“Another 10 people dead,” Armor 17 thought as he pulled the trigger on his gun. He saw the flash of light, smoke, and fire at the end of the barrel, but the gun remained invisible. He heard the small explosion of the gunpowder as he fired, shattering the calm, the quiet conversations in the shop.
“If no one wants to sell…” he watched the middle aged man behind the counter fall. It was the shop’s owner, dead before his body reached the floor. Chaos erupted. People screamed. People ran. People drew their guns and shot at thin air. 17 watched two of the people in the shop get struck by bullets aimed at nothing. “Regrettable.”
17 walked away.
He remembered an hour earlier. “We’re already late!” His car left long gashes in the lawn at the college. Four parallel gashes, where the tires tore the grass from the ground. He’d exited the car while it was still moving, desperation coursed through him.
Gunshots. He was too late. Armor 17 followed the sound, found the gunman in a classroom. Watched people running everywhere, screaming, panicking. Saw the bodies on the floor. Saw the man with the gun, aiming, and firing.
17 shot him.
The violence stopped.
He’d known it would happen again so he found who sold the guns to the killer. And he stopped that man from selling guns. “If no one wants to sell…” Armor 17 headed toward a shop in Colorado.
I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 187. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.