The march to the school auditorium was a procession of pure, unadulterated fear. The two terrorists from the classroom, along with others who had appeared from different corners of the school, barked orders in low, guttural tones. They moved the students and teachers through the now-chaotic hallways, a human tide of terror. Desks were overturned, books were scattered, and the lingering smell of cordite hung in the air. The sound of muffled sobs and the occasional shriek of a child echoed against the lockers.
Kanha moved like a zombie, his legs obeying some distant, automated command. The world was a strange, blurred painting. He could hear the terrified whispers of his classmates, the frantic, hushed reassurance from their teachers, but it was all just noise.
The only thing that felt real was the memory of Bhola. The way his body had crumpled. The bright, terrible crimson spreading on the floor. It was a loop playing in his mind, a scene that his brain refused to process, because to process it would mean admitting it was real.
Bhola, his easy smile and his movie-fueled bravery, was gone. And Kanha felt nothing but a vast, empty space where his heart should have been. The terror of the math test, the guilt of his false powers, the shock of the attack—it had all been a prelude. This, the walk of the living dead, was the aftermath.
The journey seemed to last forever. They were herded down the grand staircase and into the main lobby, where more groups of students and staff were already gathered, guarded by other terrorists. They were all ushered toward the heavy, double doors of the auditorium. The doors were flung open, and the sight within was staggering.
The auditorium, usually a place for school plays and annual functions, was a mausoleum of terror. The massive space, capable of seating hundreds, was now a holding pen. The fluorescent lights from the ceilings cast a harsh, unforgiving glow on the faces of every student and staff member.
The air was thick with the coppery smell of fear, the stale scent of dust, and the subtle, metallic odor of their captors' weapons. The sheer number of terrorists was terrifying. There were at least a dozen of them, their forms silhouetted by the stage lights, their balaclava-clad faces turning in every direction. They moved with a practiced, predatory grace, their assault rifles and handguns held ready. The sight of their high-tech weaponry, sleek and deadly, made the school feel small and fragile.
The students were made to sit on the cold, hard floor of the auditorium, row after row of them, a sea of white shirts and green trousers. The teachers and staff were herded to the back. A little boy, no older than five, began to cry with a piercing, terrified shriek. His mother, a kindergarten teacher, held him close, whispering frantic, soothing words, but he would not stop. Soon, others joined in, their tears a rising chorus of fear.
A man, one of the terrorists who seemed to be in charge, walked to the very edge of the stage. He was a tall man, and his movements were deliberate and commanding. He held a microphone in one hand, the cold metal glinting. He brought it to his lips, and a wave of feedback screeched through the speakers. The students flinched, some covering their ears.
"Silence!" his voice boomed, amplified and distorted. The room fell into a terrified hush. The man's gaze swept over the crowd. Kanha felt his breath hitch, a cold spike of fear in his chest. "We are not here to kill you," the man said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "We are not monsters. We are here to get what we want from your government. You are just a bargaining chip. We will not hurt anyone who follows instructions."
He gestured to one of his men, who moved to the side of the stage and pulled a large projection screen down from the ceiling. He turned on a projector, and a stark black and white image appeared: a photograph of five men, their faces grim and tired. "These are our brothers," the man on the stage said.
"They were unjustly imprisoned. We want them released. We will wait here until our demands are met."
A young teacher in the front row, a woman with a kind face that Kanha knew from the school canteen, bravely spoke up. "Please, there are children here. They're terrified. Can you just let them go?" she pleaded, her voice trembling.
The man on stage simply shook his head, a gesture of finality. "This is not a negotiation. This is a statement of our demands. We will wait. The government has to choose. Their freedom, or your life. Simple."
He handed the microphone to one of his men and pointed to a small, dusty telephone table tucked away in the corner of the stage. The man who had entered the classroom with the gun—the one who had killed Bhola—picked up the telephone. He dialed a number, his fingers moving with a cold, almost detached precision. Everyone in the auditorium watched, a collective, silent breath held in their chests.
After a few moments of static, the man spoke. His voice was no longer a harsh whisper but a calm, professional tone. "This is the leader of the group that has taken control of the St. Mary's School. You know what we want. We are waiting for your response."
The voice that came back from the phone was thin and tinny, but it was clear and authoritative. "Sir, this is Commissioner Sharma. We are aware of your demands. We are requesting that you do not harm any of the hostages. Their lives are our top priority."
The terrorist chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "They are your top priority? Then release our brothers immediately. We are giving you a one-hour deadline. After that, we will begin killing hostages."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, the Commissioner's voice came back, firm but still calm. "Sir, your demand is difficult to grant. We need time to deliberate. Please do not act rashly. We are sending an envoy to negotiate."
The terrorist scoffed. "There will be no negotiation. It is simple. Our brothers for your hostages. Nothing more. Nothing less." He slammed the phone down, ending the call. The click echoed in the silent hall.
Kanha, watching from his spot on the cold floor, felt a bizarre sense of detachment. He felt like he was watching a movie he had seen a hundred times. The dialogue, the tense phone call, the calm demands—it was all so familiar, so cliché. The only difference was the coldness of the floor beneath him, the scent of fear in the air, and the crushing weight in his chest from what had happened. He had thought that his life was a movie, a fantastical story where he was the protagonist with a secret power. He had been so terribly wrong.
The world was just a violent, random, and brutal place, and his power was a figment of his imagination. He was just a boy who had to watch his best friend die for trying to be a hero in a world that didn't care for them.
From outside, a new sound began to filter through the heavy auditorium walls. Sirens. Dozens of them. A loud, rising wail that seemed to grow in volume with every passing second. The terrorists shifted, their heads turning toward the source of the sound.
And then, a booming voice, amplified by a loudspeaker, shattered the air outside.
"Attention inside St. Mary's School. This is the police. We have you surrounded. We urge you to release all the hostages and surrender. We will not harm you if you cooperate."
A low murmur rippled through the auditorium. The teachers looked at each other, their faces filled with a fragile, desperate hope. The students, many of whom had been crying silently, now lifted their heads. The distant clamor of a crowd could be heard too, a low, angry roar. Kanha knew what it was. It was the families, the parents, the media—a world that had now realized what was happening inside these walls.
He looked up at the stage, at the terrorists who were now on high alert, their guns raised. They were professionals, and the world had just become more complicated for them. The waiting game had begun. And Kanha, a ghost of a boy in a room full of ghosts, was left to wait with them, haunted by a death he now knew was not his fault, but that he would carry for the rest of his life.