Chapter I

American Jesus

Sometimes I wonder if God has some kind of plan in store for me. Is this world just a huge mess of complete randomness and chaos like the intellectual atheists believe, or is there actually a greater being moving us around like pieces on a game board? No matter what, I still believe in the concept of free will and if there is such a thing as destiny then I believe The Almighty's modus operandi is trials, tribulations, and challenges.

The reason I bring this up now, why I must bring this up now, is entirely due to my immediate situation. I ride the bus. Have been riding every day since I started this job. Each and every day is the same. Some times I wonder if I've been trapped in an Endless Eight of repeating occurrences popularized in the film Groundhog's Day. I wake up, cook breakfast, go to work, work, go home, cook dinner, go to sleep. Very little variety I find from one waking period to the next. Not to say that this is such a unique occurrence, many must be experiencing the same phenomenon as I. Perhaps "Phenomenon" isn't the best word to us, but it's the one that comes to mind.

Anyway, I take the same routes, at the same times, on the same days. Occasionally I might miss the bus on the way home, but for the most part it's always the same. Today, right now, however, it is not. Sitting next to my side, tightly pressing herself against my arm, is Melissa Knoxville. We've been working together since I started. This girl is younger than I by about four years and still has a schoolgirl smell to her. She's a tad husky and somewhat boring looking, but she has a pleasant attitude and is not a pain to accompany. A sweet girl she is but not normally the type I go for. My last breakup left a tad sour taste in my mouth. That was the major contributing factor as to why I asked Melissa out a few days prior to now. I wasn't expecting this to be a major event or anything, just another one of my little experiments.

Please note; this is one of the major reasons why I am debating God's plan.

So now we're on our first date. It's a Friday, it's after work, and we're going to a bar. Normally she drives, but I suggested that if we were to date that she should get used to public transportation. Not that I'm poor, but I don't own a car nor a driver's license. Blame my strong sense of independence as to why I couldn't just let her take me. However, unbeknownst to me until this morning, the transmission of her sedan had been shot, so we would have taken the bus regardless. In the end, matter not the different choices I might have made, we would have taken the bus. Taken this bus.

Destiny.

When I first started my stretch with public transportation I immediately noticed the sort of unsavory characters that were my fellow passengers. Not that I felt fear towards the impoverish and the criminal (I'm not being prejudice, I do talk to these people on occasion, and many of them do have a record. B&E mostly, rarely violent crimes.) but with my white collar attire I find myself the focus of many a stares. In the eyes of others I am probably an easy mark. I think of myself of a fit individual and I could probably win in a fist fight, but the inclusion of weapons would drastically cut my survival rate.

Initially I carried a knife. Nothing special, just something that I could conceal underneath my clothes. Perhaps due to my late stepfather's gun collecting hobby, I believed this to be an inefficient means of protecting myself. When I was a child I never felt Arthur's sense of euphoria when he talked about his firearms, but as an adult I found myself changed. It happened when I brought his Colt Single Action Army to a firing range and squeezed off a few rounds. That gun was his favorite by the way. If he were alive now he'd probably cry if he knew what I'd done, but a gun wasn't going to be useful unless carried on my person. Thanks to my home state of Nevada I could acquire a Concealed Weapon's Permit. I dropped my father's name and his twenty-two year membership with the NRA. My quest for the permit was probably easier than most, but what good are parents if they can't ease the tension of life's trials?

So here I am now with that same Colt Single Action Army hidden in it's holster under my left arm. With my jacket it's complete invisible to the naked eye.

Destiny. God's Plan. In this randomness, in this chaos, what is my role? Fate? Raison d'tetre?

Well, considering my immediate situation, I think God might want me to become a killer.

I spotted him the moment he stepped on the bus, as did the "criminals" who also enjoy the conveniences of public transportation. This girl to my right, who is so tightly clutching my arm, did not. Not more than three blocks had passed before he pulled out his automatic rifle from under his coat and demanded that we stop.

He began to spout gibberish about jihad and the evil capitalist government. This person was probably a college student, about my age, and his skin was much too light to be an actual Middle Easterner. This is just some stupid kid who believes he can play terrorist. Whether or not he might have actual ties with the real thing was beyond me however.

Why here? Why now? Why the route I never ride on the one time that I actually do? And why do I have the only means to put down this idiot while protecting everyone's safety?

Well, I do have a good idea as to why here. This is Nevada, but more specifically, it was Las Vegas. Each year millions of visitors from around the world come here for entertainment and to lose their money by the truckloads. If his aim was impact, then a bus full of international tourists would have been a perfect target. This was most certainly his intention, but he made a gigantic mistake. This bus was a city bus, not the Strip bus.

It was most likely nervousness that kept him from realizing this fact. His stop, the one on which he boarded, was also shared with the route known as The Deuce. If he just waited a little while longer he would have had his target, but no. As the bus pulled away from Las Vegas Blvd. he began to sweat bullets. The "criminals" and myself noticed him when he first stepped on, but when he became on edge the others did as well. NQR. Not Quite Right. Perhaps it was the pressure he felt with everyone's eyes on him that pushed him to make his move.

Four hours had passed since that time. We were stopped in the middle of the street with police cars surrounding us and barricading the area. Currently SWAT was trying to negotiate with this idiot over megaphones and the bus' speaker system. This was going to be a difficult incident for them. Currently he, the terrorist, had us passengers standing around to make a border around all the windows of the bus. This was his strategy. I believe he wanted us to act as a shield to keep the Police sharpshooters at bay. With hostages surrounding him and the natural design of the vehicle, they would never have a clean shot. Luckily for Melissa and myself, we were on the raised section in the rear, so it was fine if we sat. At least we were comfortable on our side.

My date was shaking, she was terrified. No surprises there. There was no doubt in my mind that she was a "Good Girl" so she had probably been sheltered her entire life. This situation was beyond the control of the police and she knew that. A breach and entry was next to impossible without alerting the gunman, so he would get plenty of shots off before any could be returned. It seemed the only peaceful solution (for us at least) was to talk him down and have him surrender on his own. However, being the Extremist Muslim Ideologue that he was, there was no chance of that happening. This idiot kid had long prepared himself to die in his holy mission, so the only reason he hadn't fired a single shot as of yet was because he was desperately searching for a way to maximize his jihad.

Every now and then I catch glances from the large Mexican with tattoos on his arms (other places too, probably). I've talked to him before. Domestic Violence. Hit his girlfriend after confronting her about her cheating habits. Why he was on this route instead of our normal one I had no idea, but to each's own. Point was, I knew what he was thinking. DV knew the only way out of this was for us passengers to take the kid down. What I didn't understand was why he kept looking at me. It was as if he were asking my permission. There was no way he could have known about my gun, so I'm not sure why he thought that I could have made a difference. To him I shake my head "no."

Why hadn't I used my gun to put an end to this? The reason was simple, his gun. AK47 custom. It's steel shoulder stock was retracted to allow for quicker, albeit less accurate, aiming. The guard had been removed and it's standard trigger replaced with a hair line version. I might be over fifteen feet away but I could tell the safety was removed and there was a bullet in the chamber. This kid might be an idiot for getting on the wrong bus, and for choosing terrorism in general, but he knew how to handle his rifles. Even if I drew my revolver and turned his brain into a pink mist that would stain the windshield, the jerk reaction of his death would certainly send bullets randomly spewing into the passengers. While it would bring an immediate end to the situation, those who get hit might not like that very much. So my gun stays in it's holster.

By the way, I know all of this because of the requirements for my license. There is a lot of training and studying that goes into one of these things.

"What to do?" is the question. Do I risk the collateral damage that will go along with shooting this guy, or do I wait for some kind of miracle? God, I waiting for your sign.

Another hour passes and the light of day is beginning to fade. Darkness is not the terrorist's friend, he must realize. The busses in Nevada don't have back windows, but he had at least been able to watch his tail through the side view mirrors. As the sun sinks below the horizon that would soon become useless. With this the police would have the option of coming in from below or even above. If he was going to do what he came here to do, he better move soon. Negotiations were going nowhere, so my time for action was rapidly drawing near. I shake Melissa free from her grasp. I'll need my right hand to draw.

Again DV looks at me. Did he see my action? I don't know this guy nearly well enough to understand his gestures. DV is a heavy-set type, and he looks very strong. This skinny white kid with the automatic rifle and death wish wouldn't stand a chance against him. Why did that guy keep looking at me?

"What are you doing!?"

Shit, terrorist-idiot saw us.

"What the hell are you doing!?"

DV shrivels at the raised, threatening, prepubescent voice (must be younger than me). As did the rest of the passengers. Seeing his dominance over one half of the accused party, he turns the rifle at me. Melissa slowly and cautiously inches away. If I get shot she doesn't want to get hit by any of the rapid fire bullets. Gee, thanks.

He's stepping closer with his weapon raised. The police outside are beginning to stir like ants in shit. Incoherent mummer is produced by everyone inside. Something catches the gunman's attention and he raises an eyebrow.

"Take off your jacket!"

Damn, this just keeps getting better. He probably saw the leather straps of my holster. Will he kill me the moment he sees the gun, or will he just take it away if I cooperate? God, is this your sign? Do you really want my hands stained with blood? My trail is the choice I'll make in the next couple of seconds. My destiny is to kill this man or die, is it not?

"Take off the damn jacket!!!"

I must be the black cat of misfortune. Everyone around me suffers disaster and sorrow. At least I have the opportunity to save some people as I die.

The woman across the aisle screams.

"Shut the hell up!!!"

He shouts and temporarily sets the woman in his cross-hairs.

This is it, my chance.

I wait until he motions his aim towards me again before I act.

Melissa, sitting between me and that woman, sorry, you're probably going to die.

As he turns towards me again, I draw my gun and fire. I pull the trigger three times. Two centered into his chest and one in the forehead. The hellfire raging from our weapons deafens the bus. Everyone drops to the floor. I can feel the bullets whisking past my face, right between me and Melissa. She could have been hit, I don't know. All of my attention is focused on his fading eyes. As expected, his gun is firing wildly. If anyone has been hit, my bad. This was what I was forced to do. I was destined. Everything now was left in the hands of the random and the chaos, or in other words, the hands of God. Fate is now in work and will decide who will live and who will die. A weird feeling fills my gut, telling me that I'm going to live. That I'll be the only one who lives.

The wild rifle suddenly jumps my way. I swear I see lead coming to claim a good portion of my face, but it misses. The bullets are traveling upwards. I just now realize that DV had jumped in after I killed terrorist-idiot and grabbed a hold of the gun, sending it's spray harmlessly into the heavens. Silence ensues when the lifeless fingers fall away from the trigger.

There's still smoke rising from the mussel of my father's Colt when everything had passed. My breathing is heavy and for a moment my vision slightly blurs. The heartbeat I feel in my throat tells me I was far more scared then I thought I was. I smell urine, and it might be mine, and I notice Melissa practically die by my side.

Figuratively, not literally. Thank god.

Everyone was screaming and yelling when I fired, but she'd been shocked beyond that. She was too scared to scream. She was frightened, but not dead. Fate was kind to you.

Quickly I scan everyone on the bus. Aside from our would-be terrorist I spot no signs of blood. Some had fainted, but it appeared nobody had died. Not only that, but nobody else was even hit. There were people standing behind the kid when I fired, but this weapon, this Colt, was prized by my father for being the deadliest gun every created. Why, I had asked. Because of it's lack of firepower. Modern handguns are too high a caliber and will enter and exit in a straight line. The Single Action Army, however, fires bullets slower and has less penetrating power. That means when a bullet enters the body, if it hits anything, it will bounce around totally ripping apart the target's insides. I knew this as I fired, so at the very least I knew my gun wouldn't kill anyone I didn't want to. It was an empty solace, but one I needed.

God was the only one who could have ensured everyone's safety. Thank you God, good job.

"Melissa, are you alright?"

Life slowly returns to her eyes. Her stare is still somewhat vacant when she looks at me, but emotion gradually flooded her cheeks. Eventually she cries and hugs my chest.

As that was going on I was watching the rest of the passengers. The people up front were banging on the doors trying the get them open; the driver was speaking over the radio with a serious expression on her face. DV seemed to have some kind of interest in the dead terrorist (or perhaps my ace shooting) as he was closely checking the body. I noticed that he was being extraordinarily careful. A thought approaches. This jackass wasn't carrying...

BANG!!!

...a bomb!?

Shit! I shouldn't have been surprised by this outcome. Terrorists just loved to blow themselves up for some reason, so this ass shouldn't have been any different.

But we are still alive.

After my heart calms down (sooner than the others I might add) I see the corpse was still in one piece as well as DV, who had a first row seat to the event. It was loud alright, and there was a flash, but it seemed to be nothing greater than a firecracker. As the seconds tick by everyone else realizes that they have escaped death and try to escape the vehicle.

"Open the door!" someone shouts at the driver.

"Wait! Stop!"

The female bus driver seemed preoccupied with the conversation over the radio to oblige the rest of us. I gently tap Melissa on the shoulder and lightly push her away. Something is bothering me about what just happened, so I approach the corpse and DV.

"Some shooting huh?"

I try to make light of the situation.

"What da' hell iz this?"

Apparently I failed.

I follow DV's pointed finger to a broken metallic cylinder that was hung upon the kid's belt. For the most part it appears empty, but there is a clear colored liquid dripping from the point of explosion.

...

Oh, crap.

Someone pulls the emergency handle and kicks out a side window. They rush outside in a flood. Me and DV meet eyes for the fifth (I think, lost count) time, both thinking the exact same thing. They're yelling at the crowd to stop from outside, and then comes the gunfire. It sounds like a man's cry as he was shot but not killed. As I stand I can see that the police barricade had been moved backwards a near football field from what I remember. In the great distance I can see men in black suits and ones in white costumes that looked like giant condoms. I don't need anyone to tell me who they are. Without hearing the police tell us over the loudspeakers, DV and I knew what had just happened.

That little bastard-ass of a wannabe terrorist just killed us with a biological weapon.

God is a bully burning ants with a magnifying glass.