Jose walked into class and took the nearest empty chair. It sat front and center. He slid his navy blue backpack off his shoulder, settled into the desk, and adjusted his dark blue denim jacket, fingers brushing the Falcons pin on the right lapel. The backpack dropped into a lump at his feet, unremarkable save for the button that read “Have an exit strategy” in bold red print. The overhead light reflected off the lenses of his square framed silver and red glasses. To his right, by the large windows that overlooked the quad, a fellow student had brought her daughter to class. He ran his hand over his short black hair as the class waited for the professor. It would have curled, if it were long enough. The professor walked in, set his briefcase on the desk, and opened it.
“Jose,” the professor said, “It’s time for you to die.”
From the open briefcase the professor drew a large Tommy gun and leveled it at Jose. Desks and chairs scratched the tile floor as his classmates ducked for cover. Jose threw himself from his desk, delicate hands grabbing his backpack. All around him, the class pulled guns from their purses and bags. Jose was surrounded.
He rushed the nearest classmate, the mother, throwing his navy backpack in front of him. Shocked, she caught the backpack with both hands. Jose leapt at her and planted a kick in his backpack. The force sent the backpack into her chest, and she reeled backwards. Jose landed nimbly on his brown and blue tennis shoes, dropping to a crouch just as another student fired a sawed-off shotgun in his direction. The blast sent a half dozen other students and the professor flailing backwards.
Jose grabbed a nearby desk, flung it at the student wielding the shotgun, the rolled toward the student with his backpack just as the gunfire from the others started.
In one smooth motion, Jose spun his classmate around and used her as a shield from the gunfire. As her body convulsed before him, he pulled out two pistols of his own from the backpack in her hands. Gore splattered across the front of his denim jacket and the light blue workman’s shirt he wore. He kicked his classmate’s bullet-riddled corpse at the remaining five students. As they flinched back, Jose ran two steps then dropped to the floor. He slid across the tile, khaki work pants tearing at a knee. Each offending classmate received two bullets. The first bullet, Jose fired into a kneecap. The second, as the knee disappeared in a fine red mist, into the head as each student fell in turn. Knee, head; it was a combination Jose had spent years perfecting at the agency. Jose stood smoothly at the end of his slide, surveying the carnage. He smiled his silly little smile as all went silent.
In the silence, Jose held his smoking pistols aloft and in unison, gave them a shake. Emptied magazines dropped from them, and clattered on the floor at his feet. A soft whimper echoed from under the professor’s desk.
His head snapped toward the sound while his hands clicked fresh magazines into his pistols. He moved over carefully, pistols leveled and trigger fingers at the ready. He spun around the corner of the desk. The little girl, his classmate’s daughter, sat curled up around herself, hugging her teddy bear. She turned large frightened eyes on him. He paused.
“Are you ok,” Jose murmured softly. His thin lips and small mouth hardly moved.
With a sob, the girl threw herself into his legs, hugging him for comfort. Jose brought one pistol up to a shoulder and tucked the other pistol into his belt.
“Come on. I’ll get you out of here,” he said, and turned to lead the way toward the door. The sound of a single round being chambered stopped him cold.
Behind him, a deafening bang sent shivers up his spine. The noise snapped his chin up from his chest. A line of drool snaked down the stubble on his chin, and he blinked his eyes several times. Forcing his eyes to focus, he looked behind him with his heart in his throat. His classmate’s daughter sheepishly collected the book she had dropped. The professor walked in, set his briefcase on the desk, and opened it.
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