‘One man down. I repeat one man down. Requesting backup.’
From my sitting position, my back reclined on the kitchen counter acting as a makeshift cover, I stared at my partner, Sergeant Musa. His lifeless body laid spread-eagled on the floor, the blood seeping from his temple had began to morph into a bizarre halo around his head. Even in death he looked calm, a morose smile hanging loosely at the corner of his pale lips.
Sighing, I looked at my watch; backup was to arrive within 10. I couldn’t wait that long.
Anger and adrenaline pumped through me in arrhythmic heaves.
They must pay!
I removed the .9mm from his cold grasp. He had no use for it anyway. I cocked it and then crawled quietly to the edge of the concrete counter and peeped. There were two pairs of legs positioned at either sides of the door and a pair down the lobby.
The bullet missed me by an inch. They’d seen me. The element of surprise had been blown to dust. I had to wait them out, till they’d run out of slugs and reloaded their weapons. They did eventually.
I directed myself, sprang up like a predator about to pounce on an unsuspecting prey, and squeezed off two rounds—one for each man that was stationed at the door—and plopped back down.
Both slugs slammed into their throats. All I heard was the slump sounds produced from their evident fall.
I peered again. Their unmoving pupils glared back at me. I rolled over to the other side where the wooden cabinet was. My cover was already compromised, but I just curled down there and waited patiently. The fool came along.
I wasted no time squeezing a set of doubletaps. The idiot twirled, taking both bullets in the chin, staggered and stumbled to the floor, lifeless, joining his fellow criminals in the afterlife.
I walked over them, marched down the lobby.
A sudden bloom of fear gripped me, bringing me to a halt. I stood quivering as I gaped at the kid before me.
I could barely recognise him, even though he was dressed in his favourite white shirt and Navy blue shorts. The same uniform he wore to his primary school every morning. His finger was slightly pressed on the trigger aimed at my head.
My son was aiming a gun at me.
Fear gave way to anger as I trained my pistol—finger clasped around the hammer—at him. We stared at each other, gun aimed. I for one, never expected that they’d go this—
I didn’t wait him out. I pumped him full of lead, and watched the surprised recoiled look on his face as he jerked backwards. His head exploded. A goulash of brains slapped the wall. His limp frame made a loud thunk on the floor.
These people must be really crazy, I thought, as I fished for my communicator inside my pocket. I brought it close to my mouth, and spoke harshly into it.
“This is Sergeant Adekunle speaking. Simulation Complete!”
There was a low rumbling noise as everything around me began to shrink, then dissipate into plain dust.
With a resigned sigh, I stepped out of the newly installed Police virtual-reality simulator.
About the writer
Emmanuel Okoro is a graduate of Civil Engineering whose candid interests in literature and the arts has made him delve into creative writing.
His works, however little, can be found on Sobolation, and other online mags.You can contact him through his Facebook account of the same name.