School Shootout
Chapter Two
** 'Thank you' to everyone that reviewed--Jazzkid, VeronicaD13, , Marinelife37, TransformersLover95, KnucklesRedFury207.2, jodz92, hauntedpumpkin56, Sarah, FishieGurl, and xJustAnotherDreamerx.**
**Sorry it took so long to update my computer got a really bad virus and is broken right now This is short chapter, I'll try to post another longer one before the end of the week.**
NOTE: I realized I didn't name the shooters in the last chapter—my bad—So were going to say that the leader is Rilson and his friends are Steve and Paul. I'll go back and fix that later.
I flinched as I put weight on my bruised foot. The pain quickly receded into a dull throb. I carefully started threading my way around my classmates to get to the teachers desk.
Damn, people were starting to notice me moving around. They were looking at me with shocked faces and pleading eyes.
"Sssshhh" I hissed at them to stop them from calling out to me. I couldn't help them if I got killed. Surprisingly, they all quieted and it became almost eerily quiet. I hoped that the shooters were busy keeping an eye on a different classroom. Then I thought of Mikaela and how she could be trapped somewhere having God-knows-what done to her and I hoped that they were surrounded by SWAT bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds.
I paused as I reached the teachers desk. Now that I was at the front of the room I could see that the door to the hallway was closed. I thanked God for small miracles. I could see the legs of our teacher, Mrs. Johnson, sticking out from the far side of the desk.
My hands were still tied behind my back so I started looking for some scissors or sharp objects to cut the plastic tie but I couldn't see anything on top of the desk. I went around to look in the desk drawer's. As I did I felt something wet on the bottom of my foot. I looked down and saw that I was standing in a large pool of blood. I stared at it in horror and though I didn't want to look closer at Mrs. Johnson I felt my eyes being drawn to her body.
Her neck had been slashed open. Her eyes were open and they seem to be staring straight at me. Her mouth was open so that it looked like see was silently screaming.
I blanched and bolted away from the desk and its hidden horror but I couldn't stop staring. I saw bloody footprints on the floor. My footprints. I furiously started wiping my feet on the carpet trying to get the blood off.
It won't come off, it wontcome off, itwontcomeoff. I nearly screamed as I back up into the wall.
I was heaving, trying not to throw up while simultaneously trying to breathe. I finally manage to look away but looking out at my classmates bound and lying on the floor was in some ways worse. I could just picture them being mercilessly slaughtered. They were all staring at me again. Those pleading eyes were boring into my soul.
They didn't know. She must have been killed when Steve and Paul forced us to line up against the back wall. I pictured Rilson covering her mouth and slashing her throat. I fought back the urge to throw up again.
"What are you waiting for?" Somebody whispered from the floor.
Push past it, Sam. Make the Autobots proud. I let my mind wander back to good times with--playing around at the car wash with Bee, getting back at Trent, drive-in movie dates with Mikaela—I found myself inching back towards the desk.
I took a deep breath and stepped over the pool of blood. I had to turn away from the desk in order to use my hands. I focused on the ceiling as I felt around for the drawer handles. I brushed one and grabbed onto it. I tugged—it won't budge. Damn it, it was locked. I ground my teeth together as I bent my knees and moved down to try the next drawer. It stubbornly refused to move as well. I groaned out loud, why me?
I glanced back and looked at the desk there was one drawer left. Please, please God, let it be unlocked. I held my breath as I fumbled for the handle. I tugged gently on it…nothing. I yanked on it with all my might straining my wrist against the ties, it gave and slid open with a clang. I stopped myself from falling face-forward and took a deep breath. I quickly inspected the contents of the drawers—rubber bands, sticky notes, pens, pencils, some scattered paperclips, thumbtacks, and a bottle of pink nail polish and nail file that looked suspiciously like the ones Tiffany Hopsen had had confiscated from her last class period when she wasn't paying attention. There wasn't a pair of scissor in sight. Stupid 'safe school' policies.
I felt like bashing my head against the wall but I figured with my luck it would bring Rilson and his pyscho friends back. I focused on the drawer—I had to get free somehow. Maybe I could use the thumbtacks—stab it repeatedly until it got weak enough I could break it? Then it hit me the nail file, its strong enough to grind down nails it could work on plastic, right? I grabbed it and then some thumbtacks, just in case.
I quickly scanned the cell phones on the desk and found mine. I nudged the ones around it away with my chin. Since my hands were full I was forced to pick it up with my teeth. I headed to the back of room where everyone else was waiting.
I gently lowered the cell phone down on a chair and then sat down on the floor. I leaned casually against the chair and put my legs together like they were still bound. I made sure to face the hallway door so anybody coming in wouldn't be able to see my working on the plastic tie. I set the tacks down and tried to find the best position to use the file. It was easy but I found one that seemed to work well and I set to work moving it back and forth.
My hand muscles were burning, they weren't use to being twisted and used repeatedly like this. The file was scrapping the skin on my fingers but the sound of it scratching away at the plastic was music to my ears. There was a small pile of white plastic on the floor—and it was growing larger. Soon, I was going to be free, free, FREE.
There were sirens now; I knew the cops were out there surrounding the entire school. All we had to do was get free and get to them.
I flinched and scrapped my wrist with the file as my cell phone started vibrating on the chair. It wasn't supposed to be ON, Mrs. Johnson was tyrannical about us not using cellphones in class. I distinctly remembered turning it off. I twisted to look at the caller id—it displayed one word "Bee."