3:57 P.M.
The fire alarm starts shrilling overhead as Miranda runs past the Shoe Mill. The sound partially masks the screams behind her.
Laden with bags, shoppers are coming out of the stores. Most of them don’t seem to be in any hurry. They’re acting like it’s a drill, like it won’t make any difference if they ignore it. Then a man in a tan sweater barrels into the hall. His face is pale, his mouth and eyes wide. His fingers are clamped around his biceps, where the fabric is soaked with blood.
People look in the direction he came from, toward the food court. Miranda risks a glance over her shoulder. It’s rapidly emptying out. In the middle of all the tables and chairs, a woman wearing a red scarf jumps out from behind the janitor’s cart, where she had been hiding. Screaming, she runs toward the corridor where Miranda and the others are.
She doesn’t make it.
The shoppers around Miranda begin to panic. They scream, swear, drop their packages, call out each other’s names and to God.
And as Miranda pushes past them, they surge toward the exit doors.