The gate sounded muffled as it squealed to life, opening for the prisoner to walk out. The man that had killed Donnelly and Isabelle Clachan would not walk away a free man. Eric watched his feet through the scope. He was waiting for him to get close to the exit, Eric wanted him to believe he was walking away with his whole life ahead of him. Three, maybe four, steps from the entrance, Eric gently squeezed the trigger, and those hopes of a brighter tomorrow, in spite of what he had done, were dashed in an instant. It took just eleven pounds of pressure to remove the life from the man. Just eleven pounds, no more than it took to lift a gallon of milk or a case of soda. The man’s head jerked as the bullet entered his face, a half inch above the bridge of the nose.
Blood sprayed out the back of his head, as he began to fall. People were screaming, but the sound was lost with the distance between Eric and the prison. Euphoria washed over him. He had become the thing he always feared, and in that becoming, he found his addiction. It was better than any drug he could snort, shoot, or smoke.
He was righteous. He was infallible. He was omnipotent. He was an executioner. He was their executioner. They would stand before him and tremble. They would find no mercy with him. He was not capable of such feelings for those pathetic wretches that found themselves before him. Mercy would be left up to their gods. He was just meant to send them there.
He quickly took aim into the prison yard and fired. The rifle was a well-oiled thing of beauty and worked seamlessly. Fire and eject, fire and eject. The prison targets were going down as fast as the cartridge could eject and reload. Each one condemned to death for the crimes they had committed against the innocent.
Eric didn’t mind the running and ducking. That just made it more interesting for him. He took aim at a prisoner trying to hide behind a weight bench, fired once, catching the guy’s leg. His second shot was fired as the man reached down, grabbing at the wound, exposing the top of his head. He smiled to himself as the bullet found its mark. It penetrated the skull, freezing the man in time for several moments. Blood barely trickled from the wound as he slowly rocked forward and fell to the ground.
The barrel moved to a new target. A single breath and the target was down. Eric mentally counted, confirming seventeen killed in the space of less than two minutes. He was missing two targets. After a moment, he found one, crouched near a bench. Eric fired. It went in through his eye and exited the back of his skull. It then entered the leg of a prisoner not on Eric’s list. Hopefully, the guy didn’t die of complications. He was a monster, but not a complete asshole. Those that hadn’t slaughtered the innocent didn’t need to die. It would be better for him and his cause if they didn’t. That was why he wasn’t shooting at the prison guards or anyone else. That would be unhelpful.
Another quick look through the scope as it swung around and Eric found his second prize; a man named Virgil Light who had raped seventeen women and accidentally killed one. He was here because it had been ruled manslaughter, not murder. Eric didn’t know the man personally, but he knew the type and staring down the scope at him, Eric wanted nothing more than to watch him writhe before killing him.
He fired once, caught Virgil in the shoulder and fired a second time, hitting a leg. Four more shots went into Virgil Light. Four shots that would ensure he would bleed to death in the yard of the prison. Eric smiled and lit a cigar. He didn’t normally smoke, but he deserved this one. It was a job well done. To quote a phrase, the fat lady had sung. Everything would move faster now. The world would realize just what was needed to ensure the survival of the human race who had begun to prey on each other and would eventually lead to extinction. Forget global warming and threatening volcanoes, the biggest threat to mankind was mankind.
He pulled out his phone.
“My name is Eric. I have just killed twenty prisoners at the Kansas City Detention Center. I’m located on the roof of a building about 700 yards southeast of the prison. The address is 2014 Constitution Boulevard. I am climbing down now and will sit on the curb in front of the building, unarmed.”
“Sir, what’s your full name?” The 911 Operator asked.
“Eric Clachan. I avenged the murder of my father and sister.” Eric hung up. He calmly walked down the steps. Sirens were blaring in the distance. Some from the prison, some from approaching law enforcement.
Once at the curb, he put the rifle about ten yards away from him and sat down, legs crossed at the ankles, and reclining on one arm. He continued to puff on the cigar.