by C.G. Banks
*
When the bloody figure spilled out from behind the overturned table, the Artist stopped his diatribe abruptly. There were tears in his eyes so he wasn’t absolutely sure at first if what he thought he was seeing was real or not. He let the gun fall down straight at his side and his voice trailed weakly. The sounds of sirens and screaming people were suddenly much louder in the trailer, but the Artist didn’t look out the window to see how things were going. “Jerome,” he said, taking a half-step forward. “What are you doing? I killed you…”
It was at this moment that the Artist saw exactly what it was Jerome had in his hand. And even the Artist had to admit, the damn things didn’t look that dangerous. “Killed me awright, muthafucka,” Jerome tried, although everything he said was lost to the others in the classroom. “Show ‘nough. But I’m gonna kill ya again when we get ta hell…” and he pulled the trigger.
Seven of the twelve rounds struck the Artist, finally driving him back to the wall. Then, as he leaned there as if stuck, the classroom suddenly erupted. Everyone making for the doors. People screaming. Jerome was dead. Cheryl was dead.
The Artist was dying. He could feel it coming for him and slid down the wall to hide from it. There was no use; he could see it very plainly now. He wondered how long it would take him to get to hell, and once there, if Jerome would indeed be waiting for him. It wasn’t exactly the change he’d been looking for.
By the time it was safe for the paramedics to enter there was no one left to save.
Six
Consumption
