Red Night Revenge

By Roger Alan Bonner

RED NIGHT REVENGE is a psychodrama. Amir and Serena, naturalized Americans from Lebanon, lose their only child, Lelah, to a mass shooting at her college. Serena slowly recovers from the shock and grief. But Amir develops and succumbs to a voice in his head, that of The Beast, an angry, vicious entity lusting for revenge against the 'gun people' whom it blames for Lelah's death. As Amir does its bidding, his life is awash in blood, and he will struggle to preserve what has not been lost. This story is for adults; it is not recommended for children, adolescents, or members of the National Rifle Association. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Frog Books Company
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215158043

Roger Alan Bonner

Roger Alan Bonner is a retired economist and ersatz mathematician, now busy creating works of fiction. He works primarily in science fiction because science is exploding these days.   He retired from Washington, D.C., spent time in waterlogged Florida, and then escaped to the Triangle are of North Carolina. It is a beautiful place, which the hurricanes often miss, filled with warm, bright, interesting people. He has two daughters and usually does not know where they are.  He likes baseball, the Outer Banks, chocolate cream pie, dancing, music, and is a huge fan of painter Vincent van Gogh, home run king Barry Bonds, guitarist Al DiMeola, and actress Minnie Driver.  Contact him at rogeralanbonner.com or leave an email at [e-mail].

Book preview

Prologue

It  was Tuesday, the grass silver with morning dew. He parked the big white cruiser near a classroom building, killed the engine, got out, and looked around – Chief said to be careful, and now where is everyone? This place should be busy.

He took a deep breath – I don't like this, not at all.

Two blue and whites with Damascus markings pulled up, their rotaries flashing. Two young patrolmen got out and drew their weapons. One looked at him. Who are you?

He flipped out his lapel and showed his badge. Dan Roundtree, Abingdon. Roundtree stared at them - the tall one is calm, but fear rolls off that blond like steam; his eyes are open too wide. That guy will bust in, draw fire, and then blast anything that moves. Screw that. Holster your weapons, guys. I want you to tape the building, keep everybody away, but stay outside. Is that clear?

You need backup, Inspector? the blond patrolman said.

No. Just tape the building. And kill the damn lights.

The two moved to comply. Roundtree reached into the Ford's glove box, pushed a revolver to the side, and pulled out a tactical flashlight, a light with LEDs, a red laser in the center, a blinding light. He took another breath - come on, Dan boy, move.

As he advanced, Roundtree watched the windows. He saw no one, moved in, and stopped near Schaefer's front doors to listen. Moans and cries came from inside, and suddenly a door swung out hard and banged against the adjacent door. Roundtree's heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught. A young girl came through, crying, moaning, running. She hurled herself down the front steps, fell, bounced on the concrete, then jumped up bleeding and ran. Roundtree waited for a shot; none came.

Crouching low and ready to roll or evade, he cautiously peeked inside.

The smells were strong... cordite... urine... blood... fear.

Cleaning Up a Kill Party

Roundtree stood for a moment clenching his jaw, then caught himself doing that. He entered the foyer. His flashlight cast a circle of bright light, searching for a weapon pointed at him, but there was no weapon. He took a deep breath, froze for a long moment, and switched off the light.

His eyes moved from side to side - any other day, this place would be busy, cheerful, young; now it's scary. A dozen students were there, dressed in jeans, t-shirts, jackets. Most were alive so far; they were on the floor, surrounded by books, laptop computers, cellphones, notebooks, and blood in small and large pools, in smears, in streaks, splattered on the floor, the walls, and the chairs. To one side, the large glass window fronting an office had a bullet hole surrounded by blood spray and a spiderweb of cracks. A body lay at the base of the window, blood pooling from under a mass of long brown hair. A bust of the college founder stood at the center of the foyer, several bodies at its base. Two students wept and stared at the wall in shock. Several others were unresponsive, their eyes blank and still. 

Roundtree knelt next to a young girl. He looked at her. Hey, are you okay? Are you shot?

She shook her head. I... I don’t think so.

Roundtree nodded. Can you stand? Can you walk?

The girl nodded.

You want to help? Roundtree said.

She stared at him.

Leave this place. Get out of here. He pointed a thumb behind him. Right through that door. Get away from here.

The girl looked at the door, then struggled to her feet, turned away, and approached one of the other students. Roundtree watched the two of them stumble towards the front doors.

He stood up, spotted a stairway to the upper floor, and headed towards it. He led with his flashlight and climbed to a landing midway up the stairs - a slaughterhouse, with eight bodies and blood spray on two walls. A red pool dripped down three steps onto the landing. The smell of blood was strong. Roundtree glanced at each student. Two were conscious; six others did not move.

He stood there, watching and listening for a long moment with his eyes and mouth open wide. Outside, distant sirens screamed, but the inside of the building was quiet. Stepping around the blood, Roundtree moved up the stairs and proceeded along a hallway. He stopped again, alert, barely breathing. He crept down the left side of the hallway and checked the rooms. In minutes he finished; there were no other bodies and no shooter on the second floor. 

Huh, he muttered. What’s all this?

Roundtree descended on the stairs into the foyer. He again scanned the area, then moved through a door to a hallway that went to the back of the building.

He came to the back door where several people had tried to escape. They found themselves trapped, a dead end, the back doors locked - a mistake that proved fatal. They died within a few feet of freedom.

Roundtree returned to the foyer and exited through the front doors. Yellow crime scene tape now encircled the building. An ambulance had parked nearby, and a few people gathered around it, just beyond the tape. A reporter stood outside the tape and yelled questions at policemen.

Roundtree waved at the paramedics, got their attention, held up two fingers. Hey guys, the building is clear. You two, go in. You've got wounded on the first floor.

Anywhere else? a paramedic asked.

Halfway up the stairs, on the landing. Maybe.

Two paramedics exchanged a look - uh, oh - and then headed for the building.

Roundtree pulled out a cellphone and hit the speed dial. The Chief picked up in seconds. Chief, this is Roundtree. I'm at Schaefer Hall.

What the hell happened up there?

Later for that. I need several items, right now. Are you listening?

Go ahead.

I did not find a shooter. He might be on the loose, so close the roads around the college ASAP. Three cars ought to do it. I have to guess, but you're after a young male with blood on him and an automatic pistol. Bring dogs for checkpoints and to hunt the campus.

Okay.

Ambulances. There are at least two dozen casualties. As many ambulances as can get here fast.

Okay.

I need patrolmen for crowd control and first aid.

Anything else?

Uh, yeah, a coke, Roundtree said. No... a six-pack.

Okay. See you soon. The connection went dead.

Roundtree walked to his car, pulled a first aid kit out of the trunk, and headed back into the building.

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, Roundtree left Schaefer Hall with blood on his pants and his jacket. He got into the cruiser and drove for his apartment in Abingdon. As he drove, he smeared blood on the front seat, steering wheel, and turn signal. He kept the big cruiser under the speed limit, aimed it down the road, and stayed between the lines. His face sagged and his mouth hung open. He tried to think about driving - just get home, don't hit anyone, stay between the lines. It was better than thinking about Schaefer Hall.

The morning had been for survivors, the afternoon for the dead and the dying. Before ambulances, forensic teams, and more policemen arrived at the college, Roundtree saved two young people, staunching their bleeding until the med techs could take over. He left his belt tied around one student. That all took time. Later another student, a young girl, stared up into his eyes while blood flowed from her nose, her mouth, and from an upper chest wound. As he held her, she coughed up blood, then her eyes wandered and lost focus. They went blank, and she ran out of time. 

He arrived in Abingdon and drove through its streets, past the post office, the civil war museum, and several dozen tourists. Someone waved at Roundtree, but he did not wave back. A woman, a blond in a late model convertible, honked at him for being slow and in her way. Roundtree did not react, even after she yelled and gave him the finger. He looked at her without interest - listen, angel, it's unwise to flip off a man wearing as much blood as I am.

Lucky for you, I am too tired to write you up for that busted headlight. 

His clothes stuck to his body, coated in a vile mix of sweat, dirt, urine, and blood. He looked down at himself and clenched his teeth around a gag. Goddammit it, anyway. I should know better than to wear a suit to work. They say people respect a man in a suit.

Before the shift? Maybe. But after a day like today?

Roundtree arrived home and parked behind an old two-story building in butterscotch brick. There were four apartments. He trudged up the stairs to the second floor, unlocked a door, and entered. He peeled off his jacket, went to the kitchen, and dropped the jacket into a trash can.

Even Goodwill will not want this one. Maybe I could put it on eBay. Two people died on it. I hope that's not a selling point, but I bet it is. 

Roundtree stripped off the rest of his clothes and threw his shirt, pants, and socks into the garbage. He went to the bedroom and tossed his underwear into a laundry hamper. Roundtree grunted - Goodwill gets everything except the underwear, the story of my life.

Being naked did not make him feel better. He went to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stepped in and stood for several long minutes as needles of hot water strafed his body. The hot water felt good as it cascaded down and washed away his day. When he felt clean, he could still smell the odors of slaughter on himself. If I stand here long enough, the smells will go away. Do I have enough hot water to do that?

Roundtree reached up, leaned against a wall, bowed his head, and vomited onto the floor of the shower. He straightened up, tried to take a deep breath, then bent over and gagged again and again. Several times he turned his face up to take in hot water, rinse his mouth, and spit the water out. He stopped retching, stood there in the hot stream, and watched the retch wash down the drain. Huh. That was a setback.

When Roundtree emerged from the shower, he was gasping as if he had run a race. He stood in front of a full-length mirror, toweled himself dry, and looked at his reflection. You look like shit, old man.

He moved to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk, then went to the living room and sat down in a battered easy chair. He took a long, slow drink of milk and placed the glass on a small end table.

Roundtree looked around the room, at walls in need of paint, at an old coffee table he meant to refinish, at an Indian print rug whose once bright reds had turned dark. He looked at a not-quite-full bottle of seventeen-year scotch purchased two years ago, just before he had quit drinking; it sat on the mantle over the fireplace, a memento. With each year, Roundtree and the scotch would age together, the scotch becoming more valuable; Roundtree, less.

He closed his eyes and whispered a single word, a mantra, a nonsense word, meaningless. He repeated it to occupy his mind and relax his body. After ten minutes of meditation, Roundtree relaxed and fell asleep in the easy chair.

ROUNDTREE RETURNED to the college the next day and parked the big cruiser next to a blue van marked FORENSICS. He picked up a manila folder from the bench seat, got out of the car, and held up a piece of paper, a campus map of Whitetop Mountain College.

He looked up at a three-story building which reminded him of his elementary school. The building was cheap construction, melamine on steel. The billionaire who founded the college knew how to squeeze a nickel. Solar panels on the roof faced south. Roundtree glanced at the map again and then at the building. This is Holten Hall. Schaefer Hall is to the west, out of sight.

He turned and looked out at the valley below, green nearby, blues and grays in the distance. The mountains rolled away to the south, their peaks repeating to a jagged horizon. Stunning, though when you lived in the mountains, you came to take the views for granted. He turned back and looked up at the big mountain that loomed over the college. He chided himself - staring at the scenery is an excuse to delay.

Roundtree walked around a building; Schaefer Hall was on the far side. He scanned the campus and approached Schaefer. A few bystanders watched from behind the building, and a larger crowd had gathered in front, outside the yellow police tape. They were students, friends of the victims, or friends of friends, many of them crying and hugging each other. Others stared at the building in stunned disbelief.

Roundtree looked at them and snorted - the young think they will live forever.

Time to wake up, kiddies. 

Roundtree admired people - like these students - who felt genuine grief at the loss of a loved one. They made it to adulthood without the calluses that followed the death of someone close. They had been lucky; now, their luck had gone bad. They would pay the price in sudden, unexpected grief.

The students had built the informal memorial, the pile of flowers, balloons, stuffed animals, photographs, candles, and other sentimental shit people piled up to celebrate the latest mass shooting.

Roundtree stood still for a moment and pulled the prelim report from the folder. A campus shooter, a white male in his twenties, a ne'er-do-well, showed up yesterday morning with a semi-automatic pistol and several clips of ammunition. He entered Schaefer Hall and started shooting. Seventeen students and a teacher would soon die; a few others will probably join them. No one knew why he did it, but it was early. The department shrinks would figure out something to tell the public.

Sometimes, motive could help you catch a killer. With the killer dead, motive was less interesting. Knowing motive would neither stop the shooter nor revive the dead. 

Huh. Did the shooter stop himself? Or was he stopped?

Did he act alone? The report did not say.

Roundtree took a step towards Schaefer's bank of front doors, then stopped himself. I’m not ready to go in there, not yet.

He looked down at his sport coat and shook his head - I can't believe I wore a sport coat for this; how dumb can you get? He shrugged - hell with it, I can stop by Goodwill on the way home. My friends say I do that because I am underpaid, but that's not it. I shop there because other guys have better taste than I do.

I don't give a shit about clothes.

He walked around Schaefer Hall, took his time, and looked at everything, trying to understand what happened.

You walked around the building just like this, didn't you, my man? You scoped out the college before your Big Visit. Roundtree looked up at the eaves - this one has good passive security. Did you notice that? Double camera coverage on each side. Not an easy target, if you want to escape.

Did you want to escape, my man?

Roundtree peered at a window; it was double pane. He grunted - they don't open, no fresh air here, and no escape. Nothing but AC, all the time, an odd choice in the mountains. He looked away, across the quad. Schaefer was in a circle of classroom buildings. Further out, there were dormitories, a library, a student union.

Why did you choose Schaefer?

Open lawns were in front of Schaefer and behind it, no buildings, no trees - did the shooter approach along the circle of classroom buildings? No reason to do that unless campus security was alert and fast.

I'll look for that in the video feeds.

Roundtree imagined being in the sky, looking down; he stopped and stood still for a minute and took a breath, enjoying a respite from the disaster which was his business - you have to keep your balance, learn to conserve your energy and your sanity, focus until your focus wavers, then look away and rest, return to the ugliness when you are ready.

Roundtree's mind wandered - our gear gets better over time, but the people don't. We used to rely on witnesses; now we have security cameras, genetic testing, chemical analysis, much of which tells us eyewitness reports are crap. People see what they want to see, hear what they want to hear. Once we had revolvers, now we have Glocks. We have Tasers.

Our psychiatrists are as full of shit as ever. And as we stand here and complain, let us add this complaint and not forget - crazy people can buy Glocks. Sadness crossed Roundtree's face.

Damn it, stop bitching. Get on with it.

Roundtree arrived at Schaefer's front doors and climbed a broad set of stairs. A young policewoman came outside and removed a surgical mask to reveal a smile. Hey, Inspector. I wondered when you’d show up.

Roundtree looked at her. How had she known he would work this case? Jenna... Jenna Riser, that was her name. She was young, blond, slender. Attractive. Well worth remembering. Roundtree liked her, in a helpless, harmless, fatherly way. He recited the Old Man's Mantra - nothing beats being young. Roundtree, like most old policemen, was ex-military. Jenna, three years out of college, was ex-biotech lab.

Good morning, Madam Technician, Roundtree said as he walked up. Anything I need to know?

It smells like a slaughterhouse in there. She grinned at him. You want a mask? She reached a gloved hand into her pocket and pulled out a white surgical mask.

Roundtree shook his head. I use my nose. I use everything and flirt with the occasional gag. Should I mention that? No.

We ID’d the shooter. He saved the last shot for himself, she said. 

Roundtree thought, that simplifies matters. How do you know?

Eyewitness. One student, a guy, took a head shot. It bled a lot, so he played dead. He gave us the shooter.

The kid survive?

So far.

Roundtree nodded. Good. I hope he makes it. Then a little voice in his head whispered, that's a bad place to get shot. Do we have the video feeds? 

Not that I’ve heard, she said.

Okay. Thanks, Jenna.

Hey, I saw your Tides are in the playoffs. Again. Your crystal ball is right on. How do you do it?

Roundtree shrugged. Simple. The parent club’s out of it this year, the fans have moved on, so they leave the better players in the minors and make a little more money.

Ah. Shrewd.

Roundtree nodded - that's right, babe, age and guile.

He put Jenna out of his mind and took what would be his last clean breath for a while. Then he walked up to a door, opened it, and stepped inside the foyer.

Roundtree stopped and waited for his eyes to adjust. He was in the same broad foyer as yesterday, minus the bodies. The blood was still here and there, decorated with lab tags. Corridors extended straight ahead and to the right. To the left, a glass wall fronted an office. At 9 a.m. students were moving between classes; the shooting started here, followed by several 911 calls between 9:03 and 9:04.

In the center of the foyer, blood spray covered half of the billionaire’s bust, and a blue lab tag fluttered from a clean spot on the right cheek. Below it, an outline in white marker was on the floor. 

Roundtree took a long, slow breath through his nose. The front hall still smelled of blood and urine. And gunfire.

There were several pools of dried blood on the floor and dried blood spray on two walls. Each had a blue lab tag next to it, with an accompanying outline in white marker on the floor. Blood spray and blue lab tags decorated the glass in front of the office.

Roundtree stretched to step around a pool of blood and entered the office. A piece of duct tape held the door open. There was a counter on the left; a wide desk on the right. A chair had blood around a hole in its back. Two blood smears, now dark and dry, were on the desk.

Roundtree returned to the foyer and opened the manila folder. The schematics showed the bodies on each floor. Seven bodies had been in the front hall where Roundtree now stood. At the back of the building, six kids died inside a locked back door.

Roundtree headed down a hall towards the back. It was an unexpected relief. For a while, there was no blood on the walls. The smell of death was weaker. The hallway smelled of magic marker and Elmer's glue. Everything was clean, scholastic, normal.

Then he came to the back door and everything changed. The smells of slaughter returned. Blood had exploded all over the floor, the walls, and the doors. Chalked outlines showed where the victims laid themselves down for the last time. 

Roundtree stared at the outlines and gritted his teeth, trying not to gag. He stopped, looked away from the carnage, then he looked at the back doors.

You were systematic, my man. Whatever disease you carried in your head did not keep you from planning and aiming and acting. A very functional guy, crazy as a loon. You figured out, there are no other exits. Nobody had time to panic, bust through a door, or smash through a window. You moved fast. You came through the front door with your gun up and sighted down the barrel. When the sight covered a person, you pulled the trigger, just like an arcade game. They weren't people; they were targets.

BANG and BANG and BANG.

You hit the foyer and shot for less than a minute. Pandemonium ensued. Those who could run, did; those who could not, died or played dead. It was predictable; the survivors panicked and fled to the back of the building. You let them go. First things first.  You took your time and cleaned out the foyer. Then you reloaded, moved to the back, and shot everyone there.

It happened fast.

Then you reload again and head upstairs to shoot the people trapped up there. There's no need to hurry; you've got them; they have to go around you to escape, and they cannot do that.

How could you be so clever? Did you pick Schaefer because you knew they locked the back doors? When did you learn that? How far back did you go?

Roundtree returned to the foyer and stopped at a stairway to the second floor. He looked up. The sooner I go up there, the sooner I can leave.

He climbed to the landing halfway up and stopped, confused. Several chalked outlines were on the stairs. Stranger yet, there were many evidence tags on the landing and the stairs above it. Roundtree glanced at the tags. They had marked notebooks, laptops, backpacks, furniture, chalk erasers, and other flotsam. Even a few folding chairs. One lab tag read, Football. The police had confiscated all of the stuff.

What the hell? What happened here?

Roundtree continued up to the second floor. There were two chalk outlines past the stairs and a few bullet holes in the walls.

He turned back and looked down at the landing below - son of a bitch, they used the high ground; they bull rushed you, didn’t they, my man? You got off a few shots, then they threw everything they had at you. They were desperate. They ran over you. You shot a few, but most of them went right by.

There will be no other bodies on the second floor.

He completed his sweep of the second floor but learned nothing more. As expected, nothing happened beyond the stairwell. He returned to the first floor, where Jenna was supervising the work of a print team. Roundtree ignored them as he passed.

He went outside, took a clean breath, and sat down on the steps in front - God, I would love a smoke. My ex-wife convinced me to quit, which has to be one of life's great ironies. She nags me, so I bust my ass and quit. Hardest thing I ever did. Then she leaves me.

Does that seem right? Maybe it was. I guess I wasn't fast enough. I didn't know how fast I had to be. How could you know? Life happens in real time - no instant replay. You can practice all you want, but you cannot know or learn everything.

Out beyond the police tape, the crowd had grown. The pile of balloons, stuffed animals, and candles was larger too.

Roundtree sat there and savored the clean air. For a moment, he put aside how and why these people were murdered.

His cellphone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket. Roundtree.

Good morning, Inspector. This is Rick Harris, from the M.E.'s office.

What can I do for you, Mr. Harris?

We started the autopsy on the shooter, and I wanted to give you prelim results.

Okay.

Well, the shooter shot himself in the temple, but that did not kill him. Somebody crushed his larynx. They got their teeth on his throat and bit through his windpipe. He took a minute to die; he choked to death.

Jesus. They crushed his windpipe. So while he's choking, he tries to shoot himself in the head. He misses and says oh, fuck one last time. No, amigo, no last bullet for you, you get to die the hard way. Where did you find him?

Halfway up a stairway to the second floor.

Roundtree nodded - you find courage in the oddest places. How long until you're done?

Six, seven days. The blood work takes a while.

Okay, thanks. Roundtree broke the connection.

He sat there, his good feeling having evaporated - Jesus Christ almighty. The shooter trapped everyone on the second floor, but the kids were brave and desperate, so they bull-rushed him. Somebody took him down like an animal. Go for the jugular. Jesus Christ.

The nightmares ought to be interesting.

Loss and Grief

Amir Hawari drove his wife Serena to the