Chapter 1 • The Children A class of sixth-graders squinted at dimly-lit relics of Harrisburg’s past as they wandered through the historic building. “Time to go,” their teacher, Mr. Stewart, announced. He grunted as he pulled open the massive wooden doors, flooding the museum lobby with light. “Line up, please. Single file.” He straightened his polka-dot bowtie and fidgeted with his pony tail as the children lined up near the doors. The teacher adjusted his thick black-rimmed glasses and took a pen from the pocket protector that completed his daily uniform of plaid shirts and jeans. He checked each child’s name from his list as they headed for the exit. “You do not need to hail a cab; simply follow your chaperones down the stairs and straight out to the bus. I would prefer you not play in traffic.” Mr. Stewart smiled; he knew the students responded well to humor. Another successful field trip, he thought. He was about to cross off the last name when a loud noise echoed outside. “Sounds like…It can’t be,” Mr. Stewart said aloud as he hurried out the door. He saw the chaperones and children lined up at the bus. Everything looked normal. Must have been a back-fire, he supposed, and turned to shut the doors. Then he heard the noise again, louder and clearer. He knew these were not back-fires, they were gunshots. He looked left and saw men less than fifty yards away. Another shot rang out, but from the right. Time froze; his heart sank. What am I going to do? I just sent my class smack into the middle of a gang shootout. “GET DOWN!” Mr. Stewart shouted. Immediately, the chaperones understood and took action. “Get on the bus, now” they yelled, grabbing arms and shoving children up the big black steps. Mr. Stewart ran toward his class. A bullet ripped into his shirt and tore through his skin. He dove to the ground. Shaking off shock and searing pain, he looked for the children. The line of kids was disappearing into the bus. Mr. Stewart’s relief was cut short when he noticed a small silhouette standing alone between himself and the bus. “Mary,” he called, “Get down. I’m coming.” She stood still, frozen in place. Their eyes met. Her terror was now his. In the time it took to blink, another shot rang out. Mr. Stewart watched as Mary’s body fell limp like a rag doll and crumpled to the ground. She was hit. The sound of gunshots ringing in his ears, Mr. Stewart crawled on his elbows and knees to reach her, knowing that above him deadly bullets were ripping through the air. He reached her side and protected her shaking body with the only thing he had, himself. He fumbled for his phone and called 911. Assured that help was on the way, he looked Mary in the eyes and said, as calmly as he could manage, “You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” He began to chant softly. He could feel Mary’s body relax. He looked up the street in an attempt to get a better view of the shooters. There were five men—big men. He thought about the phone still in his hand. He aimed and took pictures as fast as the camera could make them. For the first time, Mr. Stewart turned his attention to the other end of the street and took notice of those returning fire. He counted seven. Boys? What are they doing? They looked like kids playing with toy guns, but the burning in his side was real enough. Mr. Stewart snapped pictures in their direction also. “Bird,” Mary said in a weak voice. “Mr. Stewart, is that an eagle?” “Yes, Mary,” Mr. Stewart replied without looking up. “It is an eagle.” The eagle soared overhead, then dove straight at the men. With a deafening screech, the bird opened its wings their full five-foot span and extended its talons ready to snatch its prey. The lead man jerked up his right arm to protect his face, gun still in his hand. The eagle struck the man with such force that he was knocked to the ground. The others watched in disbelief as the bird flew off with the gun.
Posted on: Mon, 02 Dec 2013 12:12:58 +0000
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