Spanner 14.3: B Krool 2 Ur Scuel (The School Invasions Part II)

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 14: Plots and Plans
Part 3: B Krool 2 Ur Scuel (The School Invasions Part II)
(Revision 4)

school building. Heavy gunfire assaults the front door—several armed and armoured guards scream gurgle die—all the students in the lobby and cafeteria run screaming for their lives down the hallway—the front door vanishes in a deafening fiery blast of smoke and shrapnel. Christie shatters the glass with a fighting-gloved fist and pulls the alarm; Charmian, Lucy, and Lady dash into the empty control room, lock it, and turn on the monitors; Bart and his football crew take their positions to strike in ambush.

Shira, Jennifer, Fiona, and her nameless sister race through the halls wearing only their boots and fighting gloves, far ahead of their still dressing teammates. Shira syncs the computer in her head with the school security system (Lucy squeaks, Charmian catches her breath) and through the PA commands in a calm unwinded voice: “All students and faculty evacuate immediately if you value your lives. We will engage the attackers ourselves. Do not interfere. Leave now.” (Lucy: “What in God’s name is she doing?” Charmian: “I guess we’ll find out.”)

Three helicopters land in front of the emergency exits hoping to block them; from each an instant news crew debarks: two reporters, two cameras, two guards wielding sound pistols, and a producer barking orders; the guards immediately fire upon fleeing students to force them back into the line of fire as their producers scream through bullhorns turned full volume that it’s the students’ duty to die for the networks’ ratings. Scotty calls Shira: “What the fuck you think we should do now, Thomas!”

Without a pause she answers: “Fight.”

He echoes the word to the others in his group; they call their friends at the other exits—Valiants, Pretties, Bremeloes, and others launch themselves at the sound cannoneers, using students in the way and each other as human shields, rushing and trampling the guards and beating up the producers—one reporter who happens to be Amanda Currie takes a blow to the head—

2012... the man who kidnapped her, drugged her, and told her it was her duty to kill her sister for the survival of the Nation—he turns out to be the man behind her, her instant-news producer...

The students flood out through the exits, trampling the sound cannoneers, pinballing the news crews back and forth, and run in the direction opposite the attackers’ point of entry, praying in panic that they didn’t bring reinforcements to cut them down. Shira plays war-movie sound effects through the PA, not to confuse the attackers, but to lure the news crews in.

As soon as the smoke clears, the attackers advance through the door into the lobby: two in hockey masks, one in his Ghostface Killer mask, one in the face of Conservative Revolutionary hero Guy Fawkes, and, masked only in military HUD mirrorshades, Ron Tremayne and Don Murphy. The hockey-masked men run ahead of the others. One of them screams through his com, “Bart, you fool, you were supposed to make sure the victims didn’t escape!”

Bart replies through his phone, “Well, Stan, Shira Thomas didn’t want ’em in the way of her Challenge! We got the victims you need.” Behind him, the Ibrahim cower together in a corner of the dark empty classroom, terrified to even make a noise.

Beck asks Bart, “What’ll we do with the others?”

“Tremayne, Murphy, Fischer, and Price?”

“Yeah!” yells Rex.

“We let ’em have their fun with the news.” Bart grins evilly. “Then we kill ’em.”

march... With the war cry of “faggots!” four Valiants savagely beat four sullen outcasts; Bart Green, Beck Skeever, Rex Corson, and Scotty Walker attempt to prove their manhood once again at their expense.

Irrational with resentment and hate, the injured misfits gather in the office of an unused classroom to plot mass murder: Ron Tremayne, Don Murphy, Harvey Fischer, and Brian Price...

“Hey! Get back here, you idiots!” Craving terrorist blood, the big footballers race out to hunt the killers. “Tie them bitches up!” Beck and Rex throw themselves at the Ibrahim sisters and beat them up—in the chaos, Saida pushes Sana out with her foot; she runs past Bart for help.

Shira orders another group of students to keep their voices silent as they evacuate the science room. Just in time: the Ghostface-masked gunman scurries back and forth through the empty hall in a daze, confused at the lack of victims. (Jennifer digs through Dave’s desk to retrieve Bernkastel’s knife. Dave: “Shouldn’t you use the gun?” Jennifer glares at him: “Useless!”) Shira taunts him by appearing naked and mocking before him only to disappear like a mirage. He finds all the classrooms he passes dark, doors closed, probably locked. Finally he finds an open one with its lights on. He dashes in.

He finds Dave, alone. He points his AK at him. He roars, “Where the fuck’s the kids?”

Dave says, “Look behind you.”

Ghostface spins to see—someone blocks his rifle—he looks up: Shira... naked? She smiles. “Hi.”

She jams a pencil into his eye, all the way through his brain. The corpse of Brian Price falls to the floor twitching. Over his shoulder, Dave sees Jennifer smile. “See?”

From the security room, Lucy announces, “One terrorist down! Five remaining!”

While the girl with the violet eyes hunts for terrorists, Sana spots her. “Leila! They kidnapped my sisters!”

Behind them, Bart runs toward them screaming like a berserker. She hides Sana behind her. He runs up to her and screams in her face in irrational rage, “Gimme back our sacrifice, Shelley!”

“Your right to commit honor killings,” she coldly hisses, “ends where someone else’s right to life begins.” She kicks him hard in the groin, grabs his arms, kicks his head up and back, then spin-kicks him flying several meters till he slams against the wall hard; with a sigh he slumps unconscious. She looks at the monitor above him: a map of the main building—four dots move fast, two X’s remain unmoving. She takes Sana’s hand and runs together with her to Dave’s classroom, switches off the light, and quietly closes and locks the door behind her. Before Dave can protest, she commands, “Into the office!” Sana runs ahead as the nameless girl grabs Dave and pushes him into the office; the door locked, the lights out, they hide behind Bernkastel’s desk.

Another dark empty classroom Ron races past. Over his loud labored breath, over the hot blood pumping and screaming in his ears, he hears—sounds of sex? He sprints like a madman toward the source. A classroom, open, lit—office door open, it’s inside—Gar Smith and Cherry Anne Bernkastel doing the unspeakable act, he always loathed those two, he raises his gun but then spots Smith’s saber, drops all his guns, let’s do it like the movies—he takes the sword, holds it high above the filthy fornicators like Michael Myers, and plunges it into Smith’s back, down through both their bodies, holds it down with all his weight, drinks in the sight of Cherry Anne’s terror, they scream moan bleed shit piss twitch gargle and then they die, two loathsome useless pieces of toxic waste covered in blood and going cold—he raises the sword high once again, exults “I’m a Maaaaan!” and with a single swipe lops both their heads off.

The producer punches Amanda; she falls down and stares up at him in shock. “You stay out of this, girl! This is a man’s job!” She slinks away. The sound of shots. He points toward it. “There’s our story! Get it!” They rush together into the line of fire. Amanda stays silent; all she can think of is “Into the valley of death...”

They find their man: it’s Don! but he’s a rabid predator smelling blood, he raises his rifle, ammo drum full—the instant news crew surround him; the producer looks on, hands on hips, proud of his scoop; the reporter grins in that drooling face, attempts to hero-worship him—

he fires into them with absolute rage, trying to cut them apart; he roars, “Gimme my man card, faggots!”—time slows down, they twitch and shout orgasmically in death, he ejaculates lead in murderous climax, a danse macabre—Amanda swoons—Jennifer goes dizzy from the intensity—

jihadis rush forward in screaming murderous hordes, no individuals only zombies of Allah—Blondie, Daisy, Nana, Irina, and Francesca unleash rockets and full clips mowing them down in waves of death that build into mountains—

He slumps and pants in grotesque parody of post-coital bliss, surrounded by splattered blood and shredded flesh. Someone yanks his head down and to the left. “Here it comes,” says Jennifer. She slashes his throat wide open—he falls to his knees, shocked at his random defeat—a dead man’s camera captures her stylish follow-through. She dashes off-camera—dying memories of a Facebook exchange—

Don Murphy
Im the Law of Social Darwinism bitchz. Im judge jury & executioner. If i think ur fit to survive, you gonna survive, but you gotta prove it. If i no ur unfit or if u go traitor, yall get terminated wit extreme prejudice. I am the Law!
<snip>
Jennifer Blair You sound just like America.
Don Murphy Americas #1 fn bitch!
Jennifer Blair Right now you’re wanking to those pictures of dead girls you stole. I watched them die in battle, you just fap at their pretty corpses. USA.

random memories assault him as if the recording angel’s preparing the prosecution’s case—his time runs out—Donald Murphy clutches his bloody throat, chokes, falls over forward into the pool of his own blood. Lucy announces, “Two terrorists down, four remaining!”

On her way to the next target, Jennifer finds Debbie blocking her way. She clears her throat. Debbie turns around, sees her, and shrieks. “Damn it, Blair,” she squeaks, “why in God’s name do you always gotta be fighting naked?”

“One, wet skin’s hard to get hold of; two, fabric won’t get in the wound and infect it if I get shot; three, it’s distracting.”

Debbie rolls her eyes. “I’ll bet.”

They hear shots down the hall. “C’mon!” They run toward the gunfire.

“So how’d you manage to worm your way outta service?”

“It was suck Shepherd Nugent’s shrivelled old sperm pistol or back to the front.”

“Why didn’t he didn’t marry you?”

scenario: He collapses in exhausted self-satisfaction beside his new bride after raping her several hours. Her patience pays off: she reaches under the bed to retrieve the icepick she hid there and slams the spike into his chest, through the aorta. “You fuckin’ bitch—” She hammers his nose with the handle to shatter it. Losing blood in hot fountains, shitting and pissing the bed in dying panic, he helplessly watches his new widow kneel beside him, lick his blood off the spike, kiss the handle, and watch with pleasure as his black aura fades to nothing.

“I’m too dangerous.”

“Hoo boy...”

“Did you know he pooped his pants for a week to dodge the draft?”

Debbie stares at her in shocked disbelief. “No way!”

“He raped Courtney Love. She was twelve. Then he told her to kill herself. Willa punched him out for a reason.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I have a sister...”

1994... Willa Richter-Thomas, mascara smeared by tears after her screaming match with Courtney Love at the funeral of Kurt Cobain, whom Willa loved but Courtney married, holding shy nine-year-old Alex protectively, shouting at the MTV reporters: “I’m not allowing that man within one mile of my daughter....

“Whenever I want to kill him, which is often, I always remind myself that if I do, I won’t be able to make him suffer.”

“eep...”

“He thinks he’s hurting my mother. He only gave me exactly what I need to destroy him. Chickenhawks are despicable—both kinds. I thought you’d like to know.” Shots ring out, men and a woman die screaming: another instant news crew down. “Let’s stop this one before he gets his Man Card.” Jennifer runs toward the scene.

“Stop, you idiot!” Debbie hurries after her.

Powered by ‘roid rage, nine huge football linemen rush the shooter screaming. Powered by meth and crusading hate, he swings his AK around, hitting them all multiply, exulting “Die at the end of my iron diiiiick!” Jennifer and Debbie hide in the nearest doorways; Debbie holds her pistol ready. He reloads and empties another ammo drum into the falling twitching corpses: “Faggehhhhts!” Behind him, Amanda—

2012... five Moral Enforcers, entranced and screaming the Unknown Tongue, mow down countless innocents in front of her in sacrifice to Jesus America—

“Amanda!” screams Shira, seeing her paralyzed in helpless terror—she runs to her, drapes her body over her—the killer spots them, loads another clip—

bombs fall, leaving a crater where President Obama used to be—Amanda and Lya split up, each taking a twin, hoping to double their chance for survival—another explosion, Shira screams Kira’s name—

Charlie steps between her sister and the killer, eyes glowing with rage and power—he shoots, screaming “Diiieeee!”—the bullets bounce off her Repulse field—Amanda screams—

he spots the girls behind him—Debbie takes aim—

Charlie hisses and moans—the air crackles electric —

the killer goes up in flames

he staggers toward Jennifer and Debbie screaming and flailing in horrific pain, past them burning hot, throwing out thick black smoke, melting—

the cyborg blows herself up, the command room catches fire, hundreds of jihadis burning alive scream in pain and horror for Allah, but he remains silent and doesn’t come—

there he is, Emir “Butt Naked“, bloody from cannibal feast of live Jew, Blondie sees him, she knows him by his aura: black hate, yellow fear, burning red rage—she takes a burning banner by the pole, drapes his naked bulk with it, ignites his body fat and burns it like a wick—he lets out a full-throated death scream that would haunt her had she not seen his true self in his aura—before they know it she’s back in the water to blow up the ship—

Shira scoops Amanda up, slings her over her shoulders, runs away from the death zone toward the safety of the girls’ locker room and to Elsie.

Debbie laughs at the charred ruin of Harvey Fischer. Jennifer silences her with a hard angry glare. “Sorry.”

Lucy announces, “Three terrorists left!”

Debbie shouts at Jennifer, “Why’re they just shooting everybody?”

“Do you know what a gun is?“

“Of course I do!”

“No. Mechanized superpower. I felt it in my hands. A machine gun made me a goddess of death. This is a Wild Hunt, Debbie. They’re trying to regain their manhood through mass human sacrifice.”

Debbie indignantly puts hands on hips. “How come I never learned about that?“

“Haven’t you read horror stories about small redneck towns?”

“I can’t read, remember? So why ain’t you using Bernie’s gun, huh?”

Jennifer shrugs. “I’m no Pistol Knight like you. Against terrorists, I’m as useless as any normal.”

“Oh.” Debbie glares. They stare each other down. Then they split up and run in opposite directions.

“Hurry!” cries Lucy. “Two of ’em are getting away!” They spit lead at students fleeing for safety, throw Saida and Sharifa into their black armoured Hummer—Jennifer, Daisy, Sana, and the girl with the violet eyes pursue them, but scurry behind cars as the Enforcers shoot at them again, watch helplessly as they spin around; unmasked: Stan Green and Vince Corson? as Green speeds away, Corson flips them off laughing. Sana lets out a wail of anguish and despair.

Debbie bursts into the student council room, gasps at the sight of Mikey Rodchenko, bruised and bloodied, corpse twisted, beaten to death—Ron turns toward her delirious, half-blind, nearly crippled from the duel—she hisses, drops her gun, runs at him hard, slams him into the wall—“Who hired you!”

He laughs contemptuously and moans, “Fuck you, bitch.”

She focuses herself, stares hypnotically into his eyes, softly hisses: “Who hired you?”

Unconsciously he answers: “Pete Ross...”

Her eyes go wide in horror shock and anger, she lets out an unearthly squeal—the beast takes over—

she rapes his neck with her fangs

down on the ground they struggle, he tries to writhe his way out of her embrace, tries and fails to scream, she attacks him ferally drinking his blood, drinking him till his struggles weaken and then cease, drinking him dry...

She stares down at her victim. His face is frozen in fatal terror, not so peaceful in death after all. The bliss she feels is more than sexual. Maybe she should make a living hunting Slashers herself...

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Copyright © 2012 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.

[Revision 4 Final, 12/31/12: All material new to the Fourth Revision.]