George Angus, Tumblemoose Writer

The pile of books to be shelved was unbelievable.  They had really done it this time, the early shift.  Likely, it would be hours before the cart was clean.

Hmmm, I guess I’ll start with the fictions since the pain in the ass factor is greatly decreased with those.

Abbott, Brumstetter, Brown, Buffett…

The first pop sounded like anything but a gunshot.  Muffled and not much louder than a bottle of bubbly announcing its presence.

Now, a thud.  A gasp.

Holy crap.  I can hear a voice.  Male.  Low, gruff.  Coming from the direction of the front desk.

My heart is thundering away, galloping through my ears and now the faint, sweet stench of cordite reaches my nose.

I’m frozen in the stacks.  If I poke my head around the corner, I may well lose it.  My other option is to hang out with Mr. Abbott and Sandra Brown and hope the shooter doesn’t fancy a book tour.

I can hear the rattle of keys and the sound of the main entrance door shutting and being locked.

Aw hell.  He’s locking us in.

I’m not panicked.  Yet.  I will be soon, I bet.

I’ve just got time to think, “Thank God the children’s wing is closed…” when the brushed stainless steel barrel pokes around the corner.  Eye level.  A round black opening, deep as the stars and as mesmerizing as a cobra.

” ‘sup, book boy?”

My hands shoot for the sky, dropping Cussler and Coulter into a most untidy heap at my feet.  Even in this messed up situation, my instinct is to pick up the books and look at them because it looks like a binding may have been damaged.  My gaze started southward and that’s when the shove hits me.

Off balance and surprised, I sprawl.  This is me, flat on my ass.  Seeing cobwebs and trying to focus my eyes.  When I can finally see just one of the jerk with the gun, I recognize him.  He knows it too.  Smiles.

He waves me to my feet with a couple of barrel raises.  Eyeballs me and grins as I head towards the front desk.

Geez-us Pleez-us.  What a freakin’ mess.  Most of what was Mrs. Gattabo’s head is now sliding or dripping down the Summer Reading Program display.  The “Water Your Mind” signage has something grey and gooey sliding down the front of it.  My guess?  Mrs. Gattabo’s 3rd grade.

The other librarian on duty tonight has backed herself as far away from the desk as possible.  I think she really believes she can become one with the sheet rock.  She is quietly whimpering.  Noise levels in the library need to be respected.

Mr. 9mm started showing up about a month ago.  I thought he was just one of the regular homeless guys that make the library a winter haunt.  Most of his ilk are wallflowers.  You’d never know they were here.  Well, that is unless you had to make use of the public bathroom after one of them.

This guy always wears a neon green safety vest.  Always.  Usually not a problem child, this guy.  Well, except he got 86′d about a week ago.  Wouldn’t stop whistling in the library.  Got uppity about it when he was asked to pipe down.

I remember giving him the bum’s rush.  I wasn’t too mean about it, but I didn’t exactly treat him like a prom date.

The best defense is a good offense, right?

“What the hell do you want?”

He stares at me.  The gun is having little tremors.  I can’t decide if this is good news or not.

As I recall, there were 4 people in the library when I headed to the stacks.  We all know one of them won’t be turning her books back in on time.  Two of the other three are huddled together at the end of the videos aisle, clearly wishing they had chosen Blockbuster tonight.  Where victim patron number four got off to is anybody’s guess.  Maybe he made it out.

“You can’t treat people like that, man.”

Now it’s my turn to just stare.  “What are you talking about?  Me kicking you out last week?  Are you nuckin’ futs?”  I’m pissed.  I know I’m not holding the cards here, but what the hell?

“So, you shot that lady because I kicked you out?”

“Damn straight.  And guess what?  You’re next.”  He takes turns pointing the gun at each of us.  “Head to the back, all of ya.  Let’s see what the storeroom has to offer.”

Our little group trudges off towards the back of the library.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of patron #4.  He’s in the “D’s”, crouching down low.  He’s holding a book.  I have to grin at the irony.  The book is a little number by Dostoyevsky.

As Mr. 9mm passes the stack, patron #4 leaps out and with all his might smashes Mr. Dostoyevsky’s classic over the head of the unsuspecting gun wielding nut job.

THOCK!

9mm goes down like the Dow after an interest rate hike.

We all look at patron #4, jaws agape and eyes as big as saucers.

A grin is spreading across his face as he reaches down and disarms the armed loser.  “Nice shot, eh?”

Interested in the title of the book he used?

Click here.