This is a (rather late) christmas present for my best friend, and probably one of the hardest fics I've ever written. There are a lot of difficult mindsets to get into, and doing this was draining in more ways than one.
And to you, mein liebe. I love you, please never ask me to write something like this again. XD I get too emotionally invested in this.
And I will state before you get onto this, I am not, and will never be, a school shooter. I just wrote one for my best friend.
This is all from Andre's point of view.
It's a normal day, or at least it was. Walking into school with guns tends to make things not so normal anymore. Cal is at his side, devilish smile on his face, there's an intoxication to the air that throbs like their hearts. Everything is ready, it has to be. There's no more time left to prepare.
It's warm outside, even for May, and the air is very quiet, very still. Unprepared for what's coming next. No one has a clue. That's how it should be.
They're walking in, and his heart is thudding as Cal pushes open the door, he lifts the Glock to shoot anyone who may be right there. It seems like an eternity, that time that Cal is opening it. Air-conditioned air rushes onto their faces, drawing goose bumps to the fore.
There is no one there, but he can hear voices from the main hallways, laughing, chattering, cheerful voices. Another normal day for them, except it isn't.
It is time, time for their Zero Day.
Cal shuts the door behind them quietly, no sense in drawing attention to them before they're ready to start, and he says "Where do we start?"
He stares back at him, and there's a moment of four years of bullying in this school alone, all the memories of hurt and anger and loathing welling up like a fountain of blood, and he can hear himself say from a distance "We start at the hall, and then to the library, and we move on as they die, and we don't let anyone go alive."
Cal nods, blond hair sticking to his face, and lifts the rifle to look down the sight. All of the gentle smiles have been wiped away, and he is nothing but anger and hatred. He can understand that, he feels it too. A tide of revenge that swells up inside until there is nothing but a blood lust, red vision and all.
In front of them, they can see a pack of girls in miniskirts and pink lip gloss, gossiping about such meaningless things, and putting down everyone not in their tiny, tiny standards. Time to put an end to that.
The first shot cracks through the air like a bull whip, and one of the girls slams into the locker with bright red blooming on her damn white blouse. It's almost unreal, like at any moment, he'll turn around and it's someone besides them doing this, someone besides them finally standing up and getting justice for all of the pain and loneliness they faced.
But as it was proved so fucking thoroughly, only they can save themselves.
The entire hall goes silent, conversations shot cleanly dead, invisible blood all over the floor, and Cal cocks his rifle again, and it's his turn now.
He lifts the Glock, and it kicks back in his hand as a second bullet flies out to hit the girl next to the first one, cutting into her cheek until her pretty little fake face is ruined forever.
Then the screams begin.
"Go, go!" Cal yells at him as he takes off, rifle dropped to hang on the shoulder strap as he pulls out the first of his smaller guns from his belt, firing them in unison at the fleeing teens. The first two victims are pulled along by their friends, leaving drops of ruby behind them in growing splotches.
He fires the Glock again, two, three, four more times, and each time the screams grow louder. One of the boys ahead stumbles, and his glasses fall to the floor to be smashed in the stampede, metal twisted and ruined like self esteem, and at last pulverized.
How fitting.
The smarter pack of fools runs past the library, but far more run in, seemingly not aware of the lack of safety there. Books, books everywhere, and not a single place to hide from them. Plenty of shelter to take aim from. Other fools try to run out, only to be turned back by them, screeching like a pack of wild banshees.
The Glock kicks in his hands again as he fires the last bullet of the magazine, and then he shoves it in his belt, snatching up the rifle as they enter the room, and Cal quickly drops to his knees as the one fool yelling at someone seems to notice the commotion, and then Cal shoots a flower of red in his side, knocking him to his knees as he drops whatever he was holding and staggers to his feet, running. As Cal aims at the other runners, he shoots with his rifle as well, but only one girl collapses as she runs, and then she pulls herself up with strength born of terror, he knows that strength very well, and he wants to curse his damn gun for not shooting perfectly.
Everyone vanishes around the corner, one girl in a flurry of dark skirts that hamper her from running even though she was the first to start. How stupid of her, but then, she didn't expect to be running for her life.
Who ever does?
Cal pulls back his gun and stands as they all leave, popping out the empty bullet casings, and he starts to follow some of the stragglers before pulling back. While screams still echo, it grows silent again.
Except for a crackling sound, in front of them. There's a phone on the floor, a woman's tinny voice echoing out. "Hello? Hello?" It lies there, an innocent black slice of phone, and her voice echoes in the quiet room.
It's a stupid idea, most likely, but he picks it up. There's drying sweat on the case, whoever was holding it must have been scared. Cal is at the desk, looking for anyone hiding underneath, and he can hear the faint rattle of him reloading his gun, the spent magazine clattering on the floor. "Hello?" he asks the woman on the phone in return.
There's a tiny pause, as she does...something, and then- "Can you tell me where you are?" Like a police officer would ask.
Oh, someone stupid was trying to call for help. How dumb of them.
There's a pit of anger in his stomach, the anger that has always been building up, no outlets allowed until now. He wants to yell at the woman "Where were you when I was being pushed around and made to know that I'm worthless?! Where were you all the times that I needed help?!", but that would make things too obvious.
He can't hold back the rage though, and his voice comes out in sarcastic vitriol, mocking whoever had been stupid enough to try and get help. In this world, you only trust the strong, only trust the faithful. Anyone else is less than garbage. Even him. So he mocks her for thinking she can do anything at all. "Hello?"
Cal walks back over, his boots echoing on the floor as he looks around for more victims, more fools to shoot. He holds by his ear, and he hears her drawing a breath to reply again, before he yells in "Oh! Oh! Oh! They're shooting in the school!"
Cal gives him an odd look, but that's alright. This is fun! He can practically hear her wincing on the other end as some of the rage boils over into pure screaming "Help me, there's fucking shooters, call the fucking cops!"
Cal motions him on towards the computer desks- good hiding places if you don't know to look there already, funny how the idiots are trying to hide from them in their old hiding places, and he shoves the phone in his belt next to another gun as he runs after Cal.
She babbles at him as they walk on, but he's no longer listening. No time for fools. It seems like they've been doing this for an eternity, but he knows it can't have been more than a minute since they first began. Time slows down so much when you're on the hunt, and it's so much easier to do everything. Numb to emotions, numb to any pleas, the hunter is never stopped by pity.
He has more to do, before this is done.
The computer desk seem empty, chairs scattered everywhere from people fleeing. He turns to Cal with a smile on his face, amusement bubbling up as some of the rage backs off enough to give him the clarity to hunt properly. "Did you see her fall?" he asks as they walk into the u-bend. There doesn't seem to be anyone under the center table, but he pulls down a chair just in case, and there's no reaction. He continues with mocking the girl, "Ah, ah! I've fallen, oh no!" he laughs, his falsetto falling apart as Cal grins in amusement as well.
There's no one under the desks, they really aren't good hiding places, and they move on towards the rows of shelves, books collapsing on each other and at least two of them perforated by stray bullets.
Cal looks at him with solemn eyes "Do you think they're dead?" Why such solemness when they're finally carrying out what they had planned for so long? It didn't make sense.
"Really doesn't matter now, they're gonna die," he says, feeling pragmatic about the whole thing. If the police were anything other than fools, then maybe the other wounded wouldn't, but he didn't place any faith in that.
The study tables past the history section have blood spatters leading to it, and he can tell that it was the phone holder because of the direction he'd gone. "He'll probably bleed to death," he adds as they wander past the shelves.
Cal smiles again, more like himself. "We're such mean people." he says, like it mattered, but they knew it didn't.
Father had explained it best, long ago when he still had hope. "Many people who hate, Andre, hate because they've been taught to hate by what happens to them." And he had been right, more right than he knew.
He still hoped, just a little bit, that his parents knew it wasn't their fault that he was doing this. Maybe it was stupid, but he wanted them to know that they alone weren't at fault.
He has laughter in his voice, but he didn't know why. "Yeah," he agrees with Cal as they turn the corner, following the blood of the wounded. He looks down to see the previous fool, owner of the phone in his belt, slumping on the table. "Hey, it's our little buddy." he says to Cal, before walking over "How you doin' little buddy?" he asked the boy, not really expecting an answer from the way his eyes were glazing over, but he felt powerful again just doing that.
Cal walks straight past him, looking anxious for some reason. "Come on, let's go." he says, already uninterested in their quarry, or maybe just uncomfortable with the fact that he is dying right in front of them.
But he recognizes him, not by name, but by previous action. This idiot had kicked him around before, in the locker rooms. Even though he was a year younger, he'd picked up up on the habits of his seniors very quickly, and who to kick around to earn respect. "No, hold up, hold up." he tells Cal, not leaving any room in his voice for arguments. Here was a proper score to settle.
He leans down next to the dying boy, pulling the phone from his belt, stupid woman squawking on the other end still, trying to get his attention. Cal sighs, and there's frustration on his face. "Andre..." he says, tired of something.
He ignores him, and leans down next to the glassy-eyed kid, "you've got a phone call here," he tells him, holding it up to his ear the better for him to talk. No motion.
Cal makes a vaguely exasperated noise, "Andre," he says, interrupting, "let's go." He looks tense, and jittery, like he's holding onto his anger to keep doing this.
Why?
"Hold on," he says, pressing the phone more securely against the victim's ear. "Any last words?" There's the crackle of someone talking, he can hear the woman say "...there's two shooters...", but nothing more distinct. So many wasted words.
"Andre!" Cal barks, free hand frozen in an expression of anger, of being fed up with waiting. His smile has vanished again, and he looks like he's ready to take on the world with nothing but an empty gun if it comes to that.
Playing with the dying guy wasn't fun anyway. "Fine, fine," he grumbles, and tucks the phone back into his belt. He can hear it crackle out "Andre?" as they leave the body, but he ignores it. The hunt is on again.
The next room is the one most used in study hall, more tables and two couches. This one has the sounds of sobbing and despair in it, stupid girls hidden under the tables in a hope they would be left alive. That would work better if they were being quiet.
Cal walks in first, and he has the rifle pointed at the floor, already armed and cocked. His grin is back, but no longer shy and sweet. Instead, it is the grin of a villain on the Saturday morning cartoons, vicious and drunk on power. If he wasn't standing at his side, he'd be afraid of who his friend can be.
Not that he is, of course. "Hey everybody!" Cal shrieks, voice lashing through the room like a whip cord, and two of the girls under the table whimper in terror. They look like trapped bunnies, and he and Cal are the wolf pack hunting out dinner.
And it is ready to be caught.
He walks over to the nearest table, and peers under at the girls cowering there, two of them shaking so badly that they're practically causing an earthquake, and pulls aside the chair to wave at them. "Hi." he says, and he's not sure whether to feel ridiculous or proud, that their reaction to such a light phrase is to start sobbing and begging.
Or maybe that's just the effect when you point a gun at someone, they turn into whiny, snivelly messes. "That's funny." he tells Cal as he walks over to see what's happening, and he gets more of that terrifying grin as Cal stands in the open gap, and he walks over to pull down another chair, and points his gun at the girl in the stupid dress.
She shrieks at him in terror, eyes wide as pools of blood, and he yells over her, "Wanna fuck with this?! Huh?!" he barks at her as he puts the gun to his shoulder, and it kicks back as he fires. The bullet cuts straight across the girl's shoulder so that she collapses, and everyone under the table screams in deafening soprano.
Did they trap the whole choir in here, or what?
There's a clatter behind them, and as he stands up, he sees one boy running, probably from behind one of the couches. Cal is far more prepared than he is though, and he shoots three times, no hesitation at all. He follows Cal around the table in time to see the boy collapse before pulling himself back up to run towards the front, and he can hear the damn girls still screaming.
Fucking banshees.
"Shut up!" he yells back at them as they walk towards the front, after the runner. In front of him, Cal is reloading as quickly as possible, bullet casing clattering all over the floor.
They seem to take his advice, and the horrible shrieks are toned down to heartbroken tears. So strange, how it's easier to be angry when people aren't listening to you...
There's movement behind the front desk of the library, and Cal doesn't even have to aim, it seems, the gun goes up and his face is stone cold as he fires. A moment's pause, and he swings up his own gun to fire as well, six times before the one lucky bastard who had far too many guts throws himself over the desk and runs away, only mentally scarred instead of physically.
Five seconds of only sobbing, and then Cal says, "come on," quietly, and they walk back to their room of rabbits.
They're walking back in, and one of the boys under the tables is taking his chance to flee to a different hidey hole, probably one not in the library. Cal yells something after him, and then he and Cal fire in sync, but fear gives the boy just enough speed to run past, and he's free for now. The screaming begins again, echoing in his ears like tearing metal, yet ends with the bullets, whether from the girls screaming their throats out entirely, or just hoping to survive another few seconds.
He walks towards the hallway as Cal circles around the table, sobs echoing from underneath, and he can see the girls lurking under the table, shredded messes of who they were, at least mentally.
He stops by the table with the girls and pulls out one of their chair shields, not that it was doing anything other than being an annoyance, and flops down like he would have in the computer chair back home, arms over his stomach. Now he can see them better, the cowards.
Their shrieks rise up in unison- apparently they weren't done with the god forsaking screaming, and he can hear at least one of them sob "Go away!" like a plea to the monsters under the bed. Not that it was going to do much.
Stupid wretches, their despair was so funny. Now he could understand why the bullies were so persistent, it was fun to make people break and shatter like glass on concrete.
His voice won't go up as high as theirs, thank god, or else his eardrums would explode, but it's fun to mock them. "Oh my God, oh my God!" he whines back at them, mimicking what they all have to be thinking. Cal paces behind, his boots powerful on the table as he shakes more fear into them.
Time to see if they can find some rational here. "Say my name," he says as Cal laughs behind him, "I'm right here." Not that this seems to console them, the tears and shrieks pick up again.
One of them screams, probably the same girl who did the first time, "Go away!"
Well how nice of her to say what she meant, but didn't she know that monsters didn't go away when commanded? That was for fairy tales and bedtime stories. "Oh, go away?" he asks her, trying to put as much irony into the words as he can. Their infernal whining continues to grow, and he parrots it back at them, until it's too funny to hold back the laughter.
Since when did they ever understand the nature of power when it wasn't their's from the get-go? He stands back up to circle the tables again as the same girl begs for them to leave her alone, not even showing a shred of thought for another any more, how selfish, and Cal jumps from the table to the chair like a panther prowling the night, and then onto the other table. The screams pick up as Cal stalks across the table, turning into startlingly clear repeats of "No!" as his feet echo over them.
Cal stops at the end of the table, and gestures faintly with his gun. "Look at that blood," he says, calm as if they were talking about a dissected frog in science class. "Jesus" he adds, just for some more emphasis, and he has to agree, because that pool is a little alarming, how far it's spreading.
All the girls scream again, probably at the idea that they're going to join the body soon. Cal gives them a withering look, he can see by the look in his eyes that he's as annoyed as he himself about the noise, and he jumps onto the nearest chair to get a better look at them. As he leaps onto the other table again, he says to them with scorn dripping like blood "Is the gun pointed at you?"
One of the girls yells "No," for the umpteenth time, but it sounds like less of an answer and more of just complete and utter mental failure.
He walks over to inspect one of the couches for blood spatter as Cal walks over to the girl who's making the most consistent noise, earning yet more screaming, and then sobs to another of her pack "What's he doing?"
He can see the fury in the tautness of his back as Cal snaps at them, voice cold "Shut up." he commands, power in his voice.
The stupid girls scream louder than ever, apparently subscribing to the school of thought that not listening to the gunman would ensure a longer, happier life. He checks the ammo of his rifle, and finds it more lacking than he'd prefer, considering that any sympathy on the part of the trapped girls had long since been murdered by their infernal noise, and he can hear Cal say "What?" to one of them, though whether in actual interest, or just because it's fun, he can't tell.
He has to swing the pack of ammo off of his back as Cal repeats himself, and the screams die to sobbing and whimpering at the possibility of being left alive for a few minutes longer, and he's sliding more bullets into his rifle when Cal suddenly yells at the top of his lungs, "Are you dead yet?!"
At least this time when they scream, it has a meaning that might be meaningful, rather than just annoying.
Cal says over their sobs, projecting just enough to be heard, "No, you're still alive, aren't you?", and he's reminded of some of their discussions over the things that they hated, long before this plan was truly hatched, and Cal saying "People lingering when they're in pain and want to die."
Those girls were in that same state, they just hadn't realized it yet.
There's a loud thump as Cal jumps to the floor, heavy boots cutting through the sobs like another gunshot, and he turns to look and see what happens next. Cal then kneels in front of the table with the girls, in between the chairs they'd pulled out, and instead of quieting like they'd prefer, the girls shriek at the top of their lungs in a tired repetition of this game that they'd been stuck in for what could only have been a minute or two, but felt like hours.
Cal yells back at them, voice raw with anger and frustration, and he screams "Shut up!" When he stands back up, he kicks over the chair in impotent rage, and he understands the anger, all bottled up until it explodes. "Shut up!" and his voice practically cracks on the notes, far too strained to hold fast.
Like everything.
He finishes reloading his guns and returns to pacing by the couches, waiting for someone to make a move. Almost on cue, one of the boys under Cal's stalking table crawls out, cowering like a wounded gazelle. He's nothing like he usually looks, not proud anymore, not haughty anymore.
"Cal, Cal.." he whimpers and whispers, an almost pleasant change from all the screaming. He almost can't hear him, he's so quiet, and Cal looks at him with eyes so intense, they burn.
The boy continues "Don't shoot, don't shoot..." in a trembling voice, shaking like a leaf, "Man...everyone's dead...man..." then his voice breaks and falls apart like glass. "They're dead..."
It's hard to tell if it's a wounded bird gambit, or serious, all of his breaking, and from the pitiless look on Cal's face, he doesn't buy it. "What?" he barks out, voice demanding and diamonds.
Desperately, the boy continues. "Everyone's dead...There's no one left, man.." he chokes out in that same whisper, shaking harder.
He walks back and forth as the boy cries, letting Cal have control and power, the things that everyone seems to take for granted until they don't have them. "But you're still alive." Cal points out, indicating with his gun and proving that he could change that in just a second's notice.
The boy keeps sobbing, and he realizes that it's really no better than the girl's screaming, which at least was entirely genuine. Victim- "Stop..."
Cal is standing over the boy on the tables now, taller than everything, and he replies back incredulously "Stop?"
Perhaps the boy isn't too dumb, he starts backpedaling hurriedly "It wasn't-" But it's too late, he's already ruined things for him. Maybe they would have let him live if he'd just been a little more repentant.
Cal glares down at him, no longer even pretending to be sympathetic. "You want me to stop?" he repeats, "You want me to stop, right now."
Then again, the boy does seem to be too dumb, or just finally aware of the fact that he has no more second chances. "Y-yes..." he answers, voicing what all of the others in the room want.
The girls start whimpering and crying on cue, maybe trying to add to the effect, but more likely just too broken to not. Cal clearly has no patience for them anymore, and he yells "Shut up!" to them again in a way that sounds like a frazzled mother trying to control her sugar hyped up toddler, before getting an idea.
He walks over closer to watch what Cal decides to do next, and the sobs seem to stop for a second, before picking up again. Cal gestures at the loudest girl in the group, and says "Look at her- right there" and it's not pointed at him, but at the boy under the table.
The boy hiccups and begs like a dog, and says "Shit...don't do it, man...", but it's not the thing to say, and he can see it as clear as day that Cal has nothing left to handle the sounds.
They pick up for a second before Cal swings the rifle up into his hands with a shriek of "Shut up!" and this time it's punctuated by gunfire at the screamers.
The boy tries to run, and he swings up his gun to shoot him down, he falls just out of the girls's sights and adds his own smears of blood to the floor as he staggers and then collapses in death. Cal's gunfire ends in the screaming finally ending with the girls falling in bloody messes, no more soprano echoes.
Cal jumps off of the table, and he looks at him with suddenly very tired eyes. "Oh, god..." he says, in a tired voice that could be a whimper of his own if he didn't know Cal so well.
Again, he's reminded of a time when they were talking, without cameras. "Andre..." he had said, meeting his eyes with a look that was as dead as death "Can we really do this?"
Somewhere within, was there some hesitation to continue? He didn't know, nothing was making sense any more. It didn't seem quite like the reign of justice that he had thought it would be.
His dad had been wiser than he knew then, long ago when he said that many people who cause bad things are too broken to know better, and many of them, when they understand again, regret so much it could kill them.
Was that really going to be the end?
Cal sets aside his rifle, and he says to his questioning look "Out of bullets." Made sense, so he didn't question it. Cal reaches into his belt and pulls out his .45, still fully loaded and unused as of yet.
There's a prickle of something on the back of his neck, and he turns and looks behind the couch, more seriously than before. What he sees- who he sees- is more of a surprise than he thought. "Cal!" he calls to his friend, looking hard at who's back there so that they won't try to run just yet.
Cal looks up, and he clearly doesn't know what's spooked him. "What?"
He only needs to keep looking down, for Cal to get the message. "It's Greg."
Greg. Gregory. Greg the bastard, Greg the asshole, Greg the bully who had been the ringleader of their ostracizing and isolation from all but each other. Now cowering behind a couch and whimpering like a baby.
Greg presses his back up against the wall and starts to stand up, whether to run, or try to intimidate them or what, he doesn't know, it doesn't matter. Cal stands next to him, and now they're going to be the bullies, see how he'd like a taste of his own medicine.
His voice comes out deceptively playful, calm even. "Greg, man," he says, looking at him with as much absolute hatred as he can muster, "sit down, man, sit down. Pal, just relax." he adds as Greg slowly slinks back to the floor like a kicked dog.
He sounds like one too, only not anywhere near as endearing or forgivable. "Just don't hurt, don't hurt me, sir." he stammers, the last sound coming out almost like he's trying to suck up to a teacher, except far more scared.
It's so unexpected, that little addition. Sir is probably the exact opposite of everything else he'd ever called him, and the sensation of surprise wells up in laughter "Sir." he repeats, drawing out the word as long as he can. "I like that!"
Cal's laughing too, a little of the stress draining from his face and shoulders. "He called you sir." he adds, and it feels like a good word when he says it that way.
"Don't kill me..." Greg whimpers, and he doesn't seem to get the irony of it. The kids he beat up most have come back as monsters to kill him dead.
He walks off as Cal chuckles more, "I can't kill you, you're too pathetic." he says, and he might have believed him if it wasn't for the way that Cal caresses the trigger. "You're gonna live today, man, you're gonna live." he assures him right before swinging the gun up and letting loose.
It kicks off eight times, backing into Cal's hand over and over again as it empties the whole clip into Greg's chest. He shakes and spasms and falls over dead, his chest a red pulp. Cal turns the gun over enough to look at it, and says in mild frustration "This gun sucks."
He shrugs as he looks around. "Looks fine to me, it did the job." he says absentmindedly as he wanders past the pole and catches sight of another victim hiding behind the other couch. "Hey!" he calls to Cal as he walks into better range.
The boy scrambles up and yells "No! No!", and presses himself against the window, trying to escape through the glass.
Cal looks up at him as he fiddles with the gun, dropping the empty magazine on the ground as he slides a fresh one in. "Hey!" he repeats, gesturing slightly "Hey look! It's another guy behind the couch!" he explains as Cal seems to not get what's going on, still messing with the gun.
He gets a quick, playful smile, and Cal says "That's strange," as he looks away, apparently finding something else wrong with his pistol.
After all of the screaming from earlier, it's odd when the boy makes no more sounds, just pushes himself against the glass and...whats? He laughs as he walks to stand in front of him. "What?" he asks him, genuinely curious. "Nothing?" No answer. Now it's no fun. "Not even an 'oh please, help me!'?" he asks, but cuts off any answer by shooting him four times until his blood drips down the glass. It's cold, but necessary. At least this boy won't be waiting any more.
He and Cal look up just as they see the last boy under the first tables start to scramble out, then inexplicably double back to grab his backpack before sprinting for freedom. He swings his gun up and yells out "Hey! Stop!", but he's not fast enough to get any aim.
Whoever the kid was leaves a lasting shot of "Fuck you!" complete with bold, italics and underlines just for emphasis as he eats dust and makes like a rabbit and rabbits.
Cal looks back at him, and the surreality of him actually grabbing his bag in what could have cost him his life dawns on him at what must be the same time it dawns on Cal, because he repeats "Fuck you" in a much lower voice, and it sets them both off.
"He came back for his backpack!" He exclaims through the laughter, picking the rifle back up. Cal has a grin on his face that says that he enjoyed that little tidbit just as much. "He was the only one who came back for his fucking bag." he adds, bringing on a wave of more laughter.
Cal's still snickering as he leans down to look under the table at the pile of corpses, looking for movement, and he says "We should make sure that no one else is running."
A sensible idea, they might laugh themselves to death otherwise.
They leave the study section, and pick their way back through the halls of books. The first one they killed is now lying on the floor, hand on his belly and looking...well, dead. He turns back to look at Cal. "Oh look, he fell." he laughs, and he gets another smile out of his friend before looking back at the corpse. "How you doing, buddy?" he asks, not expecting an answer.
He picks his way past the body, finding the idea of actually stepping on it not something he's willing to do, and Cal seems to agree, because he pushes the chair in so he has more room before walking past. They leave it behind on their way to the front.
It's utterly silent but for them, and the front hall seems wrongly empty. Cal's still joking about something, but he's not really able to connect. It seemed...very, very wrong to have this hall so empty when even when there was no one in the library, there was always a faint sense of warmth from the memories of kids enjoying books and quiet, with the pleasant hum of study computers in the background.
Cal walks around the other way that he does, and at first seems to be serious about it, but then abruptly jumps into a comedic cowboy stands with his gun pointed at the desk, but nothing stirs. He walks around a little further to check, and then confirms what he already knew. "There is absolutely nobody left in here."
With nothing left to do, they walk back into the study room, where the emptiness is swelling up. The glory of the hunt is dying away, the adrenaline pumping in his heart is ceasing. Reality sets back in with cold talons, and he's not sure he wants it to.
They both set their weapons down on the table, so many guns, and he stares at the floor. "Anybody else alive in here?" he asks, and he's not sure if he's asking Cal or whoever might still be left.
Cal bursts the tiny bubble of hope that there might be someone other than a pile of corpses with "Just us."
But he seems to feel the same weight and dawning emptiness, if his voice is any indication.
He starts to walk away, past the scattered chairs and limp fingers, and Cal wanders over to the couch, at first starting to sit, but then leaning over and staring intently at something, like he just saw a roach on the floor or something. In the distance, he can hear sirens wailing, the city's finest on their way to a massacre.
A cold sensation ripples through his veins, and he looks down at the silver pistol in his hands. Something makes him put it to his chin, and he pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He pulls again, and again, and again, and again, and still nothing. The damn thing's also empty. He looks at it in disdain, and then back at Cal, who hasn't moved from where he's looking at the floor.
He walks back over, not sure what to find, and then he sees what Cal is looking so strongly at. The pool of blood spreads almost all the way to the tables, and Cal is looking at his reflection in it. He wonders what Cal sees, if he can see. If he sees a victim...or a monster.
Cal looks at him listlessly, then back. "I can see my reflection...in his blood.." he says in a voice caught in a different space, toned out and dreamlike. Whatever had possessed him when they were killing together has fled.
Maybe he can get it back.
He looks out the window, and he can see flashing red and blue, storming over rapidly, hundreds of flashing lights like butterflies of death, attached to what must be every single fucking cop in the whole damn city. "Look out there," he says, trying to draw Cal's attention away from self-reflection. "That is a lot of fucking cops." he adds, since Cal isn't looking up."
The sirens grow as he stands there and watches, and he hefts the empty gun in his hand. He knows he still has some ammo left in his belt. Cal finally gets up from the floor and stands next to him, looking out as well. "Come on, let's go get a couple," he invites Cal, already reaching for the gun that he knows still has bullets in it.
And then Cal says the one word that would have stopped this whole thing in it's tracks before it ever got this far. "No." His face is impassive, emotionless.
Empty.
"What do you mean, no?" he asks, and laughs softly to try and cover the nervousness that's suddenly eating up his chest. This wasn't something he could have predicted, or controlled. "Come on, let's go."
Cal shoots that down too though, and says with a strong sense of finality "I'm done." He turns to look at him as he steps back, and his eyes are incredibly sad, broken too.
"Wha-?" he begins, and the sound cuts itself off. "How are you done?" It doesn't make sense, or at least, it doesn't make sense in the way he wants it to make sense.
Cal looks back at him with those sad eyes, and it seems like he's seen more than just his reflection in that pool of blood. "Andre," he says, with compassion inherent in his voice, "you're done."
The words ring far, far more truly than he wants, and he tries to protest both against Cal's strength and his own feelings of loss. "I'm not- I'm not.." he starts, and stumbles, and takes a breath. "I'm not done." He says, and wishes that he felt as certain inside as he did on the outside, not that he sounds certain on the outside even.
It doesn't seem to make Cal angry though, and he has a faint smile. "Andre, it's alright.." he trails off, and looks outside. "Look." he says, with more strength than before. "Would you rather get shot by cops or by yourself?"
It's a question he hadn't even considered before, the idea that it might be a choice between ending his own life under his own power, or being killed by a police man who still has to do his duty even if he might actually agree with them. He hadn't thought so much of what would happen to him after the shooting, just what the rest of the world would do.
And he can't fight back against Cal, who had. "Guess you're right..." he says, and the words sink and brand into his bones bitterly, an ache of a whole different source than what he'd known before.
Cal gives him a look, and says "You guess or you know?" Which is another thing that he hadn't thought of before, the strength of Cal's conviction, and sense of his own power, and the meaning behind those two words.
"I know." he says bitterly, and they walk over to look at the sea of cops pouring out of the cars to set up a perimeter to start working their way to get into the school. "You're right."
Cal looks at him, and says grouchily "I'm out of bullets.." as if he had the answer to Cal's problem there. He picks up his rifle and starts picking at it, looking for a last bullet.
"Here," he says, and when Cal looks up, he tosses the last magazine he has at him. "Just take one, I'm empty otherwise."
Cal smiles at him faintly, and loads the gun with that one bullet, and then tosses the magazine back.
He picks the bullet he needs out himself, and stares at it for a minute as Cal walks around the room, and he follows, like a lost child in the woods, at the slim slice of steel that can end a life in a second, or an hour, if left unattended for long enough. When he slides it into his pistol, it fits in with a solid click that echoes in the empty room like the faint rasps of the phone in his belt and the sirens outside. Nothing else left to leave a mark on the earth.
Cal at last finds a place that seems fitting for their end, and he walks over to stand next to him. In an awkward rhythm, they start to kneel to the floor, metaphorical ropes clutched in their hands. For some reason, he wonders if his mother has found out yet. He'd prefer if she hadn't, if she didn't get the news until he was truly gone, so she didn't have to suffer waiting for an answer on why he did what he did. Better for her to get an answer that would give her a little comfort of her own.
He looks over at Cal, who's kneeling on the floor, face pale as a ghost's. So many ghosts in the room, waiting to get them...can he do this? They'll get him the instant he pulls the trigger, he won't last the time it takes to die, and it scares him to think that.
He looks at the gun in his hands, and puts it to his chin, thinking that maybe it'll be certain enough that he won't linger long enough for their victims to get them back again. Cal is the only certainty by his side.
Cal starts to count down for them, voice quiet enough that only he can hear. "Alright.." he says softly, "One, two..."
Then the panic gets him. "Wait," he tells Cal, pushing on his arm just enough that he wobbles and lowers his own gun so that they won't die yet.
They're both breathing raggedly, like they've been running a marathon, and Cal asks "What?" when he manages to find enough air to speak at all.
The fear comes tumbling out of him, and he clenches his fist against the gun as much as he can without pulling the trigger. "I can't do it." he admits rawly, the words taking everything it has left for him to do it. No more fight, nothing left but fear and sorrow.
He wants to live. "I-I just can't do it. I just can't. I can't." he finishes, looking at the ground, and trying to avoid Cal's eyes and the disappointment that he's sure is there.
But he can't avoid his eyes forever, and when he looks up, there's nothing but compassion and understanding in Cal's eyes, and Cal pats his arm gently, reassuringly. "Andre.. It'll be okay." he says, and the way he says it makes him feel like maybe it would.
Maybe it would be okay.
"Okay." he says hesitantly, and he looks at Cal. "Give me a yes."
And without any delay or hesitation, Cal says "Yes."
No more delays, nothing left. He sinks into his own mind for the last seconds, no more awareness of the rest of the world.
Just him.
Just him and Cal.
Numb.
Numb...numb...numb from the inside out. Clear as a bell and still wanting, still needing to control the demons, roar of the gun still echoing in his skull. Breath as loud as screams in a silent room. It was silent.
There is sound out there. With the police- damn them- and the screams- damn them- of the other fools running. But the only sound here was breath. His and Cal's. In and out and in and out like the sound of madness, in and out, in and out.
The gun hilt- warm in his hands. Bullet in the magazine, bullet in the gun. Suicide is painless, but only as painless as the weapon, and a gun hurt.
Numbness, circulating like blood on the floor. "Should we- on three, or go?" He can hear himself asking- a pointless argument. Delaying the moment, delaying everything. He can't even hear what Cal's saying, but it makes sense somewhere. Somewhere anyway.
Numb.
"So on three?"
He nods- jerky movement, instinctive, can't stop it. The muzzle of the gun is still hot, still singing the incantations of death. Bang, bang, bang.
So many things to think, so little time. Apologies to make that would never be made. The phone squawks from his belt- foolish person, not ending things already. Lying like a lyre, trying to offer a chance that doesn't exist.
He knows better, somewhere.
Muzzle warm against his chin, counting down with Cal.
The best friend he ever had.
One...
His family would be angry, would be ashamed. Let them, not their fault. Not theirs at all. Just his. The tapes would prove it, absolve them of everything. Feeling sorry a little, for what he's doing, it's like drinking solid ice, it burns and is impossible. The thoughts come too fast.
Two...
Muzzle of the gun under his chin, trigger hot with anticipation. No hesitation, no more stalling. Never be caught, never be killed by another. His terms, his means. Blood all over the floor.
Three!
Crack of the gun- white hot and then bl-