Thanks a lot for your reviews! They make me feel so happy!
So here's chapter three. Maybe I took a little here - I'm sorry - , but in order to compensate - drum roll... - it's corrected! I've finally found a beta, and with MarieThea I've found a really, really good one. She sure enough did an amazing job correcting this (thanks to you here!).
And now I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 3
"You don't stand a chance, Phelps," Charlie said and in the same moment he feared how the madman would react upon it. Don would have certainly said the same thing, though. Certainly. "The police will be here soon and if you won't have come to senses by then, you won't get out alive from here."
This guy was sick. Listening to his laugh grating on everyone's nerves it was clear to all of them. "Do you really believe I care? I've got nothing to lose, 'cause I've already lost everything because of you!"
Charlie felt as if someone had punched him in the face. He hadn't thought about that at all until now. Was he responsible for what was happening here? Would he be responsible if one of his students died? Was he even responsible if Phelps himself would be killed?
"You failed the exam just because you hadn't studied enough," Charlie disagreed in a brave attempt to hold the fault off.
"Of course, Eppes. Always simpler to shift the blame, isn't it?"
Likewise, Charlie wanted to respond, but this time he contained himself. "You could have passed the exam," Charlie persisted, filled with tremendous anxiety. However, as long as Phelps was kept talking, the danger that he would start shooting was at least lower. "You'd just have to have put your shoulder to the wheel."
"Put my shoulder to the wheel?" Phelps hissed. "You have no clue, Eppes, how much I've put my shoulder to the wheel! I worked around the clock! I've studied everyday! And I got good grades, always! Do you think I got a commendation from my parents, just once, just one time—even a simple 'well done'? Never! As long as I was good they didn't give a damn about me! Only when I was stopped bothering, they started caring at these stupid grades! And do ya' know what they did when they got wise to it, that you had made me fail? Nothing! They disowned me, you get that? I simply wasn't their son any more! They turned away from me!"
It was Phelps' turn to turn away from Charlie and to stroll around in front of the professor's desk in angled ellipses.
Charlie frowned. Angled ellipses? This geometrical shape surely had a name, hadn't it? Yes? No? He couldn't remember. He felt as if he was feverish, too shivering and hot to think about anything.
Charlie had become every smaller at the wall and now he sensed that this was not a good position. His shoulder was burning. He glanced down at it and realized, appalled, that his T-shirt was drenched with blood. So that was the reason why he felt so shaky and weak. Another thing came to his mind: humans needed blood. If they didn't have enough blood in them, they died.
Although everything else was so unreal and far away, Charlie could grasp one fact: if help didn't come soon, he'd bleed to death.
- - -
Bang.
That was the end. Phelps had fired.
Charlie winced, though keeping his eyes closed, trying to sense where the pain came from. There was no pain, however, at least aside from his shoulder. Maybe a shot in the head, Charlie wondered. That is said not to hurt. It seemed the only possibility. That meant that he was dead. But could he still think, then? Well, seemed so. But could he still hear then, too? Seemed so as well, because Charlie was fairly certain that Phelps' angry steps hadn't faded away.
Bang. Another one. How many times he wanted to shoot him in the brain? That really had to be disgusting. His students were prob-
Oh Lord! His students!
Before Charlie realized what he did his eyes snapped open, searching the rows in front of him. No, they all seemed to be alive—apparently Phelps hadn't shot at one of them, thank God! But wait… if Charlie could see them, probably the madman hadn't shot at him, either! But where else?
His gaze was focused on the strolling Phelps, and the next moment, something like relief floated through him when Phelps knocked his gun on the desk with a bang. So no shots.
The next moment the relief was gone as fast as it had come. Phelps was aggressive. And although the chaos in Charlie's mind didn't really become clearer by the fog of pain, he was aware that it wasn't advantageous to let a madman carrying a gun become aggressive.
"You aren't the first one," Charlie said, and when Phelps spun around it became clear to him that he'd better express his thoughts more coherently. "Who failed an exam, I mean. There are people in leading positions being held in high esteems who had to repeat a semester." In his present situation, stretching the truth a bit surely couldn't be that depraved.
Phelps seemed quite stunned for someone having just flounced into a university to carry out a massacre. "You still don't get it, Eppes! You just don't get it! You think this is about a 'pass' or a 'fail', don't you? You have no idea. You have no idea at all! Your decision to let me fail has ruined my whole life! You get it? Just 'cause you thought you should let me fail, my life is fucked up!"
Charlie stared at him, unable to think straight, only continuing to listen to Phelps' deplorable life story. "My parents stopped supporting me! I had to make a living on my own! Then they sent me to prison, just because I wanted to struggle through! And when I was in prison my girlfriend suddenly had no truck with me anymore! Do you know what it's like when simply everything goes down south, you know that? No, you don't! You don't have any idea! My life is ruined and it's your fault," his voice going quiet and dangerous. "And you are going to pay for it."
Charlie didn't know what to say. Nor did he know what had hit him more, Phelps' words or the bullet in his shoulder. However, he didn't have to say anything, anyway, because everyone's attention was drawn away.
"This is the FBI! You're surrounded. Leave the building, hands up!"
- - -
Charlie's heartbeat accelerated. He recognized the voice, in spite of the distortion of the megaphone. Don! Don was here! Everything would go well now, there was no doubt. His big brother had come to bail him out. Don, the superhero.
Charlie's hopes burst like a soap bubble hearing Phelps' grumbled: "Like hell I will."
Don repeated his demand and Charlie listened closely to every syllable. He didn't want to miss a word, because with every word, new hope floated into the auditorium. Don was here, the rescue was here, they were so close…
With the handle of his gun, Phelps shattered the window and shouted, from under the sill, "Forget it! I won't come out! Neither do the hostages!"
There was a strained silence for one second. "We have snipers in position. As soon as the first shot is fired we're ready to storm. You won't get out."
"Also a single shot can kill someone! Another one, I should say!" Phelps shouted back, shooting a glance full with hatred towards Charlie, letting him shudder.
This time, the silence was longer. Charlie's strain was growing exponentially. They had to say something again, soon…! If they didn't say anything, this guy would freak out completely… Don! Where are you?
Finally, there was again a voice floating over to them: "We can't help you if we don't know what you want. My name is Megan Reeves. What's yours?"
Charlie couldn't resist the disappointment. Megan was here. That was good, surely it was good. She was psychologist. She was well trained. He could be glad that she was here.
But where was Don?
"What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?" Phelps' shouting drew the attention back to him. "Is this some sort of good-cop-bad-cop-crap?"
"Tell us your name. Then we can talk," Megan persisted.
There was a tense silence for some instants.
"Matt," Phelps suddenly said then. "Matt Phelps."
"Okay, Matt. Would you like to talk to somebody? Maybe to your parents? Friends?"
"They can get lost!" Phelps shouted and his voice flipped over.
"Alright, Matt. You don't have to see them if you don't want to. You've got everything under control."
"You can bet your ass I have!"
"Keep calm, Matt."
"DON'T YOU DARE ISSUE ORDERS TO ME!"
And before Charlie knew what happened to him, Phelps had already crawled over to him, pulling him to his feet. Charlie thought his shoulder would explode, so pervasive was the pain. He barely recognized that Phelps had shoved him in front of him like a shield, his left arm over Charlie's hurt shoulder, around his neck. Not until they were halfway across the room on the way from the board to the windows. Charlie realized what his opponent was planning. He thought of Don again and tried to keep his features emotionless. He failed. Pure fear was coursing through him. He felt the cold metal of the weapon at his temple and prayed.
Through the ocean of black points in front of his eyes, Charlie let his gaze wander across the campus beneath him, and his stomach did a back somersault. Don was there. While keeping the gaze with him, Charlie saw, even from the distance, that his big brother was as white as a sheet. His eyes were open wide and his mouth half so while he was staring up at him, as if to call out reassuring words to his brother. Hang in there, little one. I'll be with you, soon. We'll take you out of there. It will be all good. No single word was spoken, but the message came in.
"So, you see? You can't do anything to me! Anything!" This guy was mad. There was no doubt.
"There's no use, Matt," Megan called up, her voice hoarse. This time she renounced the megaphone, if consciously or if she just didn't think about it. "Put the gun down! As soon as you shoot, you will have forfeited your own life!"
"And what if I care a damn shit about it?"
"You don't. Everybody cares, even if you're trying to convince yourself about the opposite."
Phelps was silent. Charlie could feel his breath on his neck. The last human breath he had sensed that near had been Amita's. Charlie could see her. She had clasped her hands in front of her face, staring up to them, her eyes wide. I love you, he tried to tell her with his gaze. You know that? I love you!
He didn't know where to look. Every glance could be the last one. As if he didn't know that, the gun at his temple made itself felt; it was trembling. As well as Phelps' arm.
"And why should I care?" Phelps shouted and the next moment, the heavy weapon had disappeared from Charlie's temple. In return for it, it was held against his waist. "My life was a load of crap! Why should I care if all this finally ends?"
"Because there's always something to live for! You-"
Megan couldn't go on. For in this moment, another shot tore through the air, almost immediately followed by another.
0 = 1 - 2 + 3 - 4 + 5 - 6 + 7 - 8 + 9 - 9 + 8 - 7 + 6 - 5 + 4 - 3 + 2 - 1 = 0
"No," Don wanted to shout, but it wasn't more than a hoarse whisper. "No, please. Charlie…"
He couldn't see his brother any more. Charlie had sunk on the floor, along with Phelps.
Before Don knew what he was doing, he had already run into the building and was hurrying up the stairs on the way to the auditorium. He didn't even notice his team following him.
The stairs and the corridors seemed to never come to an end, although it was just the second floor. Don had only one thought in the void of his mind: How is he?
Finally, he had reached the relevant corridor, was hurrying through it, tearing open the doors to his right-hand side. Nothing, nothing, nothing again… here! An open window, distraught students. Some of them were holding a man lying on the floor. Some distance from him, there was a black machine pistol, lying directly beside the arm of the second man, of whom Don could see nothing except this very arm due to the students around him.
For a second he stood, too shocked from the horror possibly awaiting him. Eventually, Don's legs moved towards the crowd, though, as if by themselves. As if from far away, he could hear Phelps roaring; he didn't care. He continued his way until he saw the figure of his brother lying in front of him.
Someone that pale couldn't be alive.
He was dead.
Don's soul wanted to tear apart. A part of him wanted to flee, away, wanted to run untrue the image in front of his eyes, wanted to run in the other world where his brother lived; another part felt attracted to his brother impregnably strongly. The latter won the disposal of the body.
"Charlie?"
Don's voice was trembling, as well as his hand. His white fingers were afraid of touching Charlie, afraid of his brother's skin being cold and turning his blood into ice. Still, he couldn't withstand the urge.
His fingertips had barely made contact with Charlie's cheek when they jerked away again. He couldn't have known from the short touch if Charlie's skin was warm or cold, indeed, but the question seemed to answer itself, for Charlie's eyelids had cracked open, at least at half-mast. He wasn't dead. At least he wasn't if this was really happening.
Don didn't dare to speak – if this part of this awfully real nightmare was a real dream, a hallucination, he wanted to never wake up. And so it was Charlie who spoke first, as soon as the fog around him had cleared up enough to recognize the figure in front of his burning eyes.
"Don…"
No hallucination. "I'm here, little one," Don assured, his voice choked, and was hurriedly feeling around for Charlie's hand. He squeezed it tightly. He would never let his brother go. He would never let him go into a world he couldn't follow him in.
He had to bring his ear even nearer to Charlie's mouth to understand the following words. "…sorry…," he heard Charlie whisper. "Didn't want… we argue…"
"Shhh," Don hushed, fighting against the tears that were welling up in him and demanding their way out of his corners of the eye. He didn't know what to say any more. Keep calm? He'd better listen to this advice himself. The ambulance will be here soon? Even 'soon' was too late. Don't say anything? That might be right, from a medicinal point of view, but maybe this was Charlie's last opportunity to say something, the last opportunity to ever again listen to his brother speak…
"I'll be with you," Don finally said, forced. He stroked his brother's sweat-soaked hair off his clammy forehead, trying to regulate his own breathing and to suppress his sobs.
Under his heavy eyelids, Charlie glanced at him thankfully before they closed.
With the back of his hand, Don caressed his pale cheek. Where had all the blood gone? It was too late when Don remembered that he knew the answer and he fixed his gaze on his brother's pain-marked features in order not to have to see the puddle of blood beside him.
"Oh, Charlie…," he whispered, choking, squeezing his brother's hand tightly. No, he wouldn't leave him. He would be with him.
In a material point of view, Don kept his promise until the operating room.
0 = 1 - 2 + 3 - 4 + 5 - 6 + 7 - 8 + 9 - 9 + 8 - 7 + 6 - 5 + 4 - 3 + 2 - 1 = 0
