Chapter 3: Chapter 3 – A Typical Evening at an American Movie Theater

Lillian is pulling down her tights. The hinged movie theater seat under her thighs lifts up with her knees so she has to use both hands. Her boyfriend is rubbing her hot, wet cunt with rough, impatient fingers. He kisses and licks her neck, which is outstretched to give him more purchase.

He pulls her thong to the side to rub her clit. Pressing hard. Making circles. She squeezes his cock over his jeans. A finger enters her cunt, sliding in easily, gesturing “come hither” from the inside, trying to meet in the middle with the thumb atop her clit. 

He bites her neck and she bites the inside of her cheek to avoid making noise. They’re the only ones in their row in the movie theater. Playing on the screen is a reboot or a sequel or some fragment of a 20-part “cinematic universe” she can’t remember. There are explosions and lasers and some type of flying army of copy/pasted CGI robots or aliens. She can’t remember. 

Her boyfriend yanks her tights down around her ankles. She flexes her thighs to hold in the pleasure reverberating between. He’s using two fingers in her pussy now and rubbing the alphabet on her clit. He pulls her in for a kiss. She pushes her tongue into his mouth and kneads his tongue with hers. 

The crowd gasps and cheers and the theater lights up for a moment as some sun-like explosion fills the screen. Either the good guys or the bad guys have vaporized a large group of their enemies. The alien threat has either been wiped out (signaling victory for the armed heroes) or have wiped out a group of people our heroes were trying to defend (signaling the midpoint and forcing our heroes to mercilessly retaliate). She cannot remember how many minutes have passed so it’s hard to say.

Her boyfriend gets down on his knees and rips her thong down, around her knees, down her calves and off her feet. He squeezes her thighs and ass, making indentations with his fingers, then greedily shoves his face into her cunt. Licking from the wet canvas of the theater seat, up the crevice of her lips and over the engorged skin around her clitoral hood. She grabs the back of his shaved head and presses his face in harder. The theater is dark again and there is a cacophony of shooting to mask the errant moans she lets escape every few seconds. 

She finds it curious that there is shooting when this scene should either be directly after a victorious moment for our heroes or directly after a tragic moment for them. They should be pensively and regretfully emoting while gentle and sparse orchestral music indicates to the audience the sadness they should be feeling with our heroes and the subsequent rage that should drive them through the third act to cheer on the slaughter of the heroes’ enemies. Yet, there is shooting and the noise of small explosives in the theater. 

Lillian grabs her boyfriend and dives under her seat. She covers his head with her arm and whispers to him “someone’s shooting.” They crawl beneath the seats and press themselves to the wall behind the back row. Gum and spilled soda sticks to their skin and pulls at it as they make themselves small. 

The shooter stands in front of the cinema screen as he sprays the rows of the theater with an MP5. He has easy targets from row A all the way to the back quarter. People scramble towards the exits, but their paths are blocked by corpses and smoke from the smoke grenades the shooter released at the beginning of his assault. The orange muzzle flash of his submachine gun lights up the glass window of his welding mask, making it glow like molten lava. He could be one of the heroes or villains who shoots lasers from their eyes.

Click click and his magazine is empty. He releases it and pops in another in a tenth of a second, whipping around to shoot into the backs of the people who are trying to scurry to the fire exits on either side of the screen. Four or five targets dead. One or three fatally injured and they didn’t even get within arms length of the door. Not bad.

He whips back around and continues shooting the wall of people in the main row seating. It's hard to tell the difference between the piles of dead and injured now, so he shoots into both for good measure.

Lillian and her boyfriend stay glued to the wall. The movie is still playing but she can hear the shooter yell from below “If anyone in here is still alive, I will save you 30 minutes of your time, the heroes win in the end, so don’t worry … I hope that didn’t spoil things for you.”

The shooter begins to walk up the staircase, stepping around the clearly dead, kicking the barely alive in the nose, or teeth, or throat, or the ears. Stomping on a writhing hand here, kicking an exposed organ there. As he climbs the stairs, he does a quick seat check and fires under the row of seats in case there are any hidden survivors. Row A now. Then Row B. The groans and moans of the dying mix with the quippy, “let’s go get ‘em guys” dialogue of the movie. The shooter offers a running critique of the film while he knocks off the last groups of survivors. Now row G. 

Lillian’s heart pounds in her ears as she attempts to work out a survival strategy. Crawl out the near side of her row, and she could be spotted from the shooter as he checks down the aisle. Crawl out the far side of the row, and she’d be directly in his path as he hiked the grisly staircase. Stay still, and she would have to pray the bullets of his seat check would get lodged into some other body before hers. Besides her boyfriend, there’s no one in her row. They have to move. 

Her boyfriend is shaking. She squeezes his hand and motions with her head for him to follow. They crawl to the end of the row. The smell of stale popcorn, dried Coke, and gunpowder mixes together and stings the insides of their nostrils.

Lillian watches the shooter’s muzzle flash. He’s walking up from Row J. They’re in Row Z. His muzzle stops flashing. They move to Row Y. His muzzle flashes in K. They wait for his shooting to stop. She taps her boyfriend. They crawl down to Row X while he shoots up Row L. Then W while he eradicates M. This macabre tango continues until:

They get to Row T. A heavy-set woman with dyed hair screams out, “Thank you. Please help me. You have to help me.” The shooting in P halts. 

The shooter calls out, “Help who? Is someone in trouble? Do you need help?”

He leaps over rows Q and R like a trackstar, and lands in S, sprinting to the other side, where the mangled legs of the heavy-set woman bleed into the carpet decorating the staircase landing at the end of the row. 

Lillian rips her boyfriend to his feet and they crouch-sprint to the other side of the row, their footsteps masked by a loud training montage set to a classic rock song.

The shooter kneels down over the heavy set woman. “Who were you asking for help? Me?” She points at Lillian and her boyfriend, who have made it to the end of the row. 

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The shooter jumps to his feet and takes aim. 

Lillian’s boyfriend looks back and spots the shooter. He grabs Lillian and pushes her over the balcony, pressing his hand into her ass one last time. His back fills with holes, from his lower spine, to the back of his head. He slumps onto the balcony railing, and slides back onto the steps, leaving a slimy trail of blood on the black wall. 

The shooter crouches down again and addresses the heavy-set woman. “You are a coward,” he whispers to her. For that you must pay the ultimate price. He slaps his submachine gun into its holster. He wraps his large, gloved hands around her throat and throttles her. When the last death rattle escapes her lungs, he releases his grip and makes his way back down the staircase. He shines his flashlight into the exit row, but can’t see Lillian. He hesitates for a moment, then runs at the screen. He cuts it open with a kabar and slips through to the other side. 

The distorted mouths of the movie stars continue to come apart and back together, as they deliver devil-may-care, meme-able dialog that will surely be printed on the first series run of merch for this movie. Lillian listens to the dialog. She is in the cabinet of the trash can by the exit door. Her broken ankles throb with the rhythm of the top 40 song that accompanies the slow-motion “getting ready” montage playing on the torn screen. 

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A news reporter with sparkling white veneers reads the teleprompter in a sober, mature manner. “We have some breaking news. 18 people were killed in a mass shooting that struck a North Suffolk county movie theater during a screening of ‘Avengers 5, Ultron’s Revenge.’ Early reports say over 34 people have been shot, with 18 fatalities, and many more in critical condition. Joy Ramos is on the scene.”

Cut to Joy Ramos. She’s in front of a movie theater surrounded by police cars, ambulances, and yellow tape. She interviews a crying man. He wails into the microphone; his gray hoodie damp with sweat and his face plastered with tears. He’s incomprehensible. Joy nods solemnly, listening to his pain. She pulls the microphone away from him, as his wailing makes the audio feedback levels pop unpleasantly. She faces the camera. “Back to you Ian.”

“Thanks Joy.” 

 “Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims of this tragedy and their families. I’m unfortunately getting reports that the gunman is still on the loose. If you are in the Suffolk County area, please stay home, and shelter in place.”

An FBI agent who looks like he just got out of lacrosse practice throws a crushed red bull can at the tv monitor. “It’s the same guy, you fucking retards.” 

Another agent punches the politically incorrect can thrower. “Shut up. My brother’s retarded. Even he could connect these dots. Two shootings in the same week. Neither killer apprehended. All within a 150 mile radius.” 

Phones buzz and ring at the FBI headquarters. The screens light up with notifications and dark web chatter. A few agents stand around dual monitors, each one displaying a different shooting. They point to the similarities. The dark tactical fabric around his wrist, illuminated by muzzle flash. The backup pistol with the scratched off serial number. 

“Both shootings live streamed. Similar video quality and Exif data. Surgical precision in both shootings. Look at this guy’s moves.” The case worker playing the video has timecodes for particular movements that look alike, such as the shooter replacing a magazine within a half second, or landing two bullets in a target’s sternum then immediately blasting one into their skull. Here in the school. Here in the movie theater. “Either there are two professional mass shooters on the loose who dress exactly alike, or it’s just one guy who’s really damn good.” 

“Of course he crosses state lines. Cops have their fingers up each other's assholes, and aren't going to enter separate jurisdictions chasing his ass.” 

FBI Director James Harris’s dick is fully hard. It is leaking precum into his extra thick underwear and would be leaking into his suit pants if he weren’t wearing two pairs. A shooter on the loose is going to give him the freedom to hunt as he pleases and use as many resources as he needs. This could be a career making case. And given the fact that most shooters are quite sloppy and easy to take down, he is very optimistic. He approaches the group and slaps an agent on the back. “How are we gonna nail this guy?” 

“Whoever is live streaming this shit is using multiple VPNs and a Tor browser. All encrypted. No way to trace it yet, but the NSA creeps will figure it out. Just need some time to crack his security and sort through the data. Depending on what kind of streaming setup he’s got going, it could be as simple as finding the ID number of the GPS locator in his camera.” 

“I’m not even gonna ask what that means. And how’s the Twitch subpoena going?” 

“No help so far. They’re in full crisis PR mode right now. Their lawyers are so scared to implicate the company that they don’t even want to send us log-in data.” 

“We got ourselves a manhunt boys. The media will see the light soon, but let’s hook this fish before we get too eager, okay? I want a hero story instead of some embarrassing bullshit again. Let’s get the American People back on our side.” Director Harris takes a long sip from his FBI coffee mug, which he’s surreptitiously spiked with Jameson. He swallows then exhales with great satisfaction. “Boots on the ground, manage the jurisdiction. Kick the state PD into gear and sweep the tri-state area. We should be able to get this guy into custody in 48 hours tops. He’ll probably plead mentally ill or something so be gentle with him. Don’t give the public any reason to get upset over this.”

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