Characters:

Cody Schroder - now 24, and the main character of the Astatula series. Returns to Astatula unannounced after a six year unexplained absence and no communication with Sheriff Daniels. The question is why?

Sheriff Brock Daniels - long time sheriff of Astatula and Cody's adopted father

Fred Taylor - Deputy Sheriff of Astatula

Micah Tomlinson and Justin Smothers - get into fight in mad hurry to outrun Mortimer's attack

Unnamed Jefe - leads the task force charged with bringing Mortimer's bloody assault to an end

Mortimer - deranged killer of 19 victims

END OF CHAPTER TWO:

Sheriff Daniels relocated to the room's heavy oak door. He cocked his revolver. Turning his head, he informed his deputy, "Mortimer's personnel file listed him as a meth addict with PTSD. He's a real junkie with a low level of empathy and disdain for other's feelings. Mortimer also fancies himself to be superior."

"To what? A pile of goat guards. He has no compassion alright. That's why he's always had problems establishing good relationships with other people and is hyper-critical," Taylor chimed in.

The sheriff shrugged his broad shoulders and announced, "Fits his pathetic M.O. to a capitalised T. Mortimer's also fixated on a fantasy of power and a sense of entitled predomination."

Another round ricocheted off the room's door. "And, he's a crackerjack shot," Taylor cut in.

"That comes from his military training as a sniper and his knowledge of high-magnification scopes that allow him accuracy with long range shots at 500 yards and beyond," Sheriff Daniels stated.

Suddenly emboldened, Taylor asked, "When do we make our move?"

"On my word go. Just follow my lead, Fred, and I'll get you through this ordeal safe to the other side," a confident sheriff assured him.

The radio on Sheriff Daniels' hip crackled. The Jefe in charge of the task force delivered the grim news. He said, "Four casualties on the third floor. That brings the body count to nineteen. All units take whatever measures necessary to bring this a-hole deuchebag down."











Scared pedestrians shoved themselves out the front doors of the complex. The hodgepodge of dark and large cumulonimbus clouds they encountered, some with flat, anvil-like tops, assured the gullywasher would roar a long while in the dreary afternoon. Loud comments emitted from the turbulent mob. Vigorously agitated, tempers boiled and boisterous confusion reigned. The clippity-clatter of running feet echoed down the boulevard. Adrenaline-filled hearts pulsated in fear.

A Browning repeating rifle fired. Mortimer liked the weapon's glass-smooth rack and pinion system and its multi-lug rotation bolts. But, his favorite feature was the weapon's alloy receiver. For backup, he also possessed a .308 Winchester hunting rifle. The kind popularly used to bring down big game. To Mortimer, there was none larger than those of the two-legged species.

I remembered my eyes lit up as the sheriff spoke these words. I felt the excitement of the situation as it unfolded and pictured myself in the middle of the action. I interlocked my fingers and rested the back of my head in the palms of my hands on my fluffy pillows. Engrossed in the sheriff's story, I couldn't wait to hear more.

He continued with a smile and said, "One of the funniest sights was old man Micah Tomlinson. Making tracks for all he was worth, the ancient geyser picked his walker up and put it down in a frenzied rush. In his haste, Justin Smothers was in his way. But, Tomlinson wasn't having any of it."

"Get out of my way you ignorant moron!" The grey-haired senior demanded in a more than curt tone. He shoved the thirty-something Millennial out of the way and snapped, "What do you think this is? Black Friday at the Walmart Supercenter?"

The offended Gen Y'er responded, "Keep your hands to yourself, old man!" His wire-rimmed glasses flew off his face as he stumbled over a cobblestone underfoot. He watched Tomlinson grin as they ran on in the race for their lives.

I guffawed a burst of laughter so hearty I almost peed the bed. I knew Tomlinson well. Back in the day on my Astatula Gazette paper route at the time, he required I placed his newspapers in his mailbox so he could retrieve them easier. The slight inconvenience was of no consequence to me. I always tried to accommodate my patrons. Slick, and meant to be ridden, I would peddle my Schwinn ten-speed Continental up to his mailbox. He had cemented its post in the ground. Once there, I flipped open the lid, stuffed the paper inside, closed the box door, and sped off to the next house. As a thank you, he often left me homemade chocolate chip cookies. He worked as a baker at the grocery store before arthritis ravaged his body, so I knew how tasty the treats would be.

The sheriff waited for me to settle down then continued his story. He explained shots rang out from a fifth floor window. Popping glass resounded as the windshields of several vehicles parked nearby shattered before the volley ceased. The Jeep Renegade's was the loudest.

In frustration, Taylor bellowed, "The weasel's changed positions again."

The sheriff surveyed the circle of death around them and commented, "The best predators always did." His confidence beamed when he stated, "We'll nail Mortimer's goat-stinking carcass to the wall regardless of what crevice the viper's slithered into."

I always admired the sheriff's pillars of strength, especially in the toughest times. The whole town looked up to him.

A madman on the compound's roof, Mortimer's body stilled. Trained in the martial arts, he committed to not moving at all. There he found his comfort threshold and could much better observe his environment, as well as the subtle dynamics of awareness. No tension existed in his stillness. He relaxed his gaze and focused on single points. In this state, Mortimer combated restlessness. The faintest pulse coursed the vein in his arm. The sensation matched the beat of his clammy heart.

Exploding much louder than a bottle rocket lighting up the fourth of July, a sudden noise cracked as the front of his long barrel smoked. Mortimer knew he far exceeded the prohibited point of no return but didn't give a particular rat's ass. His excessive urge for carnage colossal, Mortimer understood he must continue the dangerous journey he'd undertaken. On an irreversible path, there was no way to stop his onslaught now. Nor did he want to. Mortimer reloaded his weapons.

"Hit the stairs!" The sheriff barked out loud.

"Right behind you," Taylor responded.

The sheriff noticed the massive foyer with its sound absorbing acoustic paneled walls. These helped reduce noise in the room, eliminated echoes, and improved sound quality. Highlighted by a spiral staircase, a high ceiling, and mammoth windows, the public reception area was a long passage with many doors. He'd been there at least ten gazillion times before over the years. Heavy footsteps resonated down the hallway as he burned shoe leather past the three elevators off to his left.

"Those muffled rifle reports that just rang out came from the cupola. The one on this building is dome-shaped and crowns a spire. Mortimer's got nowhere to go," he told his deputy.

Taylor sprinted to match strides with the sheriff and remarked, "He used to shoot BB guns and dart guns when he was a kid."

"Well, now he's graduated to bigger boy toys and got himself trapped," the sheriff replied.

Perplexed, Taylor inquired, "Why would he do that?"

"Suicidal? Death by cop? Who the hell knows?" The sheriff rattled off.

TO BE CONTINUED: