Part 2

This wasn’t supposed to happen them.  This wasn’t supposed to happen to kids their age.  Kids their age were supposed to be protected from terrible things like this.  Walking out of the high school they had spent the last four years of their lives, every single kid felt this kind of immunity.  They were staring destiny right in the eyes, and they had more drive and potential than ever before.  Then, in one second, the tables turned.  Destiny laughed at the once stoic students reduced to fearful, whimpering children.  And it all started with one loud BANG!

For a second, shock left everyone immobile.  The sound enveloped the three hundred- some students, and at first no one moved.  They just stood there.  The once electrically excited air settled leaving no noise except for a faint ringing in the ears of the dumbfounded students.  Then, one more loud BANG sent the students into a frenzy.  There was the sound of glass breaking and beer cans being crushed under the mad stampede.  Within seconds, the huge field was completely empty except for hundreds of red solo cups and broken bottles of Jack Daniel.  No one quite knew which direction the gunfire had come from so every student simply chose a direction and ran. Three hundred students disappeared into the forest, each suddenly injected with ravaging survival instinct.

Those who ran west hit the main road and all returned home safely that night.  Those who ran north were lucky enough to come across a good samaritan's home and stayed there until the mess was over.  They returned home safely that night.  Those who ran South eventually met the cops who had been called because a neighbor heard gunfire.  The police made certain that those students arrived home safely that night.  Those who ran East unwittingly ran in the direction that the gunfire had come from.  Destiny had ushered these unfortunate pawns right into the arms of a dozen cocaine- fueled, shotgun- wielding madmen.  This is the story of five students who ran east.

His ears still ringing from the two blasts, Dean’s only thoughts were of what was in front of him. He looked down at his feet as ran to make sure he didn’t trip over a branch or tree root.  His head eyes shot up when he heard the sound of automatic gunfire.  The sound lasted a whole ten seconds, enough to empty the weapon’s entire 60- bullet magazine.  Where did it come from?  It was definitely coming from behind him he thought.  Or maybe the left? Truthfully, his thoughts were impaired because of the amount of beer he had had to drink.  Another ten seconds of gunfire sounded throughout the woods.  This time the bullets had definitely found a target because Dean heard a high-pitched scream cut short by the clicking of the gunfire.  

These thoughts had distracted Dean from looking at where he was putting his feet.  His shin cracked against a log, and he fell.  His head collided with a tree root- hard.  He rolled himself over so that he was sprawled out on his back.  He noted the visibility and sheer number of the stars in the sky through his hazy and blurry vision.  The light pollution in New Orleans, where he lived, allowed for only a few, hardly visible stars.  All at once, he realized how far away he was from everything, from everyone.

Suddenly, there was someone on top of him.  The dark, masked figure was pushing down on Dean’s throat with the dull side of a machete.  For a moment, no one said anything.  Dean noticed eyes behind the black ski mask.  They were wide and grey- ish blue.  They were shaking inside their skull.  They glanced from Dean’s eyes to the forest to the sky to the soft flesh of Dean’s neck, finally settling on Dean’s eyes.  Everything was so still and silent except for the quick, sporadic breaths of the masked man.  Dean was not scared.  A combination of the beer, the silence, and the stars left Dean feeling almost content.  

The masked figure reached into his back pocket and revealed a surgical scalpel.  He twisted it around in his left hand, still using his right hand to keep Dean in place with the dull side of a blood-caked machete.  As he examined the scalpel, the polished stainless steel caught the light of the stars, and Dean realized that this sick and twisted man on top of him did not have a quick, merciful death in mind for him.   

The man tilted his head back to look at the sky.

Bang!

A spray of warm blood and bits of ski mask splattered all over Dean’s face and white t-shirt.  The machete’s pressure on his neck subsided and fell to the grounded.  The man’s limp body fell onto Dean’s chest, and Dean found that he was looking right into a grey-ish blue iris that was almost completely rolled back into it’s skull.  The other eye was no longer an eye, just a bloody mess of skull and brain.  

Dean put his hands on the man’s blood-soaked shirt and pushed the corpse off of him and onto the ground next to him, only to reveal another dark figure standing over him.

The figure gave out a long exhale that could have been a nervous laugh.  “Hey there,” whispered a shaky voice, “I think we should stick together.”