Death at Presley Park

PrologueSEPTEMBER 29TH They tumbled like rats out of a sewer, clawing and clambering as they slid down the slope desperate to escape the gunman. Men and women falling, tripping over each other, mothers dragging terrified children, losing their grip then attempting to swim against the tide to retrieve them, chaotically moving on instinct. Unable to comprehend what was happening, they stampeded, each of them thinking they were about to die, stumbling over the fallen, trampling on faces, crushing fingers, abandoning friends, in a desperate bid to survive. Do you sometimes wonder how you'd behave in a crisis, if your life was on the line, if you were facing imminent death? Would you stop to help a stranger? Would you save your wife, your husband, your parents your children? Perhaps a mother would shield her child, but perhaps not. This particular picnic in the park was anything but. It was mid-afternoon. A sultry, September sunshine bathed the sweet smelling, freshly cut grass with an orange hue. Women chatted about this and that, comparing children, cooking, clothes. Men played ball, drank beer, made plans to go fishing while children ran about squealing and chasing each other in an endless game of tag. The gunman, dressed in combat gear, walked purposefully to the middle of the grass, amongst the groups of families and friends, amongst the blankets on the ground, the remnants of fried chicken, sandwiches, cakes and soft drinks. No-one looked at him or acknowledged him, too busy interacting with their families or friends. He didn't look out of place as many people were clothed in fancy dress costumes. He could have been invisible and he wondered if he was. Smiling to himself, he was eerily calm, but his heart was racing, wired by the drugs he'd been popping all through the night and throughout the day to help him stay awake. Raising his automatic weapon he pirouetted, finger on the trigger, firing indiscriminately into the crowd, whooping and cheering as people collapsed dead and dying. It's just like the fairground, he thought. “Where's my prize?” he muttered. Before he could spin around again, those who could stand, who weren't already dead, injured or frozen with fear, were up and running, and the gunman, heart pounding in his chest with the thrill of it all, pursued them. He was no longer simply spraying a crowd of easy targets. The chase was on. The gunman felt adrenalin rushing through his veins, his rapidly beating heart pounding in his ears. He was now a hunter and the panicking, fleeing people were his prey.