Memory Shards

Warsaw's Charger Bravo Massacre - Part 4

In any other case, in any other situation I'd be dead. There is no question about it. I am outclassed, outgunned. Anyone who doesn't know how he kills his victims would die instantly without even being able to fight back – anyone who doesn't grasp how fast he moves would be completely unable to even try to predict anything he could do. I call back to the CCTV recording – he doesn't attack the same place twice in a row. He is going for my head. He doesn't block attacks with that gauntlet for a reason. A small target compared to the rest of his body – comparable to the exercise I was doing hours ago at the shooting range. A target 260 feet away, the size of an orange. An exercise many would call pointless or only useful for competitive or Olympic shooting, as we are trained to fire at center mass, the torso, for any purpose of stopping an assailant.

The added challenge of this being a moving target is only compensated for by considering the way he moves – only then can anything be done. This much I can do.

I fire off twice onto his hand as he springs up and charges against my face – two tiny, small explosions go off; knocking his hand an inch away from me for a split second. I parry his hand away with my gun, as I move my head away from his trajectory. Just enough for him not to touch me.

He is too tall, too heavy to be knocked away or flinched by fire to center mass – the only viable option is to bring him down somehow. His body is well-covered by specialized ballistic armor; a model resembling of the next generation used by officers in the northeast side precinct – there are no obvious weak spots to fire at; except the neck which I cannot reach as it is from point-blank. That can be solved.

I target his right knee and fire 5 times at it, knocking him off balance and bringing him to an equal level.

A smart move from him – he covers his face with his indestructible left hand. This way I cannot target the eye slits in his ballistic mask or his neck. I still have 13 shots in my pistol, every shot has to count.

Three bullets knock his hand away from his face – leaving him exposed, wide open. Now it's my chance.

Using my left hand, I push his head forward, making him face up into the blinding bright of the gilded ceiling. I fire 10 rounds into his neck as he lays there on his knees – his blood splatters onto the marbled floor.

His massive frame falls to the ground, immobile.

Without a moment to spare, I reload my weapon. 20 more bullets. Three magazines left.

The noise of gunfire and bullet casings falling to the floor ceases, my ears keep ringing after the explosions going off near my face.

By all accounts I should be dead, there is no question about that. I was outclassed, out of my league in every way in facing this man, If I can even call him that. Was I off by even an inch I would've lost my head, only because I held my fire and was the last one to be attacked am I alive. He intentionally targeted a different part of each of their bodies. Chest, legs, abdomen, arms. That was not the sign of some sort of tactical genius move, or even of a strategy at all, he could've killed them faster than that. He was styling on us.

Stillness and quiet falls upon the lobby – before being cut by the sound of groans of pain. My squad mates are still alive.

My mind starts racing. There isn't a lot of time until they inevitably die of bleeding. I need options; calling an ambulance is a no-go, and I cannot call for local backup. This place, everything that's happening here is supposed to be off record. Nobody can know what's happening tonight. The southwest side precinct is the only feasible option, I need to call for backup from them. Mobilizing will take time and getting the appropriate resources to help us too. Now that the threat is neutralized all that's left is calling for help.