Terror

• Jack Mansell, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2010

Gerrard Jonstone had been sitting a cold plastic seat covered in dried blood for six hours now. The cops had dragged him there blindfolded in the back of their car six and a half hours ago when they pulled him over for speeding and asked for a search of his car, finding five kilos of C4 plastic explosive concealed in some beach towels along with his beloved Luger that he always kept for good luck.

A female police officer came over to Gerrard and grabbed him by the scruff of his bloodstained T-Shirt and dragged him along the freezing concrete floor into an interrogation room, the officer promptly strapped him into a chair and started beating him with a baton “I have my rights!”
Gerrard screamed, the officer stopped beating him and laid the blood splattered baton on the portable table set up behind her.
She promptly pressed the record button on a tape recorder resting on the table and started asking the questions.

“Who sent you here?” the officer barked a slight hint of a Russian accent, Gerrard did not answer. The cop asked again, still no answer, “well, well, well, looks like we will do this the hard way” the officer said with a glint of pure evil in her eye as she slowly walked toward Gerrard and jabbed her index finger into the biggest wound she could see, which was a reopened scar on his forehead.
A piercing scream rang out and the officer chuckled, “you really want to do this the hard way!” She once again jabbed her finger at his wound. But this time he was ready, striking out with his left foot and connecting with the officer’s jaw, she fell backwards giving a tingle in the spine of Gerrard. “Why oh why didn’t you listen?” the officer said slyly. “That is the final straw” she said striking Gerrard in the head with the baton, knocking him out cold.
Gerrard awoke in a dark and gloomy container box, and could only hear the sound of other captives crying around him and irritating him.

The door opened and two Russian soldiers wielding AK47s and shouting at them. They were promptly handcuffed and herded into a waiting room and stood in a line. Gerrard could not see into the room but the screams were piercing the walls, sending chills up his spine.

Gerrard knew his way with explosives, and always carried some with him. He drew his small pack out of the inside of his shoe and planted it on the ground, the explosion went off and the soldiers were distracted. He swiftly broke one’s neck and took his gun.

Gerrard was standing and gunning down soldiers, while the other captives dove for cover, with alarm bells ringing, it was his only chance of escape. He dropped the gun and ran for freedom; the facility wasn’t very well guarded and he slipped out the front door, to be confronted by splashing waves:
HE WAS ON A BOAT