Intrusion (short fiction)

I wrote this story about school intrusion. All comments welcome:

Intrusion

Seventeen-year-old Dillan Chase leaned against the wall outside a classroom door in the English department of Middleton High. His sixteen-year old junior girlfriend, Chelsea Bri was across the opening from him, kneeling down slightly, and holding a very real semi-automatic assault rifle in her hands. Her blue eyes sparkled over her freckled, upturned nose as she looked over into Dillan’s intense and focused expression. He looked so heroic and handsome in his gear that she could not help but give a soft smile at the warmth of her feelings for him.
Dillan passed a glance Chelsea’s direction, noticing the doe-eyed look on her face, “I wish you would take this seriously.” He whispered strongly at her.
Chelsea straightened her expression and brought her focus back to the task at hand, “Sorry D.”
“Someday this may be real. You have to take these drills seriously.” He whispered at her again. He loved her as much as he felt anyone his age could love, but their unique role at Middleton High meant that he could not afford to let those feelings get in the way of her discipline. As their team leader it was his job to make sure she was ready should they aver need to use the skills developed by the drills.
Soft, running footsteps in the hall behind Dillan signaled the approach of their final team member, Peter. The lightly built sophomore of fifteen moved to them quickly and quietly, fastening the final straps of his body armor as he ran.
Dillan took note of his untimely arrival, “Nice of you to join us Engholm. Forty-five second response time, remember!” His words were spoken in hushed tones but carried the strength of disappointment over the extra fifteen seconds it had taken Peter to arrive.
“Man, I have gym this period,” Engholm returned gesturing at his youthful body which was clad in a three-piece suit of thigh and torso, reinforced nylon armor over gym shorts and a blue piped t-shirt. The shirt bore the same Middleton High emblem that was emblazoned on the armored vest, though it was concealed beneath the protective gear, “I ran all the way from the basement for crying out loud.”
“Forty-five seconds,” Dillan snapped at his subordinate, “Not sixty and excuses. Got it?!”
“Yes, sir,” Peter conceded.
“Alright, did you bring the obfuscation devices?” Dillan asked, enamored of the sophisticated name someone had printed on the side of such a simple thing.
“Can’t you just call them smoke bombs?” Peter asked with a half sneer, “Yeah. I’m all set. How many intruders?”
Dillan checked the wireless school security monitor strapped to his wrist. The flat display that covered the entire top of his forearm showed a floor plan of the room interior. On it flashed thirty-two green dots and five red ones, “Five; one at the desk, two against the near wall, two at the chalkboard. I’ll blow the window, Peter, you hit the smoke, then Chelsea and I will take down the guys at the chalkboard and on the near wall through the opening. When we clear, you hit the guy at the teacher’s desk from behind me. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Both acknowledged in soft unison.
Dillan and Peter checked the receivers on their assault rifles to insure they both had rounds chambered. The guns they carried were kept in special cabinets only the Intruder Response Team could access and carried high velocity, non-lethal rounds made of ultra-dense plastic. Three rounds could easily subdue anyone not wearing protective armor at least as strong as the students’ gear.
Beyond the door, the classroom was held captive by a volunteer intrusion simulation team that wore no armor of any kind, and was armed with only paint projectile weapons. Once a month, this contracted team of pretend hooligans would lay siege to one or more classrooms so the IRT could keep their skills sharp. Dillan lived for the drills, and feared ever needing them.
“OK, on my mark. And, no friendly fire! Cindy Cooper spent two days recovering from last time so keep your shots clean.”
“Well,” Peter started, still sore over the incident of which Dillan was speaking, “If the room responders stick to the response plan we shouldn’t have a problem. Cindy way jumped the gun…”
“Stow it squash!.” Dillan cut him off, using the abbreviated derogatory reserved for the members of the tenth grade, “Now, let’s do this.”
The blue eyed Chelsea and a still obviously disgruntled Peter both nodded in agreement as Dillan fished a small explosive device from a pocket on the bandolier over his armor and then affixed it to the corner of the glass.
Dillan fingered the electronic trigger for the explosive and Peter pulled the pin on the small canister-style smoke grenade in his hand. Chelsea gripped the handle of her rifle tightly, two years of drills keeping her mind clear and focused on the first objective: two targets less than twenty feet away. Adrenaline pumped fiercely through her veins causing her skin to tingle, tip to toe. Out loud Dillan counted to two and blew the window out of the door leading into the classroom. The frame flew from its seat and Peter threw the grenade in, giving the broken glass and wire mesh just enough time to fall clear.
With a bang smoked began to fill the space beyond the door. Before it could completely obscure their targets, Chelsea and Dillan moved with practiced speed to the opening and fired two bursts of three rounds each. Dillan was happy to see both of his targets fall to the hardwood floor in front of the chalkboard, but Chelsea swore with a fierce, un-ladylike obscenity as one of her targets dove clear. He took one round in the hip, but Chelsea was sure it would not subdue the simulated bad-guy. Both teenagers ducked back below the edge of the window as Peter let fly with his three rounds, meant for the intruder in the far corner of the room.
The response plan in the English department called for one burst per intruder, then twenty seconds for the room responders to move on anyone left behind. In that twenty seconds the IRT listened for one shout of “clear” for every intruder before entering the room. They heard four shouts and a struggle, accompanied by the soft popping of the paint marker weapons carried by the invasion team.
“Chelsea, get him!” Dillan barked at his pretty girlfriend.
Chelsea reached for the door and whipped it open; switching the selector on her rifle to single fire as she dove through the opening. The smoke had quickly dissipated and Chelsea could once again see the whole room as she rolled across the threshold. The students who were not on the room response team lay flat on the ground covering their heads. Most had become accustom to the monthly invasion drills, but a few still shook and sobbed quietly from the intense tension created by even the simulated incident.
As Chelsea came to her knees, a paint-filled round whizzed by her head so close that it brushed the small hairs on her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. Scanning the room she saw that the six responders had her missed target pinned to the ground and that Peter had missed as well, leaving the last volunteer invader crouched behind the teacher’s desk in the far corner of the room. He popped up to once again open fire and Chelsea squeezed off a single shot, sending her opponent to the ground with a plastic round to the forehead as a splotch of red paint exploded against the armor plating covering her left breast.
Disgusted with herself, Chelsea fingered the red spot on the black and olive drab vest. She had yet to make it through a drill without taking fire and, while most of the resulting injuries would have been flesh wounds to her extremities, early in her sophomore year she had taken a round to the face that had hurt for days almost made her quit the IRT; now this. Had the bullet been real it would have put the effectiveness of her armor to the test and knocked her to the ground, if not unconscious from shellshock.
Hanging her head in dismal contemplation of her repeated failure, Chelsea shouted, “Clear!” bringing the exercise to an end.

Later in the evening of that same day, with her two-hour daily responder training completed, Chelsea Bri sat cross-legged in the center of a round trampoline placed at one end of the Middleton High gymnasium. Lying open before her on the black nylon surface were a physics text and several notebooks of lined pages filled with the notes she had to copy during the daily lessons and in her lap was the homework she tried desperately to comprehend, hoping it would take her mind off the day’s events.
The physical exertion of the running, weights, and martial arts training that she, Dillan and Peter led for the school’s large teams of room responders had not been strenuous enough to shake the feelings of inadequacy that always came with taking fire during an intrusion drill. She shamed herself for rushing the scene and not checking her field of fire before engaging. Somewhere in her experiences Chelsea felt there was an answer that would solve this problem for her, but after almost two years of training and exercises she feared never finding it. Even more terrifying was the thought that, should Middleton High ever be invaded, she would find herself covered with more than paint from injuries that wounded more than just her pride.
Physics was helping a little. So much of her concentration was needed to comprehend the subject matter and complete the mathematics that she found she had none left for her worries. She buried herself in the notes & text, pencil flying across the page completing complex problems almost on its own, and was fully absorbed in the science with only a hint of outside distraction.
Also helping keep her focused was the rhythmic smack of leather against leather coming from the weight room a few yards away where Dillan worked a heavy bag. His regular routine was to work the bag for a half our or so after the rest of the responder team had left. It gave him time to think and plan on top of keeping him in the best form he could be in. Chelsea didn’t mind waiting, it gave her time to study in peace and quiet before going home to her family.
For a moment Chelsea’s attention drifted away from the laws of thermodynamics and in her mind she could see Dillan’s chest exposed in relief by the sweat dampened t-shirt he always wore when pummeling the bag. As the sound of his hands landing punches with a tap-tapping noise filled her ears she found she could close her eyes and feel the ripple of his muscles in her fingertips and smell the tangy scent of his sweaty body even though he was in the next room. As her breath quickened and her pulse raced the sound came to a sudden end and when she opened her eyes Dillan’s adolescent, but very masculine, form was standing beside the trampoline where he was looking at her with adoring eyes.
“You through studying? I want to hit the showers and get home.”
Chelsea’s skin began to thrill with the same waves of tingling sensation she always felt before entering a room during a drill. She looked Dillan straight in the eyes and behind them saw a passion that she knew very well. After a brief second Chelsea spoke, “I think I have a better idea, let’s go up to the matt loft over the weight room.”
Her not-so-coy smile and a seductive wink of her eye told Dillan exactly what was on her mind, causing him to smile as well, “I suppose. I saw Coach Rentz leave about ten minutes ago. Still, we’ll have to be quick.”
Chelsea closed the notebook containing her homework and stacked her study materials neatly on the trampoline, bounding down into her lover’s arms. They embraced briefly then Chelsea led the way, skipping lightly. Dillan watched as her muscular posterior bounced seductively beneath the tight workout shorts she always wore when training. In a mater of seconds she was up the ladder at the end of the weight room to the loft where old exercise and wrestling mats were stored. As Dillan crested the top, Chelsea turned her backside against the edge of a pile of mats that came up to the creases at the top of her thighs and gave Dillan the most seductive of stares.
Unable to contain himself, Dillan crossed the small space, removing his workout gloves and sweaty t-shirt as he approached. Chelsea grabbed her own shirt at the hem and lifted it over her head, taking the purple sports bra she wore underneath with it. Her rounded breasts bounced slightly as they came to rest on her muscular chest. Dillan was captivated by their perfect shape and firmness and was so caught up by their sudden appearance that he had to stop and admire them for a second.
“Come on D, we can’t take our time. The janitor might come in here.”
“Wow!” Dillan exclaimed as he placed his hands on Chelsea’s rounded hips and slowly pushed her body forming shorts down her legs, “What’s got you so hot this afternoon?”
“Can’t a girl just want it every now and then?” she returned with her fake coyness. Dillan laughed lightly and kissed the tanned nape of her neck, working his way down slowly to her breasts as he finished removing the remainder of her clothing. Almost in desperation Chelsea pushed Dillan’s loose fitting shorts off his hips and let them fall to the floor, revealing his very hard erection. With a strong, passionate kiss Chelsea pulled her lover to her as his hand came up to her firm, ample bosom and the warm skin of his thighs brushed on the inside of her spread legs. Dillan paused at the last minute, loving the feel of her folds lapping and gently pulling at the tip of his pole, trying to draw him in.
Chelsea broke their prolonged kiss, “Give it to me D, please.”
Taken only a little aback by her unusual, but not unheard of assertiveness, Dillan looked deeply into Chelsea’s eyes and kissed her one more time. The two made forceful, driven love against the stack of gym mats, trying to be as quiet as possible and only partially succeeding.
In the aftermath of their love they held each other’s sweat covered flesh and said nothing as their heart rates returned to normal and their baited breathing calmed. In a matter of minutes they were laying peacefully in each other’s arms, regardless of neither the time nor the fact that they should be leaving their secret spot and heading for home.
Lost in their silent contemplation, Dillan suddenly gave voice to realization, “It’s the drills. You are always hot like this after we have a drill.”
Chelsea knew he was right, and she knew why, “Yes,” she almost whispered.
Dillan raised himself up to look at her, “Why?”
Chelsea averted her eyes from his gaze, “I can’t get it right D. No matter what I do. If I’m not getting clipped in the shoulder I’m taking one in the tit. If we ever have to do this for real I am terrified that I still won’t get it right. I can do so much, AP classes, ASB secretary, swim team, honor roll, but I can’t seem to clear a room without it clearing me. It makes me feel worthless, and this, with you, makes me feel whole again.”
Dillan was amazed at her frankness and could feel his love for her swell within him, “Don’t be so hard on yourself Chelsea. You do great in there, you are a better shot than me…”
Chelsea interrupted, “No, I missed one today.”
Dillan strengthened his embrace, “We all miss one sometimes Chel, and you’ve only been hit by one really bad shot and that was at the beginning of last year. You are so much better now than you were then. Today was a fluke.”
Dillan’s words were completing the healing she knew she needed. He could see the change in her eyes and kissed her deeply, then continued, “Besides, there hasn’t been an intrusion at Middleton in the ten years since the responder program was started.”
Chelsea’s mood changed briefly but drastically, “South Semer was attacked last year. Their junior responder and two room responders were killed in the firefight.”
Dillan frowned at his beloved, “Now you are just borrowing worries. There’s no need for that. You have this under control and, next year, when you are leader, the team will be even better than it is toady.”
“If I can keep myself from getting shot.” She said with a frown.
Dillan kissed her forehead in consolation, “You will be fine. Now come on, we have to get showered and home or our folks will wonder where we are.”
Chelsea grabbed Dillan’s wrist as he stood and looked him in the eyes once again, “I love you, D”
Dillan smiled broadly and warmly, “I love you too. Now, come on, we have to get going.”

Chelsea, Dillan and Peter sat in the lunch room together the next afternoon discussing the previous day’s operation.
Peter took a long pull off of his bottle of soda and spoke in a slightly hushed tone, “Did you see Kim Hale after the drill yesterday. She was really broken up.”
Dillan didn’t even look up from where he was eating, “Peter, she took six rounds in the chest during the exchange. If that had been for real she would be dead. Have a little compassion. The fact that we have to do these types of exercises at all is hard enough for some to handle without having the idea of your own death thrown in your face like that. Give her a break.”
Peter looked wounded, “I wasn’t making fun of her. I was just bringing it up because her parents were in Principal Gillard’s office this morning screaming about the Intrusion Response Team and demanding we stop the drills.”
Chelsea shook her head and fixed a strong gaze on their underclassman teammate, “What would they rather we do, just let anyone who wants to take hostages in our school? It’s to the point anymore where that happens almost once a week somewhere in the country and even without us it always ends in death. The only way to stop them from coming is to be prepared to stop them when they come. Our presence is enough to deter most, especially anyone here, from trying anything simply because they know we will put up a fight if they do.
“You see our volunteer intruders after a drill; those guys are fucked up even with the non-lethal loads we use. It takes guts to walk into that room with a paintball gun knowing that you will be taking live fire from our weapons, but they do it because showing what will happen makes anyone who might cause trouble think twice about it”
Dillan nodded in agreement, “Most school invaders are looking for a quick power trip or fifteen minutes of fame. If they think they have to fight for it they stay away. We keep out the losers and the wannabes just by being here. The really dangerous ones; the psychos with a grudge may still be a threat but, when it comes to them, we are here for defense because without us they just kill whomever they like.”
Peter was feeling his inexperience. There seemed such a convoluted web of good and bad that surrounded their work at the school that he was still trying to make sense of it all. Some students revered them as heroes; others hated them because the IRT served as a reminder that youth is not at all immortal and the world is a violent place from which even their school was no safe haven. He had tried out for the sophomore position on the team based exclusively on his martial arts ability and had not expected to be chosen. The past eight months had been hard mental and physical work that regularly drove him nearly to insanity and had cost more than a little sleep. Now, coming up on being the junior member of the team, he felt he was still ill prepared for the mental demands of the IRT.
Dillan saw the shadow of self doubt forming on Peter’s brow and clasped him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry about it Peter. It’s a tough nut to crack and I’m not certain there is a right, or even a best answer. I do know that I believe in why were are here and think that this is the best we can do to keep everyone as safe as possible.”
The three were just standing to bus their dishes when several loud bangs, like small explosions, came from one of the hallways feeding the high school commons. Students shrieked and screamed and ran from the hall filling the lunchroom with a stampede of frightened teenagers. At once all three of their the IRT pagers beeped loudly and flashed “RM 2243 – NOT A DRILL” over and over again. Dillan looked up at his team members and saw both of their faces were drained of color until only a ghostly pallor remained.
Reacting like the combat leader he had been trained to be, Dillan snapped his friends out of their panicked reverie, “Forty-Five seconds you two. Gear up and meet me at the band department end of the science hallway. MOVE!”
Reacting on the instincts instilled by their training all three bolted from the commons to the IRT equipment lockers that held their weapons and gear. The lockers had been placed in different locations around the core of the school to help provide equal response coverage, but ironically this proved more a hindrance in their current situation as each ran off in a separate direction.
Forty-five seconds later, the three armor clad teenagers were standing at the end of the science corridor being pelted by water from the sprinkler system. The hall before them was still filled with smoke and flames, making it impossible to get through. Half of the classrooms had been empty for lunch and from what the team could see the explosions had come from those empty rooms and created a field of debris that isolated one full classroom halfway down the corridor.
Dillan’s attention was focused and his mind clear, “2243 is an interior room. We can’t get in this way so we are going to have to go in through the science storage rooms.” Dillan punctuated his statement by pointing to the pass-card protected door in an adjacent hallway.
Chelsea was trying with all of her will to stem the fear within her, “How many intruders?”
Dillan glanced at the display on his wrist, “Looks like three, twenty students in the class, eight responders.” He moved quickly to the storage room door and entered using his universal passkey with Chelsea and Peter on his heels, “The plan for the science wing calls for them to wait for our entry before attempting to overpower the intruders. We’ve only practiced insertion from the hall side, so we are going to have to adjust a little to make this work.”
Both of his companions nodded in acknowledgement. The science storage room was a long catacomb of shelves, drawers, and cabinets containing everything from glassware to dangerous chemicals. The back walls of the rooms on both sides of the storage area were glass from the countertop to the ceiling so teachers could observe the class while retrieving supplies. As the IRT approached the rear entry to room 2243 there was an eruption of gunfire followed by muffled screaming from the students in the captured class. More gunshots blew out the glass in the rear door.
Dillan, Chelsea and Peter kneeled low behind the storage room counter and, with the glass broken out of the door, could hear one of the intruders speaking clearly, “This little whore decided she wanted to throw herself at me and my buddies here then cry rape when her mommy found stains in her pretty cotton panties. Well, now all of you are going to pay. I’m not going back to prison! I’d rather die and leave little Dierdre here to blame herself for all of your deaths!”
Dillan braved a look over the counter and could see that the intruder speaking was an older man, probably in his forties, and he had Dierdre Werner by the hair holding a gun to her temple. The other two flanked the class full of students at the sides where they had turned on the hood vents over the classroom lab space.
“Shit!” Dillan swore.
“What’s up?” Chelsea inquired.
“The hood vents are on. We won’t be able to use the smoke bombs, they’ll clear too quickly.”
Peter smiled, “I brought flash-bangs also.”
Dillan furrowed his brow with worry and shook his head, “There is no way to know what chemicals are in there and the students are too close together. No dice. We are going to have to use the broken glass in the door to our advantage. Chel, you stage at the handle, Peter and I will run a pass on the opening and put the flankers down. One burst each then throw the door open, enter, and take down the leader. Got it?”
Chelsea was filled with confidence, the adrenaline in her veins cleansing her mind of any remaining fear, “Got it!” She returned with a nod. In a crouch Chelsea bolted for the door handle and grabbed it fast, signaling her partners to start the assault.
Dillan and Peter sprung upright and moved quickly passed the hole in the room’s rear door. Dillan’s burst went wide catching his target once in the arm. It flung the man’s gun from his hand but did not incapacitate him.
Peter moved in synch with Dillan, back to back and facing forty-five degrees askew, opening up on his target as soon as the shot was clear. All three rounds found purchase in the older man’s chest and he dropped to the floor, rendered unconscious by the non-lethal rounds.
On cue Chelsea threw the door open and fired her three shots in single fire mode, striking the leader in the head and neck, then inadvertently hitting Dierdre in the shoulder. It was enough to drop the two of them but only the intruder was rendered unconscious.
With a burst of confidence driven speed Chelsea exploded through the door and whirled around to her flank side, scanning for the gunmen whom Dillan failed to fell. As she brought her sights to bear on the man’s last location he popped up from behind a desk a few feet to the right of where she had anticipated. Shots erupted from the muzzle of his weapon, unleashing a barrage of bullets in Chelsea’s direction.
Two rounds punched forcibly into the chest of Chelsea’s armor, throwing her back against the cabinets at the back of the classroom. She didn’t hear Dillan scream as he threw himself towards her, and could only watch helplessly as he leapt into her field of view, placing himself between her and the gunman. Before either of them knew what was happening two bullets tore into Dillan’s right cheek and erupted out the back of his head, spraying Chelsea and the window behind her with a thick red coating of pulverized flesh and bone. With a dull thump Dillan fell lifeless at her feet and was soon surrounded by an unbelievably large pool of blood.
Chelsea stood frozen with despair. A scream of primal rage and sadness poured from her as she unloaded the remainder of her magazine at the final gunman, dropping him where he stood.
Discarding her empty weapon Chelsea dropped to Dillan’s side, lifting him off the floor and running her hands through what remained of his hair. She stared in disbelief as they came away stained crimson and coated in tissue. One of his once beautiful eyes was torn away and the other had been ruptured beyond recognition. There was nothing left of the simple beauty of his features nor the vibrance of his being.
Tears welled in Chelsea’s eyes and a ringing buzz started in her ears. At first the noise was loud but it quickly became deafening, overpowering all her conscious thoughts and divorcing her of reason. With cheeks damp from weeping eyes and tormented sounds of sorrow coming from the rescued students all around her, Chelsea stood and crossed to the nearest gunman. Her mind had gone blank, her senses not comprehending what was going on around her, everything was focused on a single purpose.
As Chelsea walked she stepped over the bodies of three other students killed by the intruders but paid them no mind, seemingly oblivious to the remainder of the horrible massacre that had taken place around her. With the ringing buzz still overpowering the ability to think Chelsea reached down to the unconscious gunman’s hand and took his automatic weapon. With no expression on her face Chelsea fired a single round through forehead of the fallen intruder.
“What the fuck are you doing Chelsea!?” Peter screamed, leveling his own weapon at the young girl.
“They killed him. They killed him. They killed him.” Was all Chelsea could say as she walked to the front of the class where the leader of the enemy group lay dazed with Dierdre Werner crying at his side. She jumped and began to scream when Chelsea fired a second round, killing the incapacitated man.
Chelsea turned for the third intruder and Peter opened fire. The entire burst of three struck Chelsea in the back side of her shoulder, bouncing off the advanced armor plating. The force of the blows sent Chelsea reeling for the wall, but did not drop her, nor deter her from her purpose. The final man was visible, lying on the floor several feet in front of where Chelsea stood briefly dazed against the wall. She once again opened fire, killing the downed man. In response Peter shot once again. This time Chelsea’s back was turned completely and all of the rounds impacted the armor, doing nothing more than causing her to stumble.
With her footing regained Chelsea returned to the desk at the front of the class where Dierdre was still screaming uncontrollably. She brought the barrel of the gun up and placed it firmly against the other girl’s forehead. Unable to scream any harder and afraid beyond her worst of nightmares, Dierdre began to plead with Chelsea, “Please no Chelsea! Please no Chelsea!” through her choking sobs.
“They killed him because of YOU!” she bellowed. With the intruders dead the ringing sound had subsided somewhat, but Chelsea felt no more satiated in her lust for vengeance. The love of her life was dead and, if nothing could bring him back, then she was going to destroy everyone responsible.
“NO CHELSEA!” Dierdre screamed at the armed student, “I swear Chelsea, they raped me. They threatened to do this if I went to the police, but I didn’t think they would do it. God Chelsea, I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I DIDN’T KNOW!” Dierdre screamed.
Chelsea was distracted, rationality was returning, and she hesitated a brief second while pulling the gun away from Dierdre’s head. As she did Peter took advantage of the lapse in Chelsea’s tirade to fire a single round at the back of her neck. It struck with accuracy Peter didn’t think he was capable of and Chelsea fell to the ground unconscious.

The handcuffs were uncomfortably tight on Chelsea’s wrists and the plastic formed seat provided no appeasement regardless of its apparent design to do so. She stared blankly at the headrest at the top of the front seat as her mind echoed over and over again, “He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.” The entire incident was a blur in her mind and the only clear image Chelsea could muster was that of bullets completely destroying the face she had always found so handsome.
Chelsea didn’t remember killing the intruders, almost killing Dierdre Werner, or anything thereafter. She had vague recollections of her arrest, and hearing the police call the whole thing tragic. The classmates that gathered around outside the school stared at Chelsea through the glass of the patrol car window with a combination of awe and fear that went completely un-noticed by the catatonic teenager. She was incapable of caring about their opinions, incapable of contemplating the consequences of her actions, incapable of thinking beyond the moment or voiding her mind of the dreadful thoughts that rung incessantly where only she could hear. Dillan was gone, he was never coming back, and Chelsea wished there had never been any such thing as the IRT.

I suppose we all have our genres we enjoy and genres we enjoy less. I'm not sure I can be fair because fantasy fiction isn't a genre that I can fully relate to, but that said, I think there are some basic "writing 101" problems with the piece, regardless of the genre.

I think you have to ask yourself, what world are you trying to create here? Fantasy and science fiction writing obviously is not based on the real world; but the fantasy world these genres create should nevertheless be logical. Usually, fantasy fiction takes a world that is like the real world and then adds one or two fantasy elements and asks what is the logical way these fantasy elements play out?

I'm somewhat lost by the basic premise here. You seem to be proposing that in some alternate universe, Columbine type massacres are common and high school students are themselves responsible for SWAT type responses to such massacres or attempted massacres. Why would that be? If there are teachers (it's high school), why aren't there cops and security guards? Why do the student response teams have non lethal weapons to defend against real weapons? How is it that Chelsea has a lethal weapon to kill the intruders, but Peter has a non-lethal weapon? It's possible to construct a logical backstory to explain these things, but it's not there now.

I also think the story needs a consistent point of view (pov). A story like this can be omniscient pov or it can be close third person pov; presently, however, it shifts from close third to close third. In the language of "writing workshop 101," that means you have pov violations. Pov violations tend to throw readers out of the story.

Having a consistent pov would also help you tailor the language to the character, from whose perspective the story is being seen. It might also help you avoid the use of passive voice, which is pretty pervasive here for an action adventure story.

I suppose that this could be the start of an interesting YA story for kids who like paint ball and computer games, so I hope you don't think I'm dismissing it. But I do think it would help a lot if you look into some writing guides that would help with the story telling technique.

or what's next for the story?

The story was a writing exercise for me that just turned out well (imho anyways). I heard a debate on NPR some time ago about teaching kids to resist intruders in schools so I took it to the next level and wrote a brief story about it. There were good arguments on either side, but this hyperbolization of the debate was intended to be more con than pro.

The inteded audience is actually about what you said in your last post, young adult sci-fi fans. That's pretty much the target of eveything I write (I've written a full book, parts of a couple more, lots of stories, poetry....), though my long fiction has enough social, political, and economic themes that I think it has an older adult appeal as well.

I'm not sure that anything really follows the story directly, though I did like your suggestion of filling it out with some back story, maybe regarding what brought the IRT into the schools finally or what moved the 3 main characters to sign up, that kind of thing. If anyone ever exhibited actual market interest in the story idea, I thought it could be adapted into a decent action-drama movie script pretty well with a little more character development, backstories (as you suggested), maybe additional conflict with the student body.

I really appreciated your comments, though I am not sure how to fix the floating 3p problem you describe. My intention was to cover all 3 main characters' points of view, and I am not 100% sure how I failed in that regard.

This is the kind of feedback I have been starved for. Sending stories out blind to magazines and publishers gets you nothing in the way of good literary critique and all my friends just say "wow, great story" with little input on composition or style. So, again, thank you very much for your input.