Prologue
The temperature had been clocked at forty-three degrees Celsius, the hottest day of the year so far, not unnatural for these parts but still causing people to retreat to the shade, not enough however, to have cleared the beach. No, there were still many tourists littering it, taking in the heat from the rays of sun, basking in the ambience and watching their young play by the sand, on the verge of the water but no one batting an eyelid at the dangers that may await.
One woman held a bottle of beer in her hand, her son begging for her attention by preforming some type of breakdancing that he’d clearly learned recently, but to no avail, she waved him off like an irritating fly of some type.
Some people don’t deserve children. That was what he was thinking as he made his way over the rocky edge of the beach. He didn’t look out of place, the only difference was he was fully clothed, most others, such as the elderly men with the large beer bellies and the slowly forming breasts wore only a pair of ill-fitting swimming trunks.
He wasn’t like them though, the scum of the earth in his opinion. No real aim in life, only to live for the next day, strolling through life, complaining about everyday tasks, what a waste.
He stopped walking and stood on a jagged rock, large waves smashed against them, spilling over the sides and engulfing his feet. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and stared into the ball of fire that illuminated everything in its path, so beautiful but so dangerous.
A child ran by him, he was no older than ten, slightly overweight, maybe only baby fat that hadn’t yet been burned off, blame the parents. He wore only swimming trunks and bright yellow armbands. The child was far from where he was told to stay, maybe in search of a beach ball or some other inflatable toy that had rolled off somewhere.
He watched like a snake from its layer, he could strike at any moment, his parents would never know, after initial panic they would call the police, they would be frantic and it would be up to the father to talk to the foreign woman at the end of the phone, once the language barrier had been broken the police would be on their way, after a while they would assume the boy was washed out by the growing waves, a few weeks of searching and they would either give up or find the decomposed body somewhere in the rocks. It would never come back to him though. But maybe this one was different; maybe this child had a purpose in life and wouldn’t be like the rest of them.
He pulled his gaze away from the child who had found what it was looking for and was running back to his parents.
Christopher continued over the rocks until his feet made contact with the warm sand, the water acted as a glue to it and it, uncomfortably stuck to him. He could feel the cold metal against his warm skin under his t-shirt, he racked his brains to think of the name, it was only a small one, hand-gun is what they call it, but it has a name, to distinguish it from the rest. Colt. That was it, and a number, there was a number that went with it, but Christopher couldn’t recall it, maybe he didn’t know, it made no difference, either way it would be used for only one thing.
His hand shook but it wasn’t nerves, something else, alcoholism, years of self-abuse from the bottle, now he was making up for it, righting the wrong. Yes, that was it, righting the wrong. Righting the wrong, righting the wrong. He said it over and over as he walked to the centre of the beach.
No one looked at him, the odd glance but no, no one surveyed the ordinary man that walked with seemingly no purpose, only to soak up the rays. Little did they know.
Christopher stopped, his heart beat fast against his chest, like somebody knocking on a door repeatedly. He grasped the butt of the gun and slowly lifted it from his waistband, cautious not to draw any unwanted attention, yet.
He lifted it, feeling its weight for the first time, time stood still, he knew that nobody would notice him yet, there were enough people to disguise him. He had a few more seconds… Any second now.
An attractive young woman watched from her oversized sunglasses as the same man she had watched walk from the rocks lifted up the black metal gun, held it pointing toward the crowd and unloaded three loud shots. Two people fell to the ground, the rest dispersed, running for their lives, picking up their children and bolting for the road.
More shots, more people falling, more people running.
Christopher pointed at a new angle, taking out two more people as he swung the gun to his next targets. A man, struggling to pick himself from the sunbed, bang, bang. He slumped back, a small trail of blood leaving his mouth.
A little girl about ten had stopped, feet away from him, she cried large comical tears that dripped down her cheek and fell onto the sand.
Could he do it, could he take a child’s life?
Bang
No more contemplating.
Five more rounds, five more victims. He could hear the sirens from the police cars, the police men and women that would arrive in about three minutes would know little information except that a gunman was taking people out, they’d be armed and if Christopher didn’t stop shooting or he didn’t drop the gun, they’d shoot him. Two wrongs don’t make a right. The words scrambled around his brain and formed a new sentence, one that caused the trigger to be pulled three more times. Righting the wrong.
The call had come in six minutes ago, there was a strange air in the car as they drove at full speed through the small town, disregarding other motorists and pedestrians, they were less important at this moment.
Clara Nightwood gripped the handle of her baton; she was one of the unarmed ones, the replaceable ones. She knew that she wouldn’t get near the gunman, she wasn’t sufficiently armed for it, but she would see him, watch as he either surrendered or died. Shoot to kill. If the situation arose were a person needed to be shot, the shot would have to be to the head or heart, an instant kill, no injuries, that would be too messy to the police force.
The car pulled to a screeching halt and all four officers fled from it as if it were on fire, two other squad cars pulled up beside them and more and more officers copied. The shots continued, the gunman could clearly see the army of officers waiting, aiming, but he didn’t stop.
Here they come. Christopher could see the first bunch of police men and women exit their vehicle, a woman, the only woman, blonde and beautiful. She was scared, he suspected that this was her first serious call and he was going to make sure it was one she didn’t forget.
He turned his aim for the last time, pointing his gun toward the officers; he waited for the first bang. If he had continued to aim at the civilians, they would have taken longer to apprehend or shoot him but no, when it’s one of their own, there reactions are fast, they feel they’re better than everyone else.
He heard the first one, but didn’t feel it, miss; he smiled and let his finger squeeze the trigger. One officer, not the girl though, not his target. Again, bulls eye. She fell back, swaying slightly, not yet knowing if she had been fatally wounded but knowing that it hurt like shit. He was happy with that, two officers, one dead, one wounded, he hadn’t planned on killing her, just checking to see was she capable of taking on such a profession.
A hail of bullets tore through the air, Christopher didn’t hear, eighty per cent of them got their target, sending Christopher to the ground, his ear had been completely torn off on impact, his face looked like a bowling ball, three gaping wounds. His heart and chest had been targeted but only few connected.
28 dead. 19 wounded.
