Aishatu was concentrating on reading the words on the card in the glass vitrine and translating them into images in her mind. She had separated herself from her physical environment and found her mental space. She was focused in the moment, drawing in the information in waves.
The commotion that was taking place in the foyer was beyond the rim of her concentration.
The ear-splitting crackling of gunfire made her turn, then drop instinctively to the ground and cover her head with her hands.
Although her mind lagged behind, every nerve in her body recognised the danger, responding with a suddenly, violent rush of adrenaline.
She had not heard gunfire in years.
Risking a peek through her hands, she saw only vitrines and the legs of a few of the other visitors who had also dropped to the floor. A scream and a few cries filled the air.
Aishatu suddenly smelled the scent of burning straw and wood strongly in her nose, almost making her choke. Olfactory memories, she thought. Nothing is burning. You are in Paris. Nothing is on fire. There are only people with guns here.
"Get up! Get up and put your hands where we can see them, all of you!" A man screamed in perfect, accent-less French.
Without thinking, Aishatu began to rise. Her training had taken over as they always said it would if ever things were to get too far out of control. She could trust her training like she could trust her ancestors.
And she did.
There were several men, all of them dressed in black with balaclavas over their faces and heavy boots on their feet. Two or more full-automatic assault rifles hung from their shoulders. Devices were strapped to heavy belts around their waists.
"Get up, if you don't want to die!"
Aishatu Ewaso was the only one standing; the rest lay on the floor whimpering and crying. From her left, she heard someone praying, and the sound of shoes squeaking as someone attempted to move themselves further out of harm's way. Whispering came from somewhere, and moans.
The man standing well in front of the others let off another round of deafening gunfire, making her flinch. Plaster board and stucco rained from the ceiling like snow.
"Get up or we'll kill you all where you lie."
Why don't they? thought Aishatu. Why do they want hostages?
YOU ARE READING
A Visitor to the Museum
Action*Action Short Story* Terrorists storm a Parisian museum taking the twenty startled visitors hostage. One woman refuses to cooperate. A fact the French police can't, or don't want, to believe. When politics, race, history and the War Against Terroris...
