Read Online Delivered from Evil: True Stories of Ordinary People Who Faced Monstrous Mass Killers and Survived by Ron Franscell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Franscell
Tags: True Crime
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FROM AN OFFICE IN ATLANTAâS UPSCALE BUCKHEAD DISTRICT WHILE POLICE CROUCH BEHIND A VAN AFTER MARK BARTON OPENED FIRE IN TWO STOCK-TRADING FIRMS.
Associated Press
ONLOOKERS AND MEDIA RUSHED TO THE SCENE OF MARK BARTONâS RAMPAGE IN THE BUCKHEAD DISTRICT, BUT THE ANGRY DAY-TRADER WAS ALREADY LONG GONE WHEN THE NEWS BROKE.
Getty Images
Blood sprayed on the walls, the windows, the floor. Barton stood so close to many of his victims that he, too, was covered in their blood, but he was calm, even ghoulishly jovial.
âI certainly hope this doesnât ruin your trading day!â Barton hollered as he fired.
The gravely wounded Doonan knew he could never overpower the massive Barton, who outweighed him by eighty pounds and was on a fanatical mission. Instead, he plotted his escape through a conference room door and away from the building to get help. He gathered his waning strength and rose to his feet,holding his stomach wound, blood spilling out of his gut shot through his fingers. Suddenly, Barton was standing in the office doorway, his back to Brent, still spraying the bloodied trading floor with bullets.
What do I do now? Lie back down and play dead? Make a run for it?
âI certainly hope this doesnât ruin your trading
day!â Barton hollered as he fired.
The choice was made for him.
At that moment, Brent watched Barton shoot a runner in the back, then raise his gun for an easier shot at a woman who had no place to run. Without thinking, Brent lunged through the door and shoulder-blocked Barton in the back. His shot barely missed the woman, but Barton regained his balance and fired twice at Brent, who was now running toward a new escape. One bullet hit his left arm and the other struck under his left shoulder blade, exploding out through the left side of his chest, but Brent was still on his feet and, inexplicably, Barton didnât pursue him, perhaps thinking Brentânow shot four timesâwould slink off and die like a wounded animal.
Brent reached the exterior hallway, where gun smoke hung in a fluorescent haze. He pinned one injured arm against the trickling hole in his belly as the other hung slack at his side, useless. He looked back.
Where is Mark?
Rapidly losing strength, he felt his way along the white walls, smearing a bloody trail as he struggled toward the door at the end of the fifty-foot hall, which was suddenly longer than he remembered. The stairwell door might as well have been a mile, a horrifying funhouse illusion in the distance.
He couldnât feel his legs, but Brent fled as fast as his wounds and flagging adrenaline would let himâso briskly that one of his shoes flew offâbut time and space were out of sync. A monster lurked somewhere behind him, but he felt trapped in a phantasmic half-speed warp, unable to move quickly enough to save himself. Seconds elongated into hours â¦every inch felt like a thousand miles â¦sanctuary grew more distant as the color drained from the walls, the floor, the blood.
Out of the gray light, another door miraculously appeared. The service elevator. Brent used every ounce of his strength to push through a heavy door into the elevatorâs small vestibule and began to prod the button in an urgent frenzy. He heard the distant drone of the plodding car somewhere, and he glanced back at the door expecting to see Barton coming to finish him off.
The sluggish elevator continued to hum, unhurried. Brent sunk to his knees and tried in vain to pry the elevator doors open.
âCome on!â he seethed under his breath. âCome on!â
In that moment, death touched him. He felt cold and doomed.
This is it. Iâm going to die in this little box and nobody will ever know until itâs too late
.
He dragged himself to the big vestibule door again to peek down the hall to see whether he had any time left. A panicked woman was running down the narrow hallway, and Brent began to motion her toward the modest
Associated Press
ONLOOKERS AND MEDIA RUSHED TO THE SCENE OF MARK BARTONâS RAMPAGE IN THE BUCKHEAD DISTRICT, BUT THE ANGRY DAY-TRADER WAS ALREADY LONG GONE WHEN THE NEWS BROKE.
Getty Images
Blood sprayed on the walls, the windows, the floor. Barton stood so close to many of his victims that he, too, was covered in their blood, but he was calm, even ghoulishly jovial.
âI certainly hope this doesnât ruin your trading day!â Barton hollered as he fired.
The gravely wounded Doonan knew he could never overpower the massive Barton, who outweighed him by eighty pounds and was on a fanatical mission. Instead, he plotted his escape through a conference room door and away from the building to get help. He gathered his waning strength and rose to his feet,holding his stomach wound, blood spilling out of his gut shot through his fingers. Suddenly, Barton was standing in the office doorway, his back to Brent, still spraying the bloodied trading floor with bullets.
What do I do now? Lie back down and play dead? Make a run for it?
âI certainly hope this doesnât ruin your trading
day!â Barton hollered as he fired.
The choice was made for him.
At that moment, Brent watched Barton shoot a runner in the back, then raise his gun for an easier shot at a woman who had no place to run. Without thinking, Brent lunged through the door and shoulder-blocked Barton in the back. His shot barely missed the woman, but Barton regained his balance and fired twice at Brent, who was now running toward a new escape. One bullet hit his left arm and the other struck under his left shoulder blade, exploding out through the left side of his chest, but Brent was still on his feet and, inexplicably, Barton didnât pursue him, perhaps thinking Brentânow shot four timesâwould slink off and die like a wounded animal.
Brent reached the exterior hallway, where gun smoke hung in a fluorescent haze. He pinned one injured arm against the trickling hole in his belly as the other hung slack at his side, useless. He looked back.
Where is Mark?
Rapidly losing strength, he felt his way along the white walls, smearing a bloody trail as he struggled toward the door at the end of the fifty-foot hall, which was suddenly longer than he remembered. The stairwell door might as well have been a mile, a horrifying funhouse illusion in the distance.
He couldnât feel his legs, but Brent fled as fast as his wounds and flagging adrenaline would let himâso briskly that one of his shoes flew offâbut time and space were out of sync. A monster lurked somewhere behind him, but he felt trapped in a phantasmic half-speed warp, unable to move quickly enough to save himself. Seconds elongated into hours â¦every inch felt like a thousand miles â¦sanctuary grew more distant as the color drained from the walls, the floor, the blood.
Out of the gray light, another door miraculously appeared. The service elevator. Brent used every ounce of his strength to push through a heavy door into the elevatorâs small vestibule and began to prod the button in an urgent frenzy. He heard the distant drone of the plodding car somewhere, and he glanced back at the door expecting to see Barton coming to finish him off.
The sluggish elevator continued to hum, unhurried. Brent sunk to his knees and tried in vain to pry the elevator doors open.
âCome on!â he seethed under his breath. âCome on!â
In that moment, death touched him. He felt cold and doomed.
This is it. Iâm going to die in this little box and nobody will ever know until itâs too late
.
He dragged himself to the big vestibule door again to peek down the hall to see whether he had any time left. A panicked woman was running down the narrow hallway, and Brent began to motion her toward the modest
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