For everyone who wanted a sequel to "Last Day of School," here it is. And just to be clear, my last story featuring Nazi Lisa was in no way connected to mine and AberrantScript's Nazi Lisa series. "Nazi Lisa" is a generic character architype that pops up in many different works of mine that aren't related, much like the real Lisa. And to answer a question someone asked a while back that I forgot to answer, yes, Zyklon B is very deadly.
Lincoln aimed the handgun at Mr. Spenser, the sixth grade science teacher, and pulled the trigger: The man fell back against a table and dropped to the floor, his face crinkling in pain.
Across the library, Clyde's Uzi rattled, and someone screamed. Lincoln went around the bookshelf and watched as Mrs. Jones, the librarian, staggered to the front desk, he hands clutched to her stomach: She trailed blood as she went.
Lincoln raised the gun. "Hey, Mrs. Jones!"
The woman spun, her face pale and drawn. When she saw Lincoln, her eyes widened.
"Here's that late fee I owe you!" He pulled the trigger, and she jerked back, hitting the desk and sliding down, her chin lolling against her chest. Lincoln laughed.
Behind him, someone whimpered, and he turned: Cristina was huddled under a table, her arms held protectively over her face. Lincoln flashed a grin. Once upon a time he liked her, but then a video of him kissing a picture of her surfaced online (okay...he posted it) and you know what? She transferred entirely out of his class. That hurt his feelings.
Sauntering like Mick Swagger, swigging his hips and shaking his ass, Lincoln went over and knelt. She looked up, and drew away with a strangled cry.
"Hey, don't be like that," he said softly. "I'm not gonna hurt you, I just wanna ask you something."
She watched him with wide eyes. Her face was as pale as Mrs. Jones's; Lincoln scanned her but didn't see any wounds. Her lips worked as though she were trying to gather saliva to either spit or swallow. Which she preferred, well...the world may never know.
"Can I ask you something?"
She nodded jerkily.
Lincoln touched the barrel of the gun to his chest and grinned. "Am I really that fucking bad?" He tittered. "I know I'm goofy looking, but am I really so bad that you had to transfer to a different class? Holy shit. Am I the Elephant Man or the something?"
She shook her head and tried to speak, but her lips trembled and she started to cry. Lincoln smiled as she buried her face in her hands. "You know, that legitimately hurt my feelings. I mean, I could take it if you don't like me back, whatever, that's life...but wow, why didn't you just spit in my face?"
"I'm sorry," she moaned.
"Are you?" Lincoln asked. She nodded.
Using the barrel of the gun, he moved her hair out of her face. Terror brimmed in her tearful eyes. "You're really sorry?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Alright," Lincoln said. "That's all I needed to hear."
He got up and started to turn, but stopped and knelt again. "Just kidding," he said, jammed the gun against her stomach, and pulled the trigger. She fell back with a moan.
Kneeling there with his arms crossed on his knee, Lincoln laughed so hard he cried. It was funny because for a second there she thought he was going to let her live!
"Hey, buddy!" Clyde called, coming over.
"Clyde, my man," Lincoln said, standing. "Body count?"
"I just got five over in the fiction section," Clyde said.
"I got three over here," Lincoln replied, "not counting Mrs. Jones."
"Yeah, we'll split her."
They were trying to keep count, but that went out the window the moment they came through the front door and opened fire: The hall was packed with kids, and after the initial burst, they were heaped two and three deep in places. As they advanced, Lincoln shot a few of the survivors in the head. He didn't get all of them, though, because when they reached the library he could still hear moaning.
If he had to guess, he'd say they got at least twenty, and probably a dozen were wounded.
"You wanna stick together or split up?" Clyde asked.
Lincoln thought for a moment. "Spilt up. We'll cover more ground that way. You go back toward the office and I'll go toward the gym."
"Alright," Clyde nodded. "Godspeed, brother."
"You too."
In the hall, Clyde went right and worked his way back toward the double doors. The office was on the left. Lincoln started left, the gun clasped in his hands and pointed at the ground like they did in video games. He crept, moving slowly, sniffing the air. At an intersection, a boy with a backwards baseball cap appeared, and Lincoln raised the gun. The kid saw him and paled.
"Looks like someone took a wrong turn," Lincoln grinned, and pulled the trigger. The kid flew back against the wall and slid down. Lincoln passed him, and paused at the trophy case. Shelves were crammed with the accomplishments of children past. The state basketball championship of 1978, the baseball championship of 1981, the girls' football championship of 2015. His sister Lynn was on that team; everyone was soooo proud.
He flashed as he remembered all the times he tried to accomplish something in life and failed. He brought up his elbow and rammed it into the case's glass façade. He was numb to the feeling of flesh ripping. He reached in, snatched the trophy, and slammed it against the floor. The golden football separated from the pedestal and rolled away. He grabbed another trophy and flung it against a locker. His teeth were bared and his chest was heaving. He grabbed another, and another, and another. Soon broken trophies littered the floor. He drew back his foot and kicked one; it skitted across the tiles. Fuck your football, fuck your baseball, fuck your accomplishments!
Getting himself back under control, he stalked to the gym.
In the front office, Clyde found Miss Ames, the guidance counselor, crouching behind a desk, a phone pressed to her ear. Tears streamed down her face. He could hear sirens outside. The cops were here.
She saw him and screamed, dropping the phone and falling onto her ass. Clyde smiled at the look of terror in her face. "C-Clyde..."
"Hi, Miss Ames," he said happily. "Nice day for a school shooting, isn't it?"
"C-C-Clyde..."
He aimed the Uzi at her.
"Clyde, I'm your friend!"
Clyde laughed. "I have no friends."
He pulled the trigger, and she jerked.
"Not even Lincoln."
Speaking of Lincoln, Clyde was getting tired of shooting unarmed normies. He wanted a challenge.
In the gym, Lincoln had much the same thought, and a smile flashed across his face. In the hall, he pressed himself flat against the wall and held the gun pointed down. At the end of the hall, he could see emergency beacons flashing through the windows. When Clyde emerged from the office, Lincoln ducked behind a plastic cart filled with dodgeballs.
"Oh, Lincoln!" Clyde called in a singsong voice. "Where are you?"
Lincoln popped out from behind the cart and fired: The bullet slammed into a fire extinguisher clamped to the wall. "Right here, buddy!"
Clyde dropped to a crouch and moved slowly forward. "Come on out! I got a new game we can play!"
Lincoln got to his knees, raised the gun over the cart, and fired. Clyde ducked as the bullet smashed into the front window, which exploded. He raised the Uzi and pressed the trigger. Lincoln ducked as bullets whizzed all around him. He barked mad laughter and slammed a fresh clip into the handle. He had never felt so alive, so full of energy.
Clyde opened fire again, and bullets ripped through the cart, some passing so close to Lincoln's head he could feel the wind. Tensing, he darted across the hall at a crouch, bullets striking the floor in front of him, and threw himself into a doorway. When he heard the telltale click of an empty gun, he ducked out and pulled the trigger. Clyde cried out and dropped onto his ass as a round struck him in the arm.
Lincoln was standing now, using the doorway for cover. "I'm gonna get you!" he cried, and popped out again, his face falling when he saw a snub-nosed revolver in Clyde's hands. He started to yell, but a bullet hit him in the leg, and he went down with a breathless umpf instead. Fire snaked up into his brain. He scrambled back to the doorway on his hands and knees. Sitting against the wall, he laughed again. "That hurt, you son of a bitch!" he cried.
"This doesn't feel too good either!" Clyde yelled back. He hissed as, presumably, he got to his feet. "How about we call a truce and fight the cops instead?"
"You're not getting me with that one," Lincoln laughed.
"Eh. It was worth a shot. Get it?"
They both screamed laughter; tears welled in Lincoln's eyes. "Hey, Clyde, stop joking a round."
Clyde howled. "That was pretty good, Linc. You should write it down and send it to a magazine."
Lincoln's sides split as he doubled over.
"Hey, hey, hey...would they publish the whole thing," Lincoln asked, "or just a clip?"
Clyde fell to the floor and drew his knees to his chest as he wailed laughter. "You're a funny guy," he said when he finally recovered. "You hit the stand-up circuit and you'd be number one with a bullet."
"Stop! Stop! I'm gonna piss myself!"
When the cops found them, they were both bleeding profusely and crying tears of laughter...