firefight(Darrell Case) I was bleeding to death. My life flowed out of me, pooling on the floor at my feet. I reached for my 9 mm pistol, my fingers closing around the grip. It was time to kill these invaders. There was a problem. I had ejected the empty mag. Therein was the dilemma. I fumbled with the extra mag as it fell from my fingers onto the pew.

The Torus held 12 shells. After which it became a useless hunk of metal. Foolishly, I had wasted shots. Easy shots. Panicking, I fired to keep the two shooters distracted as they shot at the fleeing congregation. Now they were hiding behind the pews. All I succeed in doing was getting shot. I could have laid my pistol down. Given up and not made me a target. But that wasn’t in my nature. Maybe a fault. I never gave up. Within the unused mag lay 12 more opportunities to bring these madmen down. My colleague was down. Dead? I wasn’t sure. From what I could see, he’d taken two in the chest. Our pastor lay unmoving behind the pulpit. I thought I heard him groan. The two individuals turned in his direction. 

As head of security for our small church, I was their last hope. Maybe their only hope. These shooters were bent on dying. However, before they did, each member of the church would feel their wrath. I glanced at the stained-glass windows. They glowed with red and blue flashing lights. They chose well. My partner and I were the only armed individuals in this church. They came at us from the back door. How I don’t know? I checked ten minutes after the service began. If they had a key or not,  I wasn’t sure; they were here now and if I bled to death, it would be wholesale slaughter. With every ounce of blood, I became weaker. It was now or never.

     “Help me. “I said to my wife. Hunkered down five feet away, her face hidden in her arms, tears dripped from her wrist. She looked at me, her face creased with horror. Her expression said it all: we were going to die.

Gathering strength, she crawled over to me. With one hand bracing the floor, she gripped my right arm. I almost howled in agony. If I had any doubt, their bullet broke my arm before she erased it from my pain fogged mind. “No,” I whispered fiercely. “Load my gun.”

She stared at me; her eyes wide. “Do it, please.” I whispered.

To my knowledge, my wife has never touched a gun, rifle or pistol, let alone loaded one. This would be a first. Her hands shaking, she pried the pistol from my bloody hand. Her fingers trembling, she griped the 12-shot mag. jamming it into the pistol. Turning tear-filled eyes on me, she whispered. “It won’t fit.”

“Other way “I said. She flipped it around and slid the mag home. She shoved it into my hand. “Jack it.”

She looked at me, puzzled. “Pull the top back. Put one in the chamber.” I said. She did. Now ready, I gripped the top of the pew in front of us and struggled to my feet. In the next few seconds, I would kill these men or they me. Both of them were facing the front of the church. As far as they were concerned, I was dead, or at least dying. The shorter oner aimed his pistol at our pastor. As he squeezed the trigger, I fired. My bullet startled him. He jerked to the left, his bullet plowing into the floor inches from the pastor’s head.

I missed, my bullet coming within inches. Yet it was enough for them to know I was still alive. The 9mm felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. As one unit, they turned to me. They fired. How could they miss I was 25 feet away? The first bullet clipped my damaged right arm, the second slammed into my left shoulder. By sheer will, I stayed on my feet, but not for long. I was going down. I could see the smaller one grinning through the ski mask. He walked up the aisle. I saw his plan as if he wrote it in blood. Frist to kill me, and my wife, then the rest of the congregation.

I kept my eyes down on the Torus, laying it on the top of the pew facing out to the aisle. I pretended as if I didn’t have the strength to fight. Coming to the end of my pew, his grin widened. In a shooter’s stance, feet firmly planted on the floor, he raised his pistol for the killing shot. The gun kicked in my hand. The grin disappeared from his face, along with several of his bottom teeth. He was dead before he hit the floor.

 I went to my knees, bracing the pistol on the top of the pew. Taking aim, I hit the surviving gunman in the chest. The 9 mm wouldn’t penetrate his body armor, but it was enough to stop him temporarily. He fired his aim way off as he took out the clock. My strength leaving me, I fired at the only unprotected part of him. His head. They say the 9 mm tore his face apart. I left identification with the police. His head rocked back and forth as if he were nodding. He went down hard. It was clear he would not be getting back up. 

As soon as the threat was gone, so was I. I set down on the pew and dropped the pistol. I didn’t have any choice. My blood covered hand would not hold the gun. Come to find out my colleague took one in the shoulder. The second bullet missed him entirely. He lay on the platform behind our pastor, waiting. When I began firing, he opened up. Thus, we caught the lone gunman in a crossfire. He didn’t have a chance. Knowing he must be stopped; we didn’t aim for his body. The 9 mms tore his skull apart. I had 10 bullets left in my mag, my colleague 11. 21 projectiles smashing into his head from both directions.

My colleague lay his Colt on the floor and raised his right hand over his head. The other hung at his side. His badge in the palm of his hand facing out. The glass exploded in the church’s front doors. S.W.A.T. had arrived. My wife ripped my badge off my belt and thrust it up over my slumped body. Surrounding the church, law enforcement bided their time to minimize loss of life. Hearing the multitude of shots, the State Police captain gave the order for S.W.A.T. to break down the doors and go in. They feared all they would find were dead bodies. 

I eased down on the pew, staining it with my blood. Six members of the S.W.A.T. team charged down the center aisle looking for someone to shoot. They checked the shooters. Both dead. After being assured by me and my colleague, the shooters were alone. They herded the rest of the congregation unhurt but terrified into the parking lot.

The shooter’s bullet had wounded pastor in the forearm and the other member of my team in the shoulder. We were the only injuries. They lay me on the pew, stuffing bandages on my wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. My wife held my hand so tightly her grip hurt. No way would she let go until it became necessary.

“I love you.” I said with a weak smile. “Your safe.”

“I love you.” She moaned. Her face dissolved.

The next time I opened my eyes, sunlight flooded the room. Hearing beeping, I glanced at a large machine with a flashing red light. It settled down, turning green, but not before it woke my wife sleeping curled up in a chair by the window. Instantly, she came to my side, smoothing my hair. Tears in her eyes, I tried to lift my hand and found I couldn’t. Leaning down, she kissed me on the forehead.

“They had to tie you down.” She said softly.

“Why?” I mumbled.

“You were still fighting the shooters.”

She untied me.

“Are you safe?” I said, raising up.

She smiled. When we first met many years ago, her smile was the first thing I noticed. “Yes, you can go back to sleep.”

And so I did, permanently.

 

 

 

 

 

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