The man who had won us all, Rockaway was talking. Everyone of us loved him, for something he did. We weren’t exactly sure what it was, but we loved this man who had helped us. He was talking, and we cheered after everything he said. He said something about our freedom. We cheered. He said something about our lives. We cheered. He said something about the world. We cheered. And fell silent. And watched the body fall. Blood was running from a little clean bullet hole in his head, right above his left temple. The crack of the first shot fired that day made everyone flinch, as the sound caught up with everyone watching. There was silence. Then one man said, “He was a horrible person, trying to enslave us like that.” Everyone seemed terror stricken, but agreed. Eventually some decided to move.
They wanted to get rid of the horrible man, and the dead body staining their already red flag. The crowd seemed to agree. They cheered when someone got up on stage and yelled to destroy the system put in place, the one that allowed someone as terrible as Rockaway to get into power. The second shot fired that day took the man through the neck, spraying a little red mist over the crowd, and staining the large red flag behind him again. This time a man walked on stage, and he was dressed up. He had a military outfit on, and a gun strapped to his waist. He called out “You can stop shooting now, whoever you are. We will find you, and we will kill you.” An explosion answered him. The entrances to the stadium they were in had collapsed. They were trapped, trapped and ready for slaughter. The third shot fired that day took the man through the stomach. He fell to the floor, next to bodies one and two, and slowly bled over the flag. Someone screamed from the front of the stage. A woman ran up, and grabbed the man, hugging him, and sobbing, and screaming as her white dress slowly grew crimson. The fourth shot took the woman in the chest. She jerked like a ragdoll, and collapsed over her dead husband, and her crimson dress suddenly took on a darker shade of red. Someone crept on the stage. It was a little boy. On the other side, a little girl crouched as well. They stared at the four corpses creating a large pool of blood on top of a red flag. The boy turned, and his shoulders started shaking. They stopped shaking as the fifth shot fired that day took him through the back. The girl shrieked as well, as the sixth shot fired that day took off the bottom of her foot. She wailed, and rolled on the area right by the stairs, clutching the stump on her leg. Someone dressed in white ran up and tried to help her. She didn’t stop sobbing, and the man sedated her. As he pulled out the syringe, and turned to grab a bandage, the seventh shot fired that day took him in the thigh. He fell clutching at it, and rolled down the stairs. There was a crack as he hit his head. Amidst the sobs, the crowd shuffled. Each and everyone wanting to do something, but rooted by fear to the spot. Someone turned, an intelligent one, who looked for something. A flash of light, a movement, something from the sniper who wanted to kill them. He saw a movement, a stick that was just too straight. And stopped staring as the bloody mess of his eye stopped him. The people around him shrieked, running away from the pile of meat that had been a living, thinking being just moments before. The sound of the eighth shot fired that day washed over the frightened crowd. Someone screamed in the crowd. Someone else pointed towards a hedge “HE’S IN THERE! MY GOD HE’S GONNA KILL US ALL!” The sound was silenced by a whizz smelling faintly of explosives, and freshly scented with fresh blood. The ninth shot fired that day left everyone in a panic. Another crack rang through the air. The tenth one that day. Everyone looked around, expecting to see another body slumped. Nothing. And then the survivors surveyed the hole in the ground.
