twenty-six.

  They had decided on shotguns as their weapons of choice, not only because of the obvious Doom-based coolness factor, but also because a careful Internet study of various mass shootings had revealed that unless they could get their hands on a fifty caliber heavy machine gun, there simply weren’t very many weapons that were all that effective for their purposes. Brien had argued for assault rifles, until Derek pointed out that in one California incident, the shooter had fired about a million rounds with an AK-47, and still had only managed to kill five people.

  “How lame is that? There’s not much point in wasting your time with something that can’t even knock down a kindergartner. All that high-speed military crap is useless, it just makes tiny holes, it doesn’t have any stopping power.

  “Well, if assault weapons are so lame, how come everybody’s always trying to ban them?”

  “Beats me. But check it out. This police report says that even though they had nine millemeters at Columbine, most of the fatalities were caused by the shotguns. That’s why twelve-gauge is the ticket.”

  “What about explosives? Should we make some pipe bombs?”

  “No, I thought it was weak how Klebold and Harris got themselves caught on tape shooting at that stupid propane tank, trying to make it explode. They looked like fucking amateurs, you know? Pipe bombs are good for noise, but not much else. Unless we’re going to go car bomb, which means a shitload of ammonium nitrate, a lot more than we can afford, there’s not much point. It’s just a waste of time.”

  Derek had decided that they weren’t going to buy the guns, either. Instead, they invested in four hundred rounds of twelve-gauge, one hundred rifle slugs, and four bad-ass bandoliers that made them look like a pair of fucking Mexican revolutionaries. In a moment of sheer brilliance, Derek had come up with what would be their ultimate fuck you gesture; they would steal the guns from the police.

  “Just think about it,” he smiled evilly. “They start the whole tracing procedure, and what do they come up with? It’s their own fucking guns! I just wish I could see the face on the guy who figures it out first. Can you imagine the press conference? ‘Uh, ladies and gentlemen, we have learned that the alleged killers obtained their weapons from, uh, us. Awesome!”

  Now that the moment of truth was nearly upon them, though, Brien was starting to wish they’d just settled for buying a pair of cheap Winchesters at a sporting goods store. He’d checked out a place in Roseville and for a few hundred bucks, he could have spared himself this whole nerve-wracking business. Derek was driving, and they were only two blocks away from the Taco Bell where several cops usually got together for lunch. They as prepared as they could be, having made two previous dry runs and with license plates they’d stolen the night before screwed onto the Honda in the place of its real plates, but Brien still didn’t feel ready.

  “Gloves?” Derek asked, as his eyes scanned the vicinity. The Burger King parking lot was three-quarters full with the lunch rush. A lot of business types came to this particular string of fast food restaurants, which were almost always crowded at this time of day.

  “Check,” Brien said, pulling his Minnesota Wild baseball cap down low over his shades. He tugged on the transparent plastic gloves he had obtained from the school nurse. He didn’t want to leave any fingerprints, but he couldn’t be seen wearing a pair of black leather gloves this close to summer either. “Ready to rock.”

  His pulse throbbed uncomfortably, and his throat felt tight as Derek smoothly turned through the last corner. The familiar white stucco of the Taco Bell building came into view, and as they’d expected, there were three police cars parked towards the far end of the lot, which was only half-full. Brien felt a sudden rush of adreneline, as if he was at the top of a roller coaster just about to plunge down a steep track.

  “I love it when a plan comes together,” he muttered grimly.

  “Thank you, Hannibal,” Derek said, his eyes never ceasing their constant movement. “Okay, see that green Audi? I’ll slow down and you get out as soon as we’re behind it. Use that and the rusty Oldsmobile as cover. Stay low, keep moving, and if the driver’s side door is locked, don’t screw around, just move on to the next car. The whole thing should take fifteen seconds, tops. I’ll loop around towards the building, then pick you up just behind the third car.”

  “Right,” Brien nodded, taking a deep breath. Here goes….

  The car slowed to a crawl.

  “Go, go, go!” Derek urged harshly, but Brien had already shouldered his
door open.

  Ooof! He slipped and fell to his hands and knees, and the rough sting of gravel on his left palm told him that his glove had torn open. Shit! What now? Keep moving, you clumsy dork, he cursed himself, as he crawled rapidly towards the first car.

  Click-click-click. The door handle moved impotently upwards.

  Dammit! It was locked. He rose to a crouch and ran as fast as he could around the nose of the white vehicle. Ignoring Derek’s instructions, he tried the passenger side, but that door, too, was locked. Stinking conscientious bastard! What, did he think some idiot was going to try to steal his stupid cop car or something?

  He spun around, still in his crouch, and tried the next car. It was also locked. Cursing furiously, Brien quickly rushed around to the third and last police car and tugged at the door handle. There was a loud ‘chunk’ and the sudden resistance indicated that the door was unlocked. Yeah, baby! But when he pulled the heavy door open he looked around the car’s interior and saw nothing resembling a weapon of any kind, much less a shotgun.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

  Brien eased himself backwards and shut the door as quietly as possible. He didn’t think anyone had seen him, but in an exposed area like the parking lot, it was impossible to be sure. As the low roar of an engine approaching from somewhere to his right grew louder, Brien fell to one knee and pretended to be tying a loose shoelace. It was probably Derek, but he couldn’t see from where he was kneeling behind the police car.

  Rubber crunched on gravel as the onrushing car swung in behind him and quickly braked. It was Derek after all.

  “It’s cool,” his friend shouted through the window, looking past him towards the restaurant. “Nobody’s seen anything.”

  Brien nodded and stood up slowly, dusting himself off and casually strolling the short distance that separated him from the vehicle. Just pretend nothing’s going on, and no one will pay any attention, he reminded himself, although the three seconds it took him to reach the Honda seemed to take about five minutes. He opened the door without hurrying, and slid into the passenger seat.

  “We got jack,” he announced, as Derek turned the car around deliberately and headed towards the frontage road. “The third one was open, but it didn’t have anything in it.”

  Derek nodded.

  “Plan B, I guess. Damn!” He pounded the gear shift. “That was going to be so cool!”

  “We could always try again, like, next week,” Brien suggested.

  “Too risky. We’ve already been through here three times, and eventually someone’s going to notice something’s up.” He blew his long bangs out of his eyes. “No, let’s just buy the damned guns.”

  “Okay, but remember, there’s a waiting period, so we’ll have to do it soon.”

  “You’ll have to do it,” Derek told him. “I’ve got a record now, so I don’t think I’ll pass the background check.”

  “Then we’ve got a problem,” Brien answered slowly. Derek looked surprised.

  “Why?” he wanted to know. “We can get the money.”

  “That’s not the problem,” Brien replied. “You forgot something, dude. I’m not eighteen.”

  Brien wasn’t surprised that following their disappointing failure to acquire the necessary armaments at Taco Bell, Derek opted not to go to school that afternoon. But Brien didn’t have anything better to do, so after dropping Derek off at his house and sharing a consolation post-op tokage, he found himself pulling into the school parking lot. What am I doing here, he wondered? Even if we can’t get our shit together, it’s not like I need to be here.

  There was a certain clarity to this pre-suicidal state that he found absolutely invigorating. Even if he chickened out in the end and didn’t decide to off himself or anyone else, he had realized that he didn’t have to accept life on its own terms any longer. He made the rules now, nobody else, and if he chose to continue to play the game for another month or another year, that was just fine. The important thing was that he didn’t have to play anymore; everything was optional. It was a liberating feeling.

  There seemed to be somewhat of a commotion in the halls, and small groups of students were clustered here and there, gossiping intensely about something. Brien craned his neck around, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “What’s going on?” he grabbed the arm of a passing freshman.

  “Huh?” the kid said, alarmed. When Brien repeated his question, the smaller boy relaxed and pushed back his glasses, which had been coming perilously close to falling off the end of his nose. “Dude, there was, like, this total locker search and a whole bunch of juniors got busted for having weed and stuff. There’s about fifty cops here, and they’ve got dogs and everything. I hear they’re doing Senior Hall next.”

  “Thanks,” Brien patted the boy on the shoulder, and couldn’t help grinning when he saw the kid looking around to see if anyone had noticed him talking to a senior. It was a good thing he’d never been dumb enough to keep his stash in his locker; anyone who thought that the school would hesitate to search its own property was an idiot who deserved to get busted.

  A thought struck him. If there were so many cops here, then where were all their cars? He walked quickly up the stairs and past the gym to the back parking lot, and saw that there were eight or nine police cars parked in the reserved spots and up on the sidewalks. Fifty cops? Yeah, sure, whatever. More like ten.

  He knew it was probably a bad idea, but he couldn’t keep himself from pushing the door open, and checking out the cars. Much to his surprise, several policemen had left the doors to their vehicles ajar, and one car even had its trunk lid sticking up in the air. To his utter delight, he could see something made of dark blue metal lying partially exposed under a coil of rope and a pair of black-and-yellow jumper cables. Wrapping his sleeve over his left hand, he carefully pushed aside the rope, and saw that the metal belonged to two automatic shotguns. Twelve-gauge, from the looks of it.

  Jackpot! But how was he going to get the guns out of there and over to his car without anyone noticing? He wasn’t wearing a trenchcoat, and it wasn’t like he could pretend he was out hunting pheasants or something. A bag, that was what he needed. A big, long bag, like the kind they used for skis. Or hockey!

  He punched his fist into his palm excitedly. This was a sign! It had to be! He rushed back into the school building, and hurled himself headlong down the basement stairs leading to the boy’s locker room. It was a dark and dingy place, its brick walls slathered with crudely applied paint that had long ago faded from its original bright red to an ominous shade that looked more like blood. The old equipment cage was on the right, with rust flaking from the poles that supported the thin metal mesh. It was supposed to be locked, but it never was, since the ancient sports gear stored there was too old and worn out to be of interest to anyone. Since you could lock it from the inside, couples often used it to mash during the day. Not that he ever had, of course.

  Brien frantically dug his way through ancient shoulder pads, decaying reversible t-shirts, and football jerseys that had been out of style since the eighties. Much to his amusement, he also found several empty condom wrappers. Finally, he uncovered something that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, but would manage to serve his purpose. It was an old canvas football bag, designed to hold shoes, shoulder pads, and helmets. It was worn, and there were holes in it, but the main thing was that it was long enough to hold the guns.

  He stretched it out. Mounds Park Indians? Geez, how old was this thing? On the side of the bag was a large logo of an Indian chief wearing a full headdress of feathers. Nice mascot. No wonder they chucked it, he thought disapprovingly, clutching the heavy canvas in both hands as he raced back up the stairs, breathing hard.

  Pshew! Brien had to pause at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. Sweat was starting to trickle down from his forehead, and he wiped it away irritably with an untucked shirt tail. This was hard work! He froze as he heard a group of people coming down the stairs
that led to the freshmen lockers, but fortunately it wasn’t, as he feared, policemen escorting the busted juniors out to the waiting squad cars, it was only a gaggle of excited underclassmen who’d been excused early from class.

  That meant the bell was going to ring soon. He had to work fast, before the parking lot was covered with gawking students. He rushed outside and strode straight for the car with the open trunk. If anyone stops you, then you just saw the weapons lying out in the open and you thought they might be dangerous, he told himself. You’re taking them to the principal’s office.

  It was hard to avoid looking surreptitiously around, or otherwise acting guilty, but Brien managed to keep a purposeful demeanor about himself as he reached into the trunk and gently slid the two weapons out from under the jumper cables, then rolled the unzipped opening around each gun, one at a time. At every moment, he was half-expecting an unfriendly hand to clap him on the shoulder and demand to know what he was doing, but he gritted his jaw nonetheless and zipped the bag shut, then carefully withdrew it from the police car. It only took a moment to readjust the rope and cables to cover the absence of the guns, and then he was walking away from the car, hoping desperately that no one had noticed what he had just done.

  Every fiber of his being screamed to take the shortest route to his car by walking around the outside of the building, but he forced himself to stick to his cover story. As long as he was in the building, he could claim to be heading for the principal’s office, or, if he was caught heading in the wrong direction, he could say he was looking for the policemen. Not the best excuse, maybe, but since he wasn’t known as a troublemaker, it would probably hold up well enough. Plausible deniability.