Project Halo Part I

A little story I wrote for a friend of mine. I have nothing up here so I felt like posting. Hope you enjoy it.

“Death was something I didn’t like to think about. Something I never wanted to talk about, and a topic I completely avoided in daily conversations. Now that I’m facing it, my mind’s blank, but I’m not opposed to it. As I look at the black door, at the gaping pit that would soon swallow me whole, I realize that death wasn’t horrifying at all, it was just the mind that made it that way…”

 

            Cameron stood a few paces to the left side of the door, chambering his rounds. The terrorist was inside, along with several other accomplices—all armed to the teeth with guns—and they had hostages. Cameron straightened his bulletproof vest and chambered the last of the tiny iron rounds.

            “Well, Saint, are you up to this?” his commander questioned, giving him a look of approval.

            “Not really, Sir,” Cameron replied, and his commander grinned, reloading his rifle.

            “Good, because if you were, I would think you were crazy.” Saint didn’t smile at his commander’s lack of humor, but instead concentrated on the door and brought his revolver to his ear.

            Six SWAT teams had formed a perimeter around the building. Two of the teams were evacuating the rest of the floors; another team had taken their positions up on the roof, preparing to fire if the terrorists decided to start picking off hostages; another two teams were covering the ground; and the last one SWAT teams were on their way via helicopter.

            Cameron and the rest of his team were here, attempting a rescue. For the moment, he prayed that the rescue attempt wouldn’t fail.

            “Are you sure you’re okay, Cameron? If not, remove your vest and leave,” his commander said. A low growl emanated from Cameron’s throat.

            “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Let’s just get in there and do our jobs.”

            His commander nodded grimly, and kicked the door open, allowing his men to swarm in and take out whatever gunmen there were in the room.

 

            That had been seven hours ago. Seven hours ago Cameron had not been a confident officer as he burst into the room and let loose a barrage of bullets. Now he was a shell of that unconfident officer, carrying his commander’s wounded body behind the safety of an empty office cubicle. The panic caused by the gun waving terrorists had lowered considerably when the SWAT team burst into the office, but now their shouts of elation died down completely as they watched their fallen saviors with blank expressions, devoid of any emotions whatsoever. They look like mannequins, Cameron thought as he took shelter behind the cubicle. None of the terrorists had even bothered taking their weapons; they knew that none of the SWAT members would bother discharging weapons, not when they had automatics on hand, not when they had those automatics pointed at civilians.

            “You know,” the terrorist leader said evenly, “it would be so easy if you gave us what we want.”

            No one expected the man to speak. In his arms, the commander groaned and Cameron recovered first, automatically replying to the man’s question with careful words.

            “What is your name?” It wasn’t the best of questions to ask, and he doubted the man would even give him the pleasure of learning that name, but Cameron needed to stall him. He needed to stall him enough for one shot. One head shot and the other terrorists would be in total disarray.

            He heard footsteps approach the cubicle, and then stop. The terrorist was ten paces away from where he and the commander had decided to take cover.

            “My name is Javier,” the terrorist replied casually, as if they hadn’t just engaged in gunfire seven hours ago. Seven hours and thirty seconds ago, Cameron corrected himself. But who’s counting?

            Cameron rested his commander’s head on the floor gently, rose to his feet, and holstered his pistol as he did so. “And what do you want? We’ve done nothing to you.”

            “You shot a friend of mine,” Javier motioned the corpse lying on the floor near one of the hostages. “I want to kill you, personally, though, Cameron.”

            The gunslinger froze. How did this terrorist know him?

            A ghost of a smile curved the terrorist’s lips. “That’s right, I know your name,” Javier said. “We’ve met before, actually…when you killed my brothers.” Javier’s hand came up and Cameron felt something press against his chest and send his back colliding with the wall. He groaned and tried to remove himself, but the only thing that seemed to be functioning correctly was his head and mouth.

            “I’ve never seen you in my life,” Cameron said. The words sounded wrong, even to his ears. Was it possible that Javier was the same boy who witnessed the execution of the two young men being blindfolded and shot; the same boy in front of the crowd who cried out in defiance for the unfairness of the entire situation?

            “You murdered Carlos and Alejandro,” Javier gnashed his teeth together and Cameron felt his spine slam against the wall again. His skull cracked against the wall hard and he felt wetness gather at the base of his head. It was probably blood, but his arms restrained and he couldn’t check to confirm it.

            “I was following orders! The governor’s orders! I offered them a safe exile back to their mother country but they refused me!” Cameron was doing his best to defend himself, but he knew Javier was ticking like a bomb. He noticed the terrorist’s right hand tighten on the butt of his gun. Javier’s other hand came down and Cameron plummeted to the floor in a heap.

            It took him a few moments to collect himself and rise to his feet, by which time Javier had crossed the room put a gun to Cameron’s temple. The gun barrel was cold against his skin, frigid. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and eyed the man who held his life in one hand.

            “It doesn’t feel so good, does it?” Javier growled in his ear.

            Cameron’s vision faded black, for an instant. He’d been prone to panic attacks before during times of stress, but this was different. He felt his hands tremble, and he couldn’t even reach for his gun and die respectfully. He would die unarmed, in front of the people he swore to protect. He would die in front of his commander, the man that had promised his father to keep him safe. Cameron’s eyes flitted to the ceiling.

            Father, are you watching?

            He heard the gun reload and heard the bullet click into place. Javier pressed the barrel against his temple so much that it hurt his face.

            This is what it feels like to look death in the face. This is what it feels like to stare down the barrel of a gun at the man whom you caused so much misery to, only to serve your country. Cameron tensed.

            Again the thought came.

            Father, are you watching?

            BAM! The gunshot that was meant for him didn’t reach his face. He knew it should have. He knew that he shouldn’t have been breathing right now, that he shouldn’t even be thinking. His brains should have been nothing but mush on the wall, as if someone had just taken a can of red paint and flung it onto their canvas.

            BAM!

            This time a bullet grazed his face and his hand reflexively reached up to touch his cheek where the bullet had stung him. Javier’s body fell to the ground, two bullet holes in his chest. Cameron looked past the dead terrorist, only to see his commander leaning against one of the cubicles ten feet away, gun extended. The barrel had smoke leaking from it.

            Cameron nodded a silent thank you to his commander who merely looked at him without expression.

 

            Cameron walked down the sidewalk adjacent to the bank building he’d just exited. He had easily avoided the media, the ambulances, and other officers that held higher authority over them. There was no point in him telling them the story; the hostages and the commander would take care of that for him. He removed the bulletproof vest and flung it into the street—he wouldn’t have a need for it anymore.

            A brush with death had changed him. He shuttered at the thought of the gun barrel against his face.

            He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up at the empty sky. An azure expanse of nothingness saluted his vision. To hell with it, he thought as he crossed the street, oblivious to the shrieking of a car horn.

            He felt the front of the car slam into him, felt his spine crack against the windshield, and before he knew it he was in the street, unmoving. He felt blood everywhere, and sharp jagged pains digging into his skin.

            Before the vacant black expanse of death swallowed him whole, one thought replayed itself over in his head.

            Father, are you watching?

            His world turned black.

 

Author's Note

Tell me what you like and don't like.

Reviews

[Natalie]

Now this is my kind of story; Death and blood, though it's missing the cursing. ;) great job.

You kept it simple and easy to follow, not once did I feel confused. You showed the reader what was happening. Keep up the good work.

[Céce]

omg, this is great.
your writing style is simple and understated, but powerful. wish I could write like that.
I loved the repitition of "Father, are you watching?"
it was simply amazing.

sometime I will get around to reading part 2.
for now, just keep writing! :)