My Room, My Home, Pincian Region, The Nation of Capitol; my personal computer
Subject: We continue our story...
Password Protected: Yes
Zeimlich raised his hands in the air and said nothing.
With myself caught in the middle of the cross range I dropped flat to the ground in the tall, damp grass, Welsche was well-hidden behind the bumper-end of the vehicle with the driver and the Organ not far from where I ducked shaking. The other commuters were a good five meters behind me, easily outlined in the bushels on the roadside. I had no doubt they scattered in fear at the sound of the click.
On the other hand, Zeimlich was at the front line, unarmed and facing a gunman. What chance did a med student have against crook?
"Zan, heads up!" Welsche announced.
Slamming the entire left side of his body downward, Zeimlich rounded his leg behind the crook's, toppled him over, with their knees locked and with his in full control of their balance. Both the assailant and the med student hit the muddy ground.
Inhaling the muck for a moment, I felt my organs and my spine instantly freeze when my line of site hit that of the crook's yellow eyes and jaundice grimace. Eying the 45-caliber gun that was tossed aside a moment ago, he went to seize for it when a small ball of white material landed splat next to the weapon. Instantly it fumed as the man cackled, as though to hide some under confident ego.
The moment he grabbed his weapon, the sodium exploded in a haze of burning smoke and white gas. Coughing and blinded, the robber met the ground again, this time by Welsche's quick footwork: the blond young man sprinted from his hiding place, flipped the crook over like a flapjack in great haste and delivered uncountable, heavy fluid-like blows with his soft-shoed lower limbs.
Ancient capoeria from the old south continent? I realized in flash.
"Enough, Welsche!" Zeimlich roared behind Welsche. The light, silver pistol pointed directly at the assailant from the hand of Zeimlich's outstretched arm shook only slightly and ignited with a sharp whistling scream.
The assailant on the ground gagged and fell limp.
"You killed him!" was my first reaction. I scrambled back into the brush, my clothes soiled in muck and my entire body shaking in shock. Ironically, a med student who vowed to save human life had just taken it away from a person.
"Gulp," verbalized Welsche. "There goes my promotion."
"We're sworn to help people! Not put them to sleep!"
Zeimlich then stepped forward and offered the same hand that held the pistol to lift me up. He said, "Actually, miss, we just did put this fellow to sleep. Although..." he turned to Welsche and let the weapon thud to the ground, "I was expecting you to use something from the training manual."
"Put him to sleep?" I mouthed.
"Are you familiar with Benzodiazepine?" Zeimlich asked, smiling. He hoisted me up.
A jolt in my memory bank told me to say, "A nerve-calmer? B-D-Z-P-N?"
"Very good! Well, that dosage should put this guy out for a bit," Zeimlich continued, as though the situation was routine for him. "Well, miss, I'm sorry about your..."
I looked down at myself: boot camp hell broke loose all over my clothing.
Stirring groggily, the knocked-out man grizzly produced a barely audible grumble.