Click here to read the next story...   Saving Private Josh By Mark Bennett                It reminded me of the Fourth of July. The cacophony of artillery was deafening. It sounded like there was an assault coming from the North end, to fierce resistance in the South. The offense was getting more desperate, the rifle fire was picking up. And this meant something important.             Mr. Andersen’s class had just broken up for their twenty-minute recess, and ours would be next.              I sat in English class, nervously watching the second hand tick by on the big, round clock that hung on the pockmarked wall. I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as the hand swept up toward the 12. The bell sounded. Instantly, all students hit the floor, weapons drawn. The front of the class is the place to be. Those of us who are lucky enough to arrive early get to sit in front. This gives us a chance to slip quickly out the door when the bell sounds.             I noted that Matt and Sarah were lucky today. They had made it out the door before most of us had hit the floor. Last week John had made it out quickly all right, but so had Edward from the other class. In the crossfire, John escaped unhurt, only to succumb to heavy firing from two kids from Dr. Samuel’s history class three doors down. It was a tragic loss. He would surely have been a Valedictorian if he had lived to graduation, or if he had just not gone out the door as quickly. His situation lends support to the timeless lesson that war is unpredictable. Everyone is considered a potential enemy, or “potential,” as you never know from day to day who will be shooting at whom. Ad hoc groups form here and there, a combination of mortar teams, rifle squads, or even an upstart guerilla pack formed by bullies or loners that decided they are better off in a group than alone. The bottom line is the same for all: Survival.             Our school is one of the most violent private schools in the nation. The only humans in the building are the students and the janitor, “Old Milt.” No teachers. I’ve heard Milt has helped out with supplies now and again for kids who were unfortunate enough to run short of ammo just trying to make it to the bus after school. Teachers don’t come to class anymore. It’s not safe. They beam lessons via satellite television from their homes. The transmissions are live, the communication one-way, and it’s safe. No need to deal with the gunfire or the stupid questions.             We’re running short of students. So freshmen from around the country are shipped in. Replacements. The school district needs to meet a quota for number of live bodies so that they can continue to receive Federal funding. The poor kids show up every day en masse at the front gate, the big door of their Higgins Bus suddenly dropping down and exposing them to enemy fire. It’s not a good way to start school and certainly not what anyone had in mind when the term “new kid on the block” was coined. Last month, “Bifoc Tommy” climbed onto the roof of the Administrative Office and sniped at the fresh recruits. He was kind of a sicko, but he wasn’t always that way. He was a smart kid, wore glasses, and was without a doubt Honor Roll. He did this for two weeks. Climb, aim, snipe. Until he was killed. One of the new kids popped off a lucky shot as soon as the door of his bus fell, and dropped Tommy flat on his back. Tommy’s death was a big blow to our GPA National Ranking.             I made it to class late today so I was seated toward the back of the room. I had my desk flipped down for protection and my Glock 9 was at the ready. I only had one “Willie Pete” left on my belt, so I had to use it wisely. I figured I might need it after sixth period when things would really start to heat up. Suddenly, I heard my walkie-talkie crackle so I picked it up. “Josh! It’s Freddie. Come in.” Freddie was a good friend of mine and covered me several times in the early days when I had to go to the bathroom between classes. I’ve learned over time how to hold it until I get home. I depressed the button on the side of the box and replied. “Freddie. I’m here,” I said in a low whisper. “I’m pretty badly boxed in here in Mrs. Ingles’ class. I may need reinforcements. Can you rally anyone to come down here? A rifle company or something?” “I’ll do what I can. Things are pretty quiet out here in the hallway. I heard some firing about twenty yards away, probably near Dr. Schmidt’s class, but I don’t think it was in the hall. It wasn’t loud enough.” “I gotta get to my next class to turn in an assignment I’ve been working on for the last month. You’ve gotta get down here! I . . .” My command was interrupted by gunfire. Someone in the front of the class had gotten itchy and let loose. The “Battle of Ingles’ Class” had begun. I replaced the walkie-talkie on my belt and hunkered down to wait for the shooting to stop. A bullet hit the corner of my overturned desk, sending a puff of splinters onto my knee. There was a break, so I decided to survey the situation. As I peered over the top of the desk, I heard Mikey moaning, “Corpsman . . . I need a corpsman . . .” He looked pretty bad, and would get even worse. There were no wannabe doctors in this class so he wouldn’t get any attention. There were about six other bodies lying about, only two or three were moving and only Mikey was talking. The posts nearest the door were clear, confirming that others had escaped into the halls. Then the firing started again, but fortunately for those of us who remained, it was in the hallway. But still, even if we could get out of here, we would surely run into a more unpredictable situation in the halls. There would be no easy escape. See, some of the smaller students can bunker down in a locker, thereby taking advantage of the element of surprise on those who are less than superbly disciplined or merely aware. At least in the classroom you know where everyone is and, likewise, you surely know when your number is up. My review of the terrain was suddenly interrupted by the sharp sound of close gunfire. I ducked down and determined that the guns must have been carbines, and although it was good that they were not set on automatic, it was disturbing that the noise was getting closer. Then as suddenly as it started, the shooting stopped. I heard some clanging coming from the direction of the open door to the room, but dared not look up. I knew I was taking my life in my hands by inaction alone, as a grenade could easily have landed in my lap, but I felt I had no options. Then the shooting started again. This time it was booming and I heard explosions all around me. I peeked through my bangs to the wall behind me, and watched as large holes blew open in a line toward the windows on the side of the room. Then the shooting stopped again. “Josh! Josh, it’s clear!” came an unexpected shout from the front of the room. From my weeks of intensive training I immediately barked, “Password!” as I clutched the Glock firmly in my hands, anticipating the need to use it in mere moments. “Lucky Strike!” came the response. I leaped up with weapon drawn and was met with the vision of Freddie and six others flanking him. All were dressed in skateboard armor, including helmets, and each had a carbine drawn to cover Freddie and myself. Stu was also there, although already in position on the floor, manning the BAR unit on a bipod. He looked up and winked at me with a weary eye. “We gotta go, man!” Freddie shouted. No one dared get up. Anyone who peeked would definitely vomit at the site of the big gun that would surely erupt in his or her direction. I dashed through the maze of upturned desks, subconsciously noting that all heads were facing down, and greeted Freddie with a quick hug. Even though it lasted a mere second or two, I felt a deep relief and sense of peace. It helped to energize me for the battle that was ahead. “Yeah, good to see you, too,” Freddie started. “Now get off me and listen. The way I figure, we got about twenty potentials on the North wing of the school in the halls. We came through that way to get you and came under heavy fire. Sam here,” he patted an intense Sam on the elbow, “was lucky he was wearing his cap.” I noticed a graze on the top of Sam’s purple helmet. Sam nodded in agreement, but didn’t take his eyes off the temporary POWs. “So Shawn executed a great offensive maneuver, taking out seven as he rolled across the floor on his back. The rest of us followed his lead and charged ahead, firing at the max. They suffered heavy casualties, and retreated into the old Teacher’s Lounge. But like I said, there are about twenty left, and I’m sure they’ve regrouped by now and are dug in for the remainder of the break.” “Well, what are you doing talking to me, man? You want to give ‘em enough time to dig foxholes into the linoleum? Let’s get the hell out of here!” Freddie turned to run with me at his heels. The rest of the guys followed one by one, with Stu bringing up the rear after breaking down the BAR for transport. It was going to be a rough five minutes but at the very least, if today was my day to go, I hoped that someone would turn in my science project that I had carefully stashed in the fanny pack on my back. At school, you gotta take things as they come. One small battle at a time.     © Copyright, Mark Bennett   Click here to read Mark Bennett's Brief Bio. Click here to read the next story...