Elfberserker
Liturgist
- Joined
- Oct 25, 2013
- Messages
- 1,540
Look for the manager.
-
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(CYOA) The Last Article -PART 2
- Thread starter WetWorks
- Start date
Update tomorrow.
anus_pounder
Arcane
Call the boys in blue. How could cops make anything worse?
Sunnmøring
Novice
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2014
- Messages
- 59
Let's call the cops!
It is with calm trepidation that I resolve to enter the private office of the hotel manager. I recall the little, balding man that was behind the counter, and I dreadfully contemplate a situation where I barge in on him masturbating to some deranged pornography. Then I recall the glasses and snicker at the thought of the sweaty manling being so horny as to drop smoke and glasses, running to the computer to finger himself. My lightheartedness somewhat alleviates the tension as I try the metal handle. It clicks down and door goes ajar. While I open the door I call out a cautious “hello”, expecting a response ringing with righteous anger at me invading their privacy. But there is nothing, and the room I enter is black as the night, only without the steel colored luminescence of the neon sign. In the dark, I fumble around on the walls for a switch and recoil in horror as my hand touches something lithe and leafy. Some sort of plant mocks me with the rustling of leaves, and I smile in the darkness. I finally find a switch and is confronted with what looks to be a combination of office and supply storage. There are crates of fabric softener, cans of soda, paper towels and mints stacked in the corners, while the other part of the room is a classic office with a desk, a metal file cabinet, a phone, a pc, a leather chair and so on.
Again I call out and again I am met with absolute silence. I briefly consider the possibility of someone hiding under the desk but rationality gets the better of me, and I dismiss the idea as ludicrous. In fact, I start to feel extremely stupid as I stand there, and my mind takes over. There simply must be some mundane explanation for all this, and here I am barging into peoples offices like some psycho bitch. I feel a bit ashamed of myself, and I realize now that the burning cigarette and the glasses could mean anything. Maybe the manager’s mother got sick, and he ran off to help her, or maybe there was some other emergency. Hell, he might even have gotten a hot date, I think smiling, despite his awkward appearance. I start to leav…
Distant bursts of gunfire ring out.
Then more.
And more.
I don’t flinch and I don’t duck for cover. In fact I just stand there stunned, my newfound calmness shattered into tiny pieces of inaction. The gunfire is some distance away. Then I spring into action, and with a hurried lumbering I walk back into the office and close the door behind me. I instantly turn off the lights and lie down on the floor, hurting my foot in the process of getting to the ground, but i don’t dare make a sound. Then I just lie there, frozen, listening to the night air and the hum from the coke dispenser in the reception. There are no more shots.
My mind floods with a number of horrible scenarios; mass shooters gunning away at the entire town, streets running with crimson blood. The fevered cries of Muslims as they march down Cider Creeks main street with assault rifles and gleaming knives, heads of their victims tied to their belts. Murderous militia members finally taking up arms against the governments, initiating a run and gun battle in the streets of this little town, and me smack in the middle of all of it. It could even be zombies, my mind cries out, and despite the absurdity, this time I don’t smile.
After minutes of silence, I get up and switch on the lights again, scurrying back to the desk. I frantically open the drawers and rifle through their contents for some kind of weapon. In my purse upstairs I’ve got a mace, but that motel room might as well be a million miles away right now. I find nothing in the desk drawer, but the metal filing cabinet yields a vicious looking claw-hammer with a black handle made of rubber.. I feel emboldened by it’s weight and gruesome look, but then I am startled by another round of gunfire –this time closer.
It is then I come to my senses and try the phone on the desk. With frenzied fingers and pulsating heart I dial 911. A series of beeps, a click, and another series of distorted sounding beeps later and a smooth female voice answers my call.
“911, how may I help you?” Her voice is ambrosia, all honey and liquid Zen.
I have never been happier to hear another human beings voice.
I breathe heavily to regain my composure, but my response still sounds frantic and panicked:
“Hi, I am having a problem because there are people shooting here!” I snap for air.
“You say there are people shooting? Are they shooting at you?”
“No, there are people shooting somewhere else. I think they are shooting in the town?”
“Where are you, mam? What is the name of the town?” The woman is professional and calm, and her strength rubs off on me, making me breathe easier and collect my thoughts..
“The name of the town is Cider Creek I think, and I’m at the hotel.”
“So you are not in any immediate danger? No one is shooting at you?”
“No.” I say, this time with regained lung control. I think I even manage to sound reasonable and not so much like a scared animal.
“Look, mam. What’s your name?” Her honey drips into my ear.
“Sandy. Sandy Boehmer.” I am genuinely relaxed as I tell this woman my name, despite the situation. I kind of want to meet her, I absently think to myself, then realizing I might be in some kind of shock.
“Look Sandy. I’m gonna send someone to check it out. Meanwhile I want you to go someplace safe and stay there. Can you do that?”
I am putty in her hands, everything she says feels like a balm on my aching mind.
“I guess I can go back up to my hotel room. Can’t we talk a while longer? I feel safe talking to you?” I regret saying it, because I can hear how pathetic I sound.
She does not lose her demeanor.“ Look mam, I have other people who need my help as well. But I want you to go back up to your hotel room and stay there. I will send someone to check out the disturbance, and then check on you later. Are you okay to handle that?” Her voice is the paragon of tranquility and understanding stoicism. I nod even if she can’t see me doing it.
“Yes” I tell her.
“Don’t worry Sandy”, the voice says, “You’re gonna be okay!”
And with that the wonderful voice disappears and I hang up.
With my new found courage and assurance, I leave the office (but somehow I still cling on to the claw hammer) and go out the lobby. Through the glass door I can see what appear to be a person outside, some 50 yards away. The person seems to be looking at the lobby. I stiffen at the sight of another human being.
Is it a cop, I think, already?
Then the person raises an object to the shoulders and lets out a great gout of fire along with a thunderous choir of small explosions. The glass door splinters, showering me with silvery powder, and I think I feel the rush of bullets miraculously passing by my face. Instinctively I drop or fall to the ground while I let out a whimper. With some unconscious survival instinct I roll out of the view of the doorway, glass fragments dripping off me as I roll.
I hear someone screaming outside. His voice is high and panicked:
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU SON OF A BICTH!!! YOU’RE DEAD, YOU HEAR!!!
I feel the shattered glass beneath me as I shake with mortal fear, and my dread increases as both steps and angry murmurs comes nearer.
RUNRUNRUN!!!
Try to talk sense into the shooter.
Ready the claw hammer for a fight for your life.
Again I call out and again I am met with absolute silence. I briefly consider the possibility of someone hiding under the desk but rationality gets the better of me, and I dismiss the idea as ludicrous. In fact, I start to feel extremely stupid as I stand there, and my mind takes over. There simply must be some mundane explanation for all this, and here I am barging into peoples offices like some psycho bitch. I feel a bit ashamed of myself, and I realize now that the burning cigarette and the glasses could mean anything. Maybe the manager’s mother got sick, and he ran off to help her, or maybe there was some other emergency. Hell, he might even have gotten a hot date, I think smiling, despite his awkward appearance. I start to leav…
Distant bursts of gunfire ring out.
Then more.
And more.
I don’t flinch and I don’t duck for cover. In fact I just stand there stunned, my newfound calmness shattered into tiny pieces of inaction. The gunfire is some distance away. Then I spring into action, and with a hurried lumbering I walk back into the office and close the door behind me. I instantly turn off the lights and lie down on the floor, hurting my foot in the process of getting to the ground, but i don’t dare make a sound. Then I just lie there, frozen, listening to the night air and the hum from the coke dispenser in the reception. There are no more shots.
My mind floods with a number of horrible scenarios; mass shooters gunning away at the entire town, streets running with crimson blood. The fevered cries of Muslims as they march down Cider Creeks main street with assault rifles and gleaming knives, heads of their victims tied to their belts. Murderous militia members finally taking up arms against the governments, initiating a run and gun battle in the streets of this little town, and me smack in the middle of all of it. It could even be zombies, my mind cries out, and despite the absurdity, this time I don’t smile.
After minutes of silence, I get up and switch on the lights again, scurrying back to the desk. I frantically open the drawers and rifle through their contents for some kind of weapon. In my purse upstairs I’ve got a mace, but that motel room might as well be a million miles away right now. I find nothing in the desk drawer, but the metal filing cabinet yields a vicious looking claw-hammer with a black handle made of rubber.. I feel emboldened by it’s weight and gruesome look, but then I am startled by another round of gunfire –this time closer.
It is then I come to my senses and try the phone on the desk. With frenzied fingers and pulsating heart I dial 911. A series of beeps, a click, and another series of distorted sounding beeps later and a smooth female voice answers my call.
“911, how may I help you?” Her voice is ambrosia, all honey and liquid Zen.
I have never been happier to hear another human beings voice.
I breathe heavily to regain my composure, but my response still sounds frantic and panicked:
“Hi, I am having a problem because there are people shooting here!” I snap for air.
“You say there are people shooting? Are they shooting at you?”
“No, there are people shooting somewhere else. I think they are shooting in the town?”
“Where are you, mam? What is the name of the town?” The woman is professional and calm, and her strength rubs off on me, making me breathe easier and collect my thoughts..
“The name of the town is Cider Creek I think, and I’m at the hotel.”
“So you are not in any immediate danger? No one is shooting at you?”
“No.” I say, this time with regained lung control. I think I even manage to sound reasonable and not so much like a scared animal.
“Look, mam. What’s your name?” Her honey drips into my ear.
“Sandy. Sandy Boehmer.” I am genuinely relaxed as I tell this woman my name, despite the situation. I kind of want to meet her, I absently think to myself, then realizing I might be in some kind of shock.
“Look Sandy. I’m gonna send someone to check it out. Meanwhile I want you to go someplace safe and stay there. Can you do that?”
I am putty in her hands, everything she says feels like a balm on my aching mind.
“I guess I can go back up to my hotel room. Can’t we talk a while longer? I feel safe talking to you?” I regret saying it, because I can hear how pathetic I sound.
She does not lose her demeanor.“ Look mam, I have other people who need my help as well. But I want you to go back up to your hotel room and stay there. I will send someone to check out the disturbance, and then check on you later. Are you okay to handle that?” Her voice is the paragon of tranquility and understanding stoicism. I nod even if she can’t see me doing it.
“Yes” I tell her.
“Don’t worry Sandy”, the voice says, “You’re gonna be okay!”
And with that the wonderful voice disappears and I hang up.
With my new found courage and assurance, I leave the office (but somehow I still cling on to the claw hammer) and go out the lobby. Through the glass door I can see what appear to be a person outside, some 50 yards away. The person seems to be looking at the lobby. I stiffen at the sight of another human being.
Is it a cop, I think, already?
Then the person raises an object to the shoulders and lets out a great gout of fire along with a thunderous choir of small explosions. The glass door splinters, showering me with silvery powder, and I think I feel the rush of bullets miraculously passing by my face. Instinctively I drop or fall to the ground while I let out a whimper. With some unconscious survival instinct I roll out of the view of the doorway, glass fragments dripping off me as I roll.
I hear someone screaming outside. His voice is high and panicked:
“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU SON OF A BICTH!!! YOU’RE DEAD, YOU HEAR!!!
I feel the shattered glass beneath me as I shake with mortal fear, and my dread increases as both steps and angry murmurs comes nearer.
RUNRUNRUN!!!
Try to talk sense into the shooter.
Ready the claw hammer for a fight for your life.
Gondolin
Arcane
Better try and take the gunman by surprise. Rising from the floor and trying to make a run for it will get us shot.
Ready the claw hammer!
Ready the claw hammer!
Pussycat669
Liturgist
Not much point in running any more.
It's hammering time!
It's hammering time!
anus_pounder
Arcane
Talk sense. The shooter's expecting a male. The current protagonist isn't one.
Zero Credibility
Arcane
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2007
- Messages
- 2,951
Interesting.
Is there anywhere to run (and I don't mean in front of a gun), a back door or window maybe? And just because the shooter expects a man doesn't mean he won't shoot us... but he knows where we are and attacking him with a hammer sounds like a really desperate move.
Is there anywhere to run (and I don't mean in front of a gun), a back door or window maybe? And just because the shooter expects a man doesn't mean he won't shoot us... but he knows where we are and attacking him with a hammer sounds like a really desperate move.
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