They Shoot Children Don't They?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
The title should have warned you off but I'll do it again. Do not read.

A story about a guy that goes to investigate a school shooting for a talk-show host. What he finds changes everything.

Submitted: October 13, 2019

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 13, 2019



Roy slept in the lazy boy, aptly named, with a bag of barbecue potato chips laid on his ample belly. The television lit the small trailer. His dog, Sport, sat next to the recliner, licking his balls. 

The kind of fart produced by a diet of beer and pizza erupted from his asshole. The sound did not wake him as loud as it was. Moments later, the smell did the job. He stirred and kicked Sport. A smell that potent could never have come from his own self.

“Damn, Sport. You eat a skunk?”

Sport answered by rolling his eyes and resumed licking his balls. Roy scratched his own balls in return and turned his attention to the TV. Felix Johns’ red face filled the screen. 

“Today marks the fifth anniversary of the false flag tragedy at Rusty Spoke Elementary School. When they say 20-year-old Mark Lind, after killing his own mother, went to the school she taught at and killed 20 of her students. He then shot himself. You saw the same footage I did. Crisis actors from other tragedies were there. The interviews following were full of inconsistencies. People in the area have seen kids that are supposed to be dead. The mainstream media will not give up the act. You will see memorials for kids that are still alive, or never existed. You will see interviews with crisis actors pretending to be grieving parents. They just want to take our guns, well it didn’t work liberal scum, and it never will. We’re onto your game” Felix ranted with spit flying at the camera. 

Roy grabbed his laptop from the end table next to the recliner. He cracked open a warm beer and chugged half while Twitter opened. Sure enough, Felix was right. Post after post of memorials and remembrances. He did his patriotic duty by replying to them all. 

“Fake news!!!” he replied to a so-called news organization. 

One of the fake parents posted a picture of their kid with the caption “It’s been five years since you were violently taken from us. We miss you every day. Love Mom & Dad.”

He replied, “I can’t believe my tax dollars are still paying you for this drivel. NOONE BELIEVES YOU!”

Mission accomplished. He closed the laptop and put it back on the table.  He finished the second half of the beer. The can fell to the ground as Roy fell back to sleep. 

He awoke to hundreds of notifications from Twitter. The parents had blocked him. Death threats were still coming in. A few people supported him. He pounded, “I’ll prove it!” out on his keyboard.

Felix Johns liked, retweeted and followed him. A DM soon followed.

“Dear troothhertz69, I would like to help you prove that Rusty Spoke never happened. I will pay for you to go to the school if you will film your investigation for us to air. Please respond with your name, address and what timeframe would work best for you. We are looking forward to working with you. Regards, Felix”

Being on disability for multiple reasons, any time worked for Roy. He responded as such. He received another DM with his flight information, and how much he would be getting paid upon delivery of the footage. 

If only his bitch of an ex-wife could see him now. She said he’d never amount to anything. Now, he worked for his favorite show. He could turn this into a career by golly.

He departed the plane. A man in a suit held up a sign with “Mr. troothhertz69” written on it. With all the pride in the world, Roy approached the man and said, “I’m troothhertz69.”

The man gestured toward a limo. “This way sir,” he said.

Once in the car, a screen lowered from the roof. A video of Felix Johns began to play. 

“Welcome to Patriot Media Inc. You’ve got about an hour's drive to Rusty Spoke. I’ve provided a map of the school with areas of interest marked including the records room and the classroom that the supposed tragedy happened in. The school will be closed when you arrive. We have a person inside that will leave a door unlocked. The door is marked on the map. Please spend a couple of hours documenting anything suspicious. On the seat next to you is your rig. It has a POV camera, and one recording your face. Your driver will wait, and also be your lookout. He will take you to the hotel after. In the console next to you is your contract. Please sign before you get to the school. There is a confidentiality clause, so don’t go bragging until the segment airs. Look presentable, and don’t act too crazy. We already have a reputation for that. Thank you, and see you on the other side.”

The limo pulled into the back parking lot of the school. Roy thought he would have some time to decompress from the flight, but that wasn’t in the cards. Straight to work. He grabbed the map and got out of the limo. The driver’s window lowered. Roy approached with caution. The driver’s arm shot out of the window holding a walkie-talkie.

“Thanks, I’ll c-” 

The window went up. Not much of a talker, Roy guessed. Time to go to work. So he did. He opened the backdoor. Unlocked as promised. He consulted his map. He decided to check the records office first. 

He had to go through the cafeteria. The uneaten food left on the tables made Roy hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the bag of pretzels on the plane. He apologized to the cameras and assembled a full meal. Not bad, he thought as he finished a portion of macaroni and cheese. A little cold, but still good. Why were people constantly bitching about school lunches? The only problem Roy had was that they didn’t have any beer. He opened a carton of chocolate milk. The smell turned his stomach. He checked the expiration date. It was the day and year of the massacre. Did someone set him up? Felix? He heard screams from down the hall. 

“I thought no one was supposed to be here,” he said.

The walkie talkie squawked. Roy jumped at the sound.

“We might have trouble,” a heavily accented Russian voice said.

“That must be the driver,” Roy said to the camera.

He grabbed the walkie and spoke into it. “The scream?”

The driver answered back, “No scream. A man went into school.”

Roy didn’t know whether to head toward the scream he had heard or stay in the cafeteria to be found by this man. He took a third option and hid under the lunch table. 

Shaking, he spoke to the camera. “I hope they edit this out.”

He heard footsteps enter the cafeteria. He saw black combat boots coming toward him.

He heard the driver say, “We have a permit to film here. Please leave.”

The combat boots turned away. Roy took this opportunity to get the fuck out of there. He scuttled to the door, keeping low to avoid being seen. He leaned against the wall on the other side of the doorway and listened. 

“Let’s go, pal,” the driver said.

“I have to get to my mother’s class. I have a message for her,” the other man said.

The strangeness of his voice caught Roy off guard. Almost like he was crying.

Two gunshots rang out. Roy peeked around the doorway to see the driver fall. The man in the combat boots still faced away from Roy. Roy dropped the map and ran as quietly as he could down the hall. His mind raced. Were these actors like the people involved in the original incident? Was this a joke played by some libtard pretending to be Felix Johns? He wasn’t going to stick around to find out. 

He saw an illuminated exit sign at the end of the hallway. He sped up becoming noisier, but he didn’t care right now, not about the cameras attached to his body or the driver. He only cared about surviving. He slammed into the door. Chains kept it from opening. He looked back the way he came. The only way out was through the cafeteria. He hoped he hadn’t been noticed. He started creeping back toward the cafeteria. Police tape covered one of the classroom doors. He remembered the cameras.

“That must be the room,” he whispered, “Looks like it’s been out of use since the massacre.”

The man entered the hall. Roy opened the door and ducked under the police tape. He closed the door and locked it. He hid behind the teacher’s desk. The footsteps stopped at the door. 

Roy pissed himself. He heard a key being taken out. The doorknob turned. He held his breath. The man entered the room. He stopped right in front of the teacher’s desk.

“I’m done fighting it. I’m a monster, but you kids wouldn’t stop tempting me,” the man said. 

Roy’s piss puddle flowed to the man’s boots. He took a step into it. The man’s face appeared under the desk. Roy knew him, Mark Lind, the man they claimed killed 20 kids in this very classroom.

“Who do we have here?” Mark said.

Mark grabbed the bottom of the desk and flipped it over, leaving Roy exposed. He lost his mind when he saw the familiar faces of the slain kids sitting in the desks terrified. He crab-walked away from the gunman. 

Mark raised the gun and pointed it at Roy. Roy moved faster. The kids stood from their desks and moved to the center aisle, standing between Roy and the gunman. Gunshots rang out one after the other. Roy couldn’t see it, but he imagined the children’s bodies falling like dominoes. A body fell on him, then another, then another. He played dead. Mark moved closer. Roy felt the children’s blood soaking him. Some went in his mouth. He could taste it. He could see Mark through a gap in the bodies. 

Mark raised the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. He collapsed to the ground. Roy stood. The bodies weighed almost nothing. They dropped as he stood. 

Roy grabbed the gun from Mark’s already stiff hand. 

He walked to the door, took one last look at the carnage and left the room. He ripped the caution tape on his way out. 

In the cafeteria, he checked the driver. He was dead. Roy reached in the driver's jacket pocket and grabbed the keys to the limo. He got in the car, staining the leather interior with blood. He drove the 1300 miles home without remembering a single second of it. 

Once home, he slept for 16 hours. He woke to Sport licking his hand. He was probably hungry. Roy fed sport and got himself a beer. Roy checked the footage from the cameras. Everything was there. Ghosts on film. Not only did the massacre really happen, it happened again and again. Adding at least one more victim to the list. He had to help end these children’s torment. They saved his life after all. He plugged the cameras into his laptop, and begin to transfer the footage. He began to type a Reddit post telling his story and apologizing to the victims and their families. Someone knocked on his door.  He looked through the peephole. A man and woman in their thirties stood there. Sport joined him at the door as he answered it.

“Hello,” he said.

“troothhertz69?” the woman asked.

“Yes, how did you find me?” Roy asked back.

“Our daughter sends her regards,” the man said as he produced a handgun and shot Roy in the face. The wife reached down and petted Sport. She read the name on his collar.

“Looks like you’re coming with us Sport,” she said.

He did, and Sport lived happily ever after.


© Copyright 2020 Reggie McWade. All rights reserved.

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