His hand shook, trembling with nervous energy and the weight of the pistol. The sights were lined up on the gunman with an unsteady point of aim. He watched, over his gun sights, as the shooter fired into his friends. The shooter hadn’t spotted him yet.

Everyone he had spotted lay dead or dying with bullet holes seeping crimson streams of lifeblood. The stray bullets had reorganized the office in the style of chaos. Equipment and paperwork were scattered around the floor in shreds. People he knew and worked with every day were sprawled out in impossible poses that only the dead can strike when robbed of all discomfort. Others lay curled and whimpering against the gushing wounds visited upon their flesh.

He crouched near his desk and kept his pistol aimed at the killer. If he got closer, the gunman would see movement and fire. If he fired from this distance, he could miss and expose himself to gunfire.

Terror surged through his mind as the pistol trembled and his eyes teared up. He couldn’t shoot.