Story code: ST-000476
Part 2: The Digital Barrier
The heavy steel baton missed the performer’s skull by a fraction of an inch, slamming instead into the edge of the wooden reading table. The crack of splitting oak echoed through the cavernous library, sharp as a gunshot. Splinters exploded outward in a violent spray. One jagged shard grazed the performer’s bare shoulder, drawing a vivid red line across her skin, while another flew far enough to bounce harmlessly off the canvas of Greg’s jacket. The performer shrieked, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the ambient noise of shattering glass and shouting men.
The sound of the impact vibrated in Greg’s molars. Through his smartphone screen, the blood welling on her shoulder looked hyper-saturated, a bright digital crimson that didn’t seem entirely real. But the smell was undeniably real. The sharp, acrid scent of split wood mixed with the metallic tang of sweat and fear heavy in the air.
Greg’s thumb twitched on his phone’s volume rocker, a stupid, reflexive urge to turn down the agonizing real-life audio of the performer’s cries. He adjusted his grip, watching the skull-masked leader grunt and yank the steel baton free from the destroyed table. The massive man loomed over his target, his heavy combat boots pinning the voluminous layers of the seafoam gown to the puzzle mats.
Greg’s breathing turned into rapid, shallow pants, fogging the edge of his screen. He tracked the man’s movements, sliding his left foot backward to keep the framing wide. The performer scrambled away, her silver platform heels scraping uselessly against the slick linoleum. The sheer, glittering fabric of her dress ripped with a sickening, prolonged tear, trapping her in the ruins of her own costume.
Across the atrium, hidden behind the curving mahogany of the checkout counter, a woman screamed, “Somebody help her!”
The plea bounced off the acoustic ceiling tiles and landed squarely on Greg’s shoulders like a physical weight. He swallowed hard, his throat as dry as sandpaper. The phone felt impossibly heavy, a brick of lead in his sweating palms. He was less than three yards away. He was a fit, capable man. He had the physical build to tackle the attacker. He could throw a chair. He could do literally anything other than stand like a statue in the center aisle.
*I’m gathering evidence,* he told himself, his mind frantically spinning the familiar rationalization. *This video will put them all in federal prison. The world needs to see exactly what happened here.*
But the shame bubbled up through the cold numbness in his limbs, turning his stomach sour. What good was a high-definition video of a murder? How would he live with millions of views if the cost was watching a human being get beaten to death in a children’s reading section while he played cinematographer?
Two other masked men swept through the background of Greg’s shot. They were systematically destroying the sanctuary, tearing down construction-paper rainbows and kicking over bins of donated picture books. The entire library was being dismantled, the peaceful morning violated beyond repair. The leader ignored his comrades, entirely focused on the prey at his feet. He kicked the overturned book cart completely out of his way, the metal wheels spinning wildly in the air, and reached down with a thick, leather-gloved hand.
He grabbed a massive handful of the performer’s spun-sugar wig. The performer thrashed, crying out in raw, breathless panic as the man hauled her upward by the artificial hair. The elaborate wig tore free from its bobby pins and heavy-duty tape with a violent snap, leaving her natural, sweat-drenched hair exposed to the harsh fluorescent lighting.
The attacker tossed the massive pink hairpiece aside like garbage. It tumbled across the carpet and landed mere inches from Greg’s boots.
Greg glanced down at the glittering prop, then forced his eyes back to the screen. The performer was on her knees now, entirely stripped of her towering, glamorous armor. She clutched her bleeding shoulder, gasping for air. And then, she looked up.
She didn’t look at the camera lens. Her wide, terrified eyes, framed by smeared dramatic mascara and pale, contoured cheeks, locked directly onto Greg’s face behind the phone. Through the tiny glowing rectangle, her gaze pierced right through his digital barrier. It was a look of pure, unadulterated betrayal. She saw a man standing idly by, watching her die for content.
The nausea hit Greg in a sudden, icy wave. The copper taste of cowardice coated the back of his throat. The leader in the skull balaclava raised the steel baton again, this time aiming squarely at the performer’s exposed, unprotected head. The attacker shifted his weight, his heavy boots planting firmly on the mats, preparing for a devastating finishing blow.
Greg’s mouth opened before his brain could formulate a rational plan. The social paralysis shattered under the unbearable weight of the performer’s gaze.
“Hey!” Greg shouted, his voice cracking violently in the dusty, chaotic air. “Get away from her!”
The leader froze. The heavy steel baton hovered suspended at the apex of its arc. Slowly, the massive man turned his head. The hollow, dark eye-holes of the skull balaclava locked onto Greg. The attacker lowered the baton just enough to point the metal tip toward the smartphone.
“Put the phone down, you little rat,” the leader growled, his deep voice muffled by the thick fabric of his mask.
The man stepped off the foam puzzle mats, leaving the weeping performer on the floor, and advanced toward the center aisle. He slapped the steel baton rhythmically against his open palm, the metallic clack echoing off the bookshelves. Greg stood frozen once again, his thumbs still gripping the recording device, as the towering man closed the distance between them. Greg had finally drawn the crosshairs onto himself, but his hands were still full of glass and metal instead of ready to fight.