Is this a good story start??? HELP NEEDED.?

so, i've been starting to write a story, is this a good start, does it make you want to read on?Any feedback and advice?? thanks :) (It's referring to the 9/11 attack possibly)

Gun to the head. Bullet through the brain.
Desert Eagle to the chest. It darted through the fragile cage.
The jagged chains around my wrists acted like quicksand. Like a fish out of water, I was helpless. Like a bat, I was blind. The Gun sounded again. The girl’s screams came to a halt. Vile, vicious and impassive. The outcast clearly was not a people-person. A prayer was requested, a tear was shed. Then, silence. Pure silence. A shot, another, and another. Fumbling, yelling and clanking, followed by another shot pierced my ear drums like a pin to a balloon. What seemed like years, gone, in seconds. A scream took on the form of a cry for help. I could vaguely hear what seemed like a fast, strong panting noise. It was familiar. The chains dropped, yet, not mine, immediately pursued by a faint dripping.

The previously white, breath filled, moist towel was lifted. The light stabbed me, vigorously as a spear would a mammoth. While the mother figure had gone, her young were helpless. Blood, squirting vessels and an old, varnished cassette was all that was in my immediate sight. As the light and my vision collided and merged, I could map out the room. I focused my eyes left. There, my father lay, surrounded by a pool of nose-straining blood. He coughed, choked and wept until he had but a breath left.
“Son?” he muttered
“I’m here Jack” I gasped
“Are- are you alright?”
“I’m fine” I lied, “but you’re hurt”
“It’s… they’ve-”
“What going on?”
“I’ll… explain later” he cried as he threw his lifeless arms against the cold, damp tiles and began to drag his body in my direction. I couldn’t acknowledge the temperature, it was not important now. All that mattered was the last unique minutes that were left of our prized lives. My father managed to push aside the bodies around him that were blocking his path.
“Where’s the shooter?” I asked as the figure of my father grew near
“Gone.” He stated
“I shot him”.
I did not reply.

With his fingers hanging on by threads, he still forced open the chains around my wrists. I examined my grip as my father got to his feet. I swivelled my wrists around whilst my father used his shirt to wrap up his wounds. I had somehow lost a shoe. This confused me as the remaining shoe I had wasn’t mine. The deceased foreigner was a maniac. The only exit was years away. Only a meter in distance yet, the amount of strength needed to get to it and destroy the locks made it utterly impossible. My father, now impersonating a jack-in-the-box in reverse, clambered to his feet once again.
“Josh, we have to leave.” Gasped my father
“Your mother is dead, Josh.”
I thought before replying. I pleaded to him, this time addressing him as ‘Dad’. I had never referred to my father as that fatal three letter word. Ever. This meant a lot to my father. His facial features sank and a tear broke free from its duct. He tried to hide his emotions as he relished being masculine.

“Joshua, we MUST leave. It won’t be long until the attack”


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