Friday, September 28
Landon
MY FOURTH-PERIOD class was Drama I. My debate teacher had suggested theater as a way to get more comfortable with public speaking. That, and Madison begged me to take the class with her. Her long-term crush, Sophia, was taking it, and Madison wanted my “emotional support.” So there we were.
It was Friday, and the drama teacher, Mr. Finch, was holding auditions in the auditorium for our big class project, a production of A Christmas Carol. Madison and I were sitting in the second row waiting for our turn. And, more importantly, for Sophia’s turn.
The auditorium at The Wall was only about five years old, and it was awesome. There was a curved wooden stage, heavy red velvet curtains, and tiers of cushioned red folding seats like a movie theater. The other students in the class were spread out in the first and second rows. Mr. Finch sat in the center of the first row, watching a freshman girl named Isabelle read for the Ghost of Christmas Present. Since this was the entry-level drama class, there were a lot of freshmen and sophomores, along with us few not-quite-thespian-material upperclassmen.
“I think Sophia is next!” Madison whispered. Sure enough, Sophia, a voluptuous Latina with sassy pigtails, had edged up to the stage steps.
Madison squeezed my hand so hard I said “Ow!” loudly. Mr. Finch gave me a glare over his shoulder.
“Sorry.” Madison made a rueful grimace and sank down in her seat.
“Shhh!” I pointed to the stage and whispered in her ear. “Don’t harsh the magic.”
She snickered.
Isabelle plunged on. “There are some upon this earth of yours who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name—” Cough, cough, cough.
Isabelle’s cough turned into a hacking fit. She covered her mouth with the crook of her arm, her eyes apologetic.
“Take your time,” Mr. Finch said.
Isabelle had a cold. Her voice was scratchy, and she’d been hacking on and off since class began. She tried again. “There are some upon this earth—” Cough, hack, cough.
“All right.” Mr. Finch stood up and turned to face us. “Does anyone have a cough drop they are willing to sacrifice for the sake of Isabelle’s audition?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Finch,” Isabelle said, looking chagrined. She wiped her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve.
No one else said anything, so I raised my hand. “I’ve got cough drops in my locker. Halls Menthol-Lyptus.”
Mr. Finch quirked an eyebrow at me. “And your locker is where?”
“Just around the corner in A-Wing.”
“Then go get them, and hurry, please, Landon. Isabelle, you can read later, once you’ve had a cough drop. Grab the box of Kleenex from the backstage hall and come down, please. Sophia, you’re up next.”
I stood and scooted out of the row. Madison gave me a kissy mouth, which I think meant I was kissing the teacher’s ass. I smirked at her. Any excuse to leave class and stretch my legs was fine by me.
I pushed out the heavy theater door, went down the hall, and turned the corner to A-Wing. Every year, my mom gave me a zippered bag of “emergency supplies” to stash in my locker. It included cough drops, aspirin, Band-Aids, tissues, wet wipes, safety pins, and a few weird things like a can of Ensure. In case the apocalypse hit, presumably. Or I turned eighty-five during third period.
At my locker, I stuffed a handful of cough drops into the front pocket of my jeans. As I shut the door, I became aware of a long, loud sound in the distance. It sounded like a power drill or like…
Like…
Oh shit.
Like gunfire.
The alarm lights on either side of the hall flashed red, and a man’s voice came over the PA.
“Invader in school. Active shooter procedures now in effect. I repeat. Active shooter procedures now in effect. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.”
It was Principal Baylor’s voice, and he sounded rushed, panicky. My mouth went bone-dry and my heart thudded so hard, I thought for a moment it had stopped. I stood by my locker and listened. There was perfect silence.
We’d had an active-shooter drill the second week of school. I knew why there wasn’t an alarm blaring—so we could hear gunfire and identify the shooter’s position. I listened, but I didn’t hear anything. The lights continued to flash red in silent warning. Then it came again, louder now, the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire, like I’d heard in a million video games and TV shows. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
My knees went weak. Oh God. What was I supposed to do?
Avoid, deny, defend. That’s what they’d told us.
Avoid—if you had a clear and obvious exit, take it. Keep your head down and get as far from the school as possible.
Deny—if there was any risk the path out wasn’t clear, shelter in place. Lock the classroom door. Pull the shade. Barricade the door. Then get away from the door area.
Defend—if you couldn’t do either of the above, attack the shooter, preferably in a group.
I wasn’t in a classroom, so I couldn’t barricade inside. My gut reaction was to get out of the school. The front doors were closer, but the gunfire was coming from my left, from the center of the school. I could go right, run down A-Wing, and leave through the emergency exit.
I almost did that. I took one halting step in that direction.
Then I remembered Josiah.
His fourth period was gym, but he currently had a pass due to a faked “sore ankle.” He was supposed to spend the period studying. Which he usually did…
In the cafeteria.
Brian
I WAS in a crappy mood for a Friday. I’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep the night before because my dad had been on a tear, something about the deep state and pedophiles. One of his radio talk shows must have set him off. I’d gone up to my room and played a video game, trying to ignore the whole thing. But even after he went to bed, I was too upset to sleep.
So there I was at school on Friday, feeling like moldy cheese someone had hidden in a dirty gym sock and left to sit in the sun for about a week. We had a big game that night, and I was dragging ass. I decided to skip my fourth-period gym class and go to Lunch A instead of B. I figured I’d hit the cafeteria, load up on carbs and protein, then go take a nap in the nurse’s office. If I could get an hour of shut-eye, I might be able to play ball.
I shot Coach an email about gym class, texted Jake to say I wouldn’t be eating with them, and headed to the cafeteria. As I walked in, a dozen people said “hi” or just stared. I bumped fists with a couple of guys and smirked at the flirting of a few cute girls. I’d noticed an uptick in attention this year, my first year as starting quarterback. It was kind of surreal. It’s not like any of them really knew me.
The cafeteria was a huge room. On the left side were the inbound and outbound openings to the serving line. On the right-hand wall was a mural of team sports, featuring some of the school’s star athletes from the past and the marching band with their red uniforms and gold instruments. There was a water fountain right in the middle of the mural. The wall straight ahead was all glass windows and faced the school’s front walkway. There were tons of tables and chairs, and it was always loud as hell.
I went through the line and got spaghetti, salad, and a banana smoothie. I was rung up by one of the cashiers, a bored-looking older lady in a hairnet, and stepped out into the seating area. I scanned for a quiet table where I could sit alone and scarf my food quickly. Spotting one, I started to cross the room.
And then it all fell apart.
There was a distant noise from the hallway, odd enough to catch my attention. It was a series of pops. It sounded like when I used to pop bubbled packing material as a kid. A second later, the light above the door started flashing red.
Red. With no alarm.
Shooter.
Surely it was a drill. Or a glitch? Like that nuclear warning that happened in Hawaii. It couldn’t be real.
The PA came to life with a static whine. “Invader in school. Active shooter procedures now in effect. I repeat. Active shooter procedures now in effect. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.”
I stood there like a statue while, around me, the room turned into chaos. A chair clattered to the floor as someone near me jumped up. Girls screamed. A guy pushed a smaller kid out of the way as he ran for the hall. I would have dived to catch him, but I was still holding my tray with both hands. The kid hit the floor, scrambled to his feet, and half slid across the linoleum in his hurry to get away.
Meanwhile, my brain was still off-line.
There were more pops in the distance that I now recognized, absolutely, as gunfire. Glass shattered. Screams. They were the kind of screams you never want to hear, the kind that said something had gone terribly, horribly wrong for the screamer.
My stomach fell to my feet, and I was filled with a sense of dread so strong I wobbled. This was really happening. Here, at The Wall. Now. There was a shooter in the building. Bullets were being fired. People were being shot.
I shoved my tray at the nearest table, pushing it so hard it slid and fell off the other side. I needed to do something, move. But what?
Then it struck me, like a one-two punch.
There was a shooter.
And I was in the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was the worst place in the entire fucking school to be. There were no doors that could be locked and barricaded, nothing but a wide opening into the hall. I remembered the active-shooter drill we’d had, but I’d been in a classroom that day. In a classroom, the teacher was supposed to lock the door and barricade it, then we were to get as far away from the door as possible. That’s what we’d practiced.
What the hell were we supposed to do in the cafeteria? Panic clawed at my gut. Everyone was rushing three directions at once. What had they told us to do? Why hadn’t I listened better?
Three words came back to me: Avoid. Deny. Defend.
You were supposed to get to the nearest exit or, failing that, barricade inside a room with a door. I had to get out of this huge, open room.
I headed for the hall. A bunch of kids were already moving in that direction. And maybe not that much time had passed in my deer-in-headlights state, because it seemed like they were all running in slow-mo.
I mapped a route in my head. I wouldn’t go for the front entrance to the school, which was to the left. The shooter was more likely that way. I’d turn right, run down the central hallway to D-Wing. The D-Wing was a quiet hall of classrooms. I’d tear down that hall to the exit at the end. It would be safe outside. And if I couldn’t make it that far, I’d go into a classroom. Assuming I could find one that wasn’t already barricaded.
This flashed through my mind in an instant, more picture than words. I took a few stumbling steps toward the hall. Then the mass of bodies trying to exit collided with people trying to get inside. There was an instant pileup.
A dark-haired kid with glasses who looked about twelve shouted in a high voice, “Two shooters! They’re coming this way!” His face was so white with fear, it chilled me to the bone.
They’re coming this way.
A wave of terror slicked through me as I stood there with no Plan B. The gunfire was louder now—tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. There were gut-curdling screams, a grown man’s screams. A plea. “God help me!” Something large fell and broke. Some part of my brain registered that the gun rounds were fast. Automatic? Semiautomatic? Two shooters. And there I stood, in the middle of a wide-open space.
I was going to die. It was a certainty, cold and blunt, like it had already happened. Me, and everyone else in this crowded cafeteria. We were going to die. There was a heartbeat in which I could almost accept it, when it felt so inevitable there was no point in fighting.
And then something inside me screamed. Please God, no. Not before I’ve even had a chance to live.
I turned to the windows. Kids were beating on the glass, but the windows only slanted open a little at the bottom. One really small kid was trying to squeeze through. I prayed he made it.
I turned to the serving line, but it was jammed with kids already. People were screaming and pushing, and it looked like the people already inside had nowhere to go.
In the dining area, people were turning the large tables onto their sides and ducking behind them. For a moment, I was tempted to join them. But I knew those laminate tabletops wouldn’t stop bullets.
Rat-a-tat-tat. The gunfire was right outside. I was so frightened I wanted to puke. My pulse pounded in my ears. Do something. Anything!
My gaze landed on the water fountain across the room. The wall at the fountain was built out a foot or so, maybe for pipes. And, right above the silver water spigot, the mural showed a girl in a band uniform with flowing blonde hair and a trumpet raised to her lips. My terrified brain latched on to this as a sign, like she was an angel showing me the way.
My Nikes pushed against linoleum, propelling me forward in a half run, half dive. I reached the water fountain and pushed myself tight into the corner furthest from the hallway. The build-out was barely deep enough. If I stood sideways, the shooters might not see me. But if they walked all the way into the room, I was dead.
There was no time to pick another hiding spot. My gaze skimmed over kids huddling behind tables. It was like watching a car wreck in slow-mo.
A breath later the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat was there, loud and horrible. I couldn’t see the hallway or the shooter. I didn’t want to look, only pressed myself back against the wall as hard as I could. But I saw what the guns did. Tables, chairs, the windows—and bodies—jumped and splintered under a rain of invisible bullets. Shrieks and pleas mixed with gunfire and the thwunks and pings of the bullets hitting targets.
The sound was worse than anything I could ever imagine. The tables that had been set up as barriers were riddled with holes. Red spread across the gray linoleum floor.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it all away, willing it to please, please, please stop. Stop hurting them. Please stop hurting them.
I heard bullets hit the wall I was standing behind and the metallic ping as they struck the water fountain. A burning wave of heat in my stomach told me I was going to be sick. My brain managed a stuttered warning.
Get down. Get down, get down, get down.
I slid down in that corner, curling myself into a ball, trying to get as small as possible. My stomach hurt. I tucked my head down, wishing I had a shell I could draw into, like a turtle. But I had no hard shell, only soft flesh and tissue and a fear so deep it was cold and black and heavy, like gravity was sucking me down, like I could die from that alone. My eyes and mouth were hot from the emotion that wanted to be let out—from the screams that demanded to be let out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t make a sound in case they heard me. I choked down those screams, swallowed them. They went down hard, clawing at my insides, like maybe they’d live inside me forever.
I became aware, slowly, that the gunfire had stopped. Silence mocked my ringing ears. Part of me wanted to peek around the fountain and see where the gunmen were. Were they walking farther into the cafeteria? Were they about to see me?
But I couldn’t look. I could not. I couldn’t face what I might see. I didn’t want to see a gun raised, pointing at me. If I was going to die, I didn’t want to see it coming. My heart hammered against my thighs. My ears hurt from the sudden silence, broken only by low groans. I smelled the stale, coppery scent of my breath where my face was pressed against my knees. My gut ached from being clenched so tight.
I think I disappeared inside my head for a bit. I don’t know how much time passed before I became aware again. It was gunfire that woke me up, shooting adrenaline through me with a fresh jolt of terror. But this time the sound was far away. Somewhere else in the building. The shooters had moved on.
There was a feeling of utter relief that was practically euphoric. They’d left, and I was still alive. I’d survived! I opened my eyes slowly and saw the gray sky outside through shattered windows. Cold air touched my face. My vision was dark and swimmy, and I blinked to clear it.
Then I looked around. And the feeling of relief vanished.
The scene in the cafeteria didn’t look real. Tables and chairs had been blown over or back by bullets, but some still stood on their legs, looking strangely normal. Under and all around them were bodies. The ordinary, everyday clothes—hoodies, jeans, tennis shoes, T-shirts—were so wrong. So, so wrong. And, God. There was so much blood.
I became aware of sounds then. Soft sobs came from somewhere to my left. A pile of bodies stirred, like someone was trying to get out from underneath it. At the windows I saw a girl in bloodstained pink pants sitting on the floor, crying and trying to text on her phone. But her hands were shaking so badly, she couldn’t seem to do it.
I had a phone. I should call the police. 911. Tell them to send help. Ambulances. Please.
My hands felt like they didn’t belong to me as I uncurled my body to get to my phone. My fingers were cold and numb. I felt achy and weak. The idea went through my head that I was in shock. I reached for the front pocket of my jeans to get my phone, and it was all wet there. I looked down.
My entire shirt and the top of my jeans were red with blood.
I stared at it. The pain came, sharp and achy, growing like a beast rising to the surface. A gush of blood oozed through the fabric.
Fuck. I’d been shot.