Pearl Harbor

3:27 P.M. 5 minutes left in the school day. I turn my attention from my teacher and whatever topic she’s blathering on about – Pearl Harbor, I think - and focus in on the melting remnants of a Snickers bar that some shirtless runner dropped on the sidewalk around a half hour ago. As I stare intently at the candy bar’s disturbingly rapid decomposition, I come to the same realization I had come to at least two or three times earlier since the beginning of class. “Dear God, it’s hot in here”, I quietly say to no one in particular. And it was hot. Hotter than a jalapeño pepper in the Arizona desert. I continued to stare vacantly at the now liquefied chocolate for a moment, until I heard my name being called in a manner suggesting profound irritation on the part of the caller. “Would you please tell us what the direct result of the Pearl Harbor bombing was?” my teacher asked, giving me a rather severe look. “Hundreds of dead American soldiers,” I replied confidently. The teacher sighed out of irritation. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she said. She hates it when I make fun of the wording of her questions. “But,” she continued, “if you insist on being technical, then give us the most major indirect result.” “Oh,” I said, smirking. “Well, we were plunged into World War II, of course.” Not a minute after I finished my sentence, there was a bang and a flash of bright light from the hall. But this was no ordinary, “chemistry experiment gone horribly awry” bang or flash. This was the kind of noise and light that could only be generated by a purpose-built explosive. We were being attacked.
I could hear nothing but panic coming from all around me. It felt like time was both at a standstill and going a mile a minute simultaneously. What was nearly completely silent mere moments ago had now turned in to what I can only describe as a cacophony. Suddenly, I heard the first distinct sound I had recognized since the initial explosion. A gunshot. Before I even had the chance to ponder the real gravity of this new sound, a young man in burst in and threatened to kill us. I wondered if he was joking. He fired off two rounds, painting the back wall with viscera. He was not joking; the utter insanity of the situation had become apparent.
After what felt like an eternity, the masked gunman informed us of his motive and intent. “None of you are going to die,” he said. “Well, except for the people that I already shot...” There was a brief pause. “Anyway, it’s not you I’m after. It’s the cops,” he explained. “I only shot those people so that the cops would show up quicker. I want to die in a shoot out.” I could not believe what I just heard. At least two people have died for the sake of some lunatic’s overly-elaborate suicide attempt. I wanted to call this kid out. Hell, I had to. So I did. “Listen, you psycho,” I started. But I never finished. There was another loud bang, and everything went black. I think the guy may have yelled at me, but I can’t be sure. I had forgotten rule number one of being a hostage: never criticize your captor.