Fear

• Bo Skelton, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2020

The gunfire started not long after they arrived.
Great, muscular men, armed to the teeth, wearing expressions ready to kill, tattooed necks and black sunglasses wrapped around their cold sharp eyes, emitting a strong message. Do NOT mess with me, or your head will make a nice addition to my collection. Not to mention that they’re wearing black, Kevlar bulletproof vests, carrying guns, grenades and knives.

Not that they’d need them to kill you, though.

Streaking through the streets of Queens, New York in black, heavily armored troop-carrying trucks. Police cars, smelling trouble, gave chase, sirens blaring and officers yelling through megaphones. Their corpses littered the streets first, then the federal soldiers. The gangsters made their way through the police and FBI until, finally, the terrorists reached their destination.
The Bank of America.

The gang members strode out of the vehicles and sawed through the bolts that separated them from billions of dollars. Soon enough, bank attendants screams could be heard echoing around the marble walls.
Then he arrived.
Bulging biceps and an unseeing eye. White knuckles gripping onto a heavy-duty gun, itching to pull the trigger. A milky white eye, no doubt from a brawl sometime. Gleaming silver knives strapped to his belt, guarded by a shriveled, pink, blistering burnt hand. His skin a silver grey tone. And worst of all...
… a tattoo of a shark fin on his neck, signalling his loyalty to Mako.

Mako, a mysterious, deadly, murderous figure. His history, his reputation, was bloody and mangled, torturing innocent people just for the sake of it, before making them tell him who their families are, before killing him or her and seeking everyone they love, spinning tales to them about how their partner had told them in their dying words about how he or she was planning a divorce and hated them to the extent of thrusting guns into Mako’s hand and begging them to “Do it. Please!”

Mako took long, confident strides into the bank, letting the gunmen clear a path for him, dragging the dead out of the way and signalling to the others to pull out the bombs. There were six of them. Six sleek, black boxes with the potential to blow up half of Central Park. They appeared to be very simple, yet deadly.

The boxes were rushed up to the vault and wired to the other boxes, before handed to a terrified technician who fiddled with the controllers, making sure they worked before nodding to Mako. He started a countdown, waiting for the timer to hit zero. All the other thugs took refuge behind metal tables, counters and other furniture. Except Mako. he stood right out in the blast zone, much to the bewilderment of his hired footmen.

5…
4…
3…
2…
1…

For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened. Mako twisted his steely gaze towards the terrified and confused technician. The gunmen moved closer, drawing knives and guns...

Then the whole block went boom.