He went to the window beside his desk and watched a pair of boys playing outside. It was just another ordinary summer day to anyone else, but it held a special meaning for him. For a long time he had planned his death, and though the world was blissfully unaware of it, he was celebrating his last few hours of life.

He wondered how long it would be before he was forgotten after he was dead. He knew that he would be, because he was just a nobody, and nobodies died all the time. No one cared when people like him killed themselves, and they went on with their own lives while remaining blissfully unaware. It was just the way the world worked.

He picked up the gun and slipped it into his backpack, where it clunked with a heavy metallic jangle as it settled in among the extra clips. As he shouldered the straps of his bag, he cast a final look around his tiny, sparsely furnished apartment.

On the desk were the countless unpaid bills, the stacks of taped phone messages from creditors who had called to threaten him over the last three months, and a printed copy of the email which his ex-girlfriend wrote to explain that he needed to be tested for AIDS. On his computer sat the finished letter which would explain himself if the orgy of evidence wasn’t quite enough of a clue for the police or the media. Everything was all laid out on his desk as a rather neat explanation, and he felt sure that there wouldn’t be any question left unanswered in his passing.

He walked to his front door and checked his pockets to make sure he had his bus card. It would be a shame to have his plan delayed by having to walk back and search for his card. He smiled at the idea  and conceded that he wasn’t exactly running on a tight schedule.

The walk to the bus stop felt no different than it had for the last few months. There was no new joy to be found in the clear blue sky, nor in the warmth of the afternoon sun. There was no feeling other than a loathing for the continued mundane existence of life.

He sat down at the bus stop, glancing over at an old man in a frayed brown suit. How long had the man gone without buying new clothes? The suit probably had been given to the old man from a church drive, and as with so many other people, it was the best that he could hope for.

He watched the old man’s face, noting his tired, apathetic expression. -You ought to do yourself a favor, old man,- he thought bitterly. -Just check out early and all of this shit stops.-

On the bus, he watched a man who bounced his head in time with the music blaring from his headphones. Other people stared as well, but the man didn’t care. His eyes were closed, and he had insulated himself from the world in his music. The fact that his escape bothered others did not matter to him.

He watched the man bobbing his head and sighed. -How utterly pointless,- he thought. -To ignore the wounds of the soul by attempting to flood the empty spaces with music.-

He considered taking out the gun then, but it wouldn’t make the right statement, to kill a single inconsiderate idiot on a bus before he sucked the gun smoke from the barrel and gave himself a lead sleeping pill. No, he had a grander goal in mind.

The bus pulled to a stop in front of the mall and he stepped out onto the curb with a small grimace when the barrel of the gun thumped his back. He looked around as he moved across the parking lot to the entrance.

It was the mall, he had decided, which represented the Mecca of all that was wrong with the world. It was the malls which became a grotesque temple to Mammon, where every need save for salvation could be found within.

He wandered through the mall, staring at various shops. Some sold clothes, and others hawked gadgets. He paused as he stood in front of a Christian bookstore while he considered the sheer irony of a whole business devoted to a man who hated money. Thousands upon thousands of books, CD’s, and posters exalted a man who advocated throwing away all such material objects. And yet a religion had grown out of his faith, and with that religion, there was a market to tap into. The flocks of the savior were indeed sheep to be fleeced, and everyone who could take advantage of them would.

But not him. He shook his head as he began walking again. He had grown tired of the constant ads blaring reminders of a new sale. Every ad seemed to tell him to ignore his bills and come on down to shop, shop, shop until he dropped. Every show sported a new product placement, and every news broadcast included ads for upcoming products and new releases. People were dying all over the planet, and instead, his broadcasters were hyping the next big movie.

No, he’d had quite enough, even months before the e-mail arrived. His ex hadn’t even bothered to use his name or apologize. She’d simply stated the facts; she was infected, and he probably was as well.

For a long time, he’d considered getting tested and finding out for sure. Then, if it had turned out that he was positive, he would go out and sleep with as many people as possible. He’d even fantasized about the idea some nights as he masturbated. Each time he’d concluded his fantasies with the same thought. He would embrace his lovers, male or female, and after a few minutes of cuddling, he would whisper. “by the way, I have AIDS”.

But no, he’d turned the idea down. He was not a hedonist, nor had he ever slept around. His ex had, and it was how she had brought the bug into his life. When he caught her in bed with another man, she professed great love for him, and plead for another chance. It seemed insane to him how she could love him and have no problems fucking one man after another in their own bed. She had gotten what she deserved without his help, and yet, he would suffer a slow and painful death for ever trusting her in the first place.

That was the injustice of it all, the final straw that began filling his nights with rage. The anger started with his ex-girlfriend, but the hatred had slowly spread out to others. He hated his employers, who paid him so little and worked him fifty hours a week. He hated his landlord, who charged him so much for an ill kept cracker box to store his meager possessions in. But above it all, he began to just hate people in general for their ability to blind themselves to the suffering of others. They turned their heads at troubling details to stay fat and content, and as they wandered around in their meaningless lives, they attached stupid ideals like destiny or morals to their over inflated opinions.

He had taken everything that he owned to the pawn shop, and after trading it in, he’d gone to another pawn shop to purchase a gun. Of course he had no problems with waiting a few days. What was seven days to a man who had finally determined the time and place of his destiny? He’d used the time to purchase extra clips from an online catalog, and with his last remaining ‘mad money’, he’d purchased two boxes of ammunition.

He moved to the line at the ice cream shop and opened his wallet. A smile crept over his lips as he considered the irony of his last meal being served cold.

He ordered a single scoop of chocolate  ice cream in a small waffle cone and walked to a bench to sit down. Setting his bag beside him, he glanced around casually as he ate. He wasn’t surprised to see the two security guards who were patrolling the food court.

He ate slowly as his eyes flicked from the guards around at various groups of people. The guards would need to be taken down first, as it would ensure that the rest of his clips weren’t wasted. He crunched the last bite of his cone, turning to watch the guards as they walked closer. Neither one noticed him, and if they looked, they wouldn’t have been troubled by his bored expression. He was just another mindless consumer like all the others. Nothing to see, move along.

The guards passed him, and he leaned over his bag, seeming to be almost casual in his movements. He’d practiced the act dozens of times at home, and so the actions were all easily familiar to him as he unzipped the bag and drew the pistol.

He heard a scream even before he had leveled the gun on the first guard. He aimed for the middle of the guard’s back and fired. The gun kicked and he resisted it, already swinging his arm to aim at the other guard as the man spun toward him. He fired and smiled as the shot struck the guard in the chest just under the arm.

He stood up, turning to look for the pimply faced kid at the ice cream shop. They locked gazes for only a moment before he fired again. Blood burst from the teen’s shoulder as he flew back, and he thought about whether the boy’s employers would still try to sell the ice cream that had been given a new topping.

The first hero arrived, a bulky punk with a leather jacket and a cheap folding pocket knife clutched in his fist. He was still several steps away when the gun was brought to bear on him, and at point blank range, the bullet tore away a huge chunk of his gut. He knew the punk wouldn’t get up, and he didn’t want to waste a bullet. Still, he had to be sure, and he dropped the gun to fire another shot that caved in the punk’s forehead and splattered brains all over the polished tile floor.

He raised the gun and started going for emotional targets. Young children were the hardest to hit, but he knew that the impact of each dead child would speak volumes over the death of the stupid punk or even the pimply faced teen. No, the world fostered a long held fantasy of childhood innocence, and a young life stolen was a tragedy, while an adult murdered was just another statistic. He picked out children among the parents trying to shield them; girl, girl, boy, girl, boy, boy, boy, girl.

A woman panicked and began pushing her stroller out of the food court. He wasted two shots trying to hit the infant, but it’s cries cut out with the third shot, and the mother began to scream before he put a bullet through her upper back.

Click. He dropped onto the bench and pulled the clip, calmly watching as some of the men straightened up and watched him anxiously. He knew they were trying to decide if they had enough time to run at him, and he grinned.

One of the men decided he could risk it, and with one, three more also found their balls. He laughed at the thought and slid a fresh clip home, cocking the gun with plenty of time to spare. He fired and dropped the second hero before he stood up, and the other three froze. It only made his job easier as he targeted one after another, and the only challenge was the last father who tried to run back for the safety of the herd. He had technically wasted a shot by missing, but it struck a teen girl who screamed and began flopping on the floor as she clutched the gaping wound on her inner thigh. She was dead before he’d corrected his aim to take out the fifth hero.

Bang. The reinforcements had arrived, and a bullet struck the floor in front of him. He pivoted and took aim at a guard before he squeezed the trigger. Before the guard had hit the floor, he leveled the gun at his partner and fired again.

He turned to check behind him and fired a shot at a man as he tried to slip over the counter of a sandwich shop. The bullet struck the side of his head and he went limp.

He looked back to the huddled crowd to look for another child. Then he saw her; a beautiful blonde girl who couldn’t have been more than four. She stared at him with wide frightened blue eyes through the arms of her father, and he knew, he just knew that there were dozen of pictures of her smiling face back at home to make her story that much more tragic to the media. He took aim, smiling when the girl shut her eyes. He knew it would be better for her not to see the shot coming.

Bang. He fell forward and clutched at the wound in his shoulder, spinning to find a young boy standing over the guards with a gun held in both of his hands. He turned, feeling surprised that his plan had been halted so quickly. He had expected to have emptied his clips before an angry mob threw him over the side of the railing down to the first floor of the mall. He’d planned for weeks how the angry mob would then begin wailing over their dead children, all of them asking “why, God? WHY?”

He shook his head. No, the child’s hands were shaking around the gun, and it had been a lucky shot. He raised the gun again to aim at the boy, but a second later he grunted and flopped back onto the floor with a bullet wound in his chest.

***

Claire Collins ran out of the huddled crowd of people and closed her arms around her son. Though she was wailing loudly, he remained perfectly quiet with his eyes still fixed on the body. Even after the police arrived, he continued to stare at it until his mother and an officer had drawn him away.

“Hey,” the officer said as he knelt down in front of the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Jarred.”

“Well my name is Larry. Jarred, can you tell me how you feel right now?”

Jarred nodded. “I feel bad.”

“You really took a big risk in there. You could have gotten yourself killed,” Larry said.

“I didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t going to stop until he ran out of ammo, and he had a lot of extra clips,” Jarred said.

Larry’s face drew into a look of confusion. “How did you know that?”

“I…" Jarred looked down and frowned to himself. -Sure, just tell him you read Phillip's thoughts. That ought to get you another trip to the therapists again,- he thought, taking a breath as he looked back up at the cop. "I saw him sit down to reload. When he opened the bag wider to pull out a clip, I saw at least another five in the bag.”

Larry nodded. “Well you shouldn’t feel guilty about this. You saved a lot of people today.”

“That’s not why I feel bad,” Jarred said and looked back at the mall entrance with a sad expression.

“You felt bad for him?” Larry asked, and he felt truly baffled when the boy nodded. “Why?”

Jarred turned to look at him and frown. “Because I think maybe his reasons weren’t half as crazy as people will make them out to be by the end of the day.”

Larry was aghast and felt lost for words. He turned to look at the mall and stood up before he looked to the boy’s mother. “Your name?”

“Claire Collins,” she said, though she still continued to watch Jarred with a worried expression.

“How old is your son, ma’am?” Larry asked.

“He’s eight,” Claire said and finally raised her head to study Larry’s face. “Will he get in trouble over this?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t think so… but I think it might be a good idea to have him talk to some counselors.”

“Why? So they can tell me it’s not my fault?” Jarred asked. “It was going to be somebody’s fault for killing him. That’s what he was pushing for. He wanted a suicide by way of lynching.”

“Jarred, please don’t make up stories,” Claire plead in a disquieted voice.

Jarred nodded. “You’re right. It’s only a sad story that I made up to try and explain why he felt all of us were to blame. But… but I think maybe we are. Maybe we all deserve to die.”

***

Larry Kline sat in his car and stared at his apartment building as he tried to clear his head. He knew well enough in his three years on the force not to bring his work home with him. Still it wasn’t everyday that a madman went on a shooting spree inside a mall. The act itself didn’t bother him nearly as much as the words of the little boy who had stopped the killer.

Larry had checked for himself, and sure enough, Phillip Cokely had been carrying six extra clips for the forty-five he’d brought into the mall. Of course, most every witness had suggested that he wouldn’t have stopped, but only Jarred had been able to count the clips in the bag. No one else recalled seeing them.

More troubling were the reports which had come back from Phillip’s apartment. Every trace of evidence suggested that his plan was not hastily drawn up, but rather had been planned for weeks, possibly even months.

He was gainfully employed and yet he had defaulted on every single bill he had. His neighbors described him as pleasant and charming, if a little quiet. They could express nothing but shock that he was really a loon.

It was their reversal of opinions that brought his thoughts to Jarred again, because the boy was right. Phillip wasn’t as insane as people were going to say in the wake of his death. He had simply been pushed until he’d met an internal limit for humiliation, and then he’d snapped.

How often had he investigated so many similar stories and dismissed them as just another nut case? How many people died because the desperation of their lives could no longer be balanced with false hopes of a new day? And how many would have the tragedy of their death be diminished by a media unwilling to listen to complicated answers? How many would have the meaning of their death diluted by a population which had grown insensitive to any tragedy? That day, the city would mourn the deaths of so many children, but in a week’s time, the mall would be back to advertising the latest sales, and life would go on. One man’s attempt to create a message from his death would be forgotten as soon as the new tragedy struck.

“Is there a point, God?” Larry asked. “The kid can’t really be right, can he? Are we so far gone now that we all deserve to die for our indifference?”

 He jumped at a knock on his window, and he opened the door, giving a weak smile to his wife as he got out. “Dinner’s ready unless you want to dine out here,” she joked and reached out to rub his shoulder. “What’s wrong? Were you working out at that shooting at the mall?”

“Yeah, and I talked to the kid who put down the killer. He’s an eight year old boy, and he didn’t seem to have any problems with what he did,” Larry said.

"What do you mean? He didn’t cry?”

“No, and he didn’t even seem that upset about killing someone. He was sad because he thought maybe the people in the mall got what they deserved.” He nodded as his wife covered her mouth. “I didn’t really talk to the kid much after that, because he really started to creep me out.”

“Come on inside and we’ll make you something to eat.”

Larry smiled at her and allowed her to lead him into their apartment. Of course his mind was playing tricks on him. Jarred had said such strange things because he was in shock, and the next day, none of what he said would mean a thing. It was just the way the world worked.

The End?