by Platt, Sean
Peter reached into his bag and pulled out the Colt M1911.
Peter braced himself for that moment, had planned it a million times in his head — the moment between when Nancy saw the gun and when he pulled the trigger. He had steeled himself to be ready, to have the courage to fire if necessary. He’d been worried the whole morning that he’d be unable. That he’d chicken out and maybe run back outside, get in his car, and flee. She’d call the cops, and they’d find him with a self-inflicted shot to the head a few miles from the school, a front-page story quickly relegated to a footnote, an afterthought, his entire life summed up as fate’s cruel joke.
But facing the moment, Peter didn’t flinch.
He squeezed the trigger. The first two shots missed, but the third, fourth, and fifth found Nancy in the head, chest, and left arm.
She dropped the phone, dead. Her body rolled back with the chair.
Screams erupted from nearby offices behind and to either side of the reception desk.
Peter marched toward his daughter’s classroom, taking shots at anyone who dared stand between himself and Claire.
A school resources officer was first to try, aiming a pistol at Peter and yelling for him to put down his gun.
Peter fired three rounds, until he was sure the man was dead. After reloading his Colt, Peter went over, scooped down, and retrieved the officer’s gun and dropped it into his duffel.
He shot as he walked, randomly into offices, not intending to kill anyone or caring if he did. He just wanted to keep them down and from even considering trying to stop him.
He continued his assault.
A man’s voice came over the intercom. “Attention, teachers, this is a lockdown. Make sure your doors are locked. This is not a drill. I repeat … ”
The man never finished.
Peter found him and blew his brains onto the window, skull fragments and brain matter splattering children’s drawings taped to the glass.
Peter kept moving.
As he walked down the main hall, he saw movement through windows. Panicked teachers telling students to get on the floor under their tables.
He passed them, not caring about any classroom except the one he was approaching — Claire’s. Second hall on the right and all the way at the end.
Movement behind him. Running.
Peter turned, firing without looking, not about to be taken by surprise.
A redheaded boy, maybe ten, was running in the opposite direction.
One of Peter’s shots caught him before he could pull the gun away. Poor kid was running away. Probably coming from the bathroom.
Screams were still climbing in volume.
Peter stopped, looked at the boy lying face down in the hall, crying as blood pooled from his chest. He swallowed, some part of him feeling horrible, but another stronger presence ordered him forward. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to get Claire out of school.
Surely, someone had already called the cops.
Peter aimed his gun at the back of the boy’s head, preparing to end his misery.
The trigger caught, jammed.
He tossed the gun aside, reached into his weapon case and pulled out the Colt M4 carbine.
“Please,” the boy cried, struggling to turn and face Peter. “Please, mister. Don’t kill me.”
Peter aimed down the sight, and for a moment was frozen watching the blood pool across the linoleum, unable to think what to do next.
The way the crimson spread reminded him of something he couldn’t remember. Something from another time, or … perhaps another life.
His headache stabbed him hard in the brain.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the pain away.
Peter wanted to grab more pills, but had no seconds to waste.
What the hell was I doing?
He looked down at the kid, forcing his memory.
Oh yeah.
He left the kid to his bleeding, turned on a heel, and kept marching toward Claire’s classroom.
The screams had settled. Peter imagined teachers hushing children as the Big Bad Wolf prowled the halls.
Little pig, little pig, let me in.
Peter reached Claire’s classroom and peeked in through the window in the door’s side.
Dozens of her fourth-graders were huddled under the tables.
What are they doing under their desks? Is there a fire drill?
He couldn’t see Claire, and wasn’t sure where she sat. There were too many kids all wearing the same-colored uniforms, huddled, faces buried.
He looked up and saw the teacher, behind her desk. Her eyes widened.
He tried the doorknob, surprised to find it locked.
Why would they lock the door in the middle of the day?
He vaguely remembered a man’s voice saying something about a lockdown. He was pretty sure his wife had once said they had to keep their doors locked all the time because you never knew when some crazy would come into the school.
He knocked on the door, “Mrs. Kray, it’s me, Mr. Williams. I’m here to pick up Claire.”
Peter could see her fucking around with her damned iPhone, but she didn’t answer.
Why’s she making calls in the middle of class? Doesn’t she have work to do?
Peter knocked louder.
The fucking bitch is ignoring me!
“Goddammit, open the fucking door!” he screamed, smashing his heel on the wood.
Peter looked down and remembered his rifle.
He raised it and took aim at the doorknob, putting five rounds into the fucker until it was gone.
Children screamed.
Why the hell are kids so damned screamy?
He reached into where the knob had been and yanked the door open.
Kids cowered on the floor, crying, which for a moment confused him. Then Peter realized that he was the reason they were crying.
“Don’t worry, kids, I’m not gonna shoot anyone. I’ve just come to pick up my Claire Bear. Claire, honey?”
And then Peter saw her, huddled in the far corner, crying her eyes out, dark pigtails reminding him of her seventh birthday party.
“Come on, honey, it’s time to come home.”
She stayed in her spot, shaking her head, mouth trembling.
“Come on, honey. We don’t have all day.”
“Please, Mr. Williams, leave now,” the teacher said. “Please … ”
He cut her off with three shots. Only one found her fat mouth. But that was enough.
She fell to the ground. Children screamed.
Their cries only added to his headache. Suddenly, there were thirty blades driving through his skull instead of the one.
“Shut up!” He fired at the chalkboard. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
Screams descended to sniffling.
He looked at Claire and smiled. “Come on, honey. Time to go home.” He held out his hand.
Claire stood, slowly, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t want to go, Daddy.”
Goddamn, Josie poisoned her against me. Has her terrified!
“It’s time to go, Claire.”
She walked forward, so damned slow Peter thought she was stuck in mud.
“Come on,” he repeated, lending everything to his smile.
Claire finally reached him and held her shaking hand to his. Then Peter saw the wet spot on her pants.
Jesus Christ, she pissed herself!
Peter tried to bury his surprise. He remembered something the shrinks had said about not making a big deal when a kid pisses themselves, else it could scar them for life.
He closed his hand around her shaking fingers and pulled her along.
“Come on, baby, we’re going to go say goodbye to Mommy.”
**
Peter found Josie’s classroom, peeked inside, and saw his wife huddled on the floor with the other children. He slung the carbine over his shoulder with its strap and clutched Claire’s hand with his left as he held the M4 wi
th his right.
The moment she saw him peering through the window, Josie stood and approached the door. She couldn’t yet see Claire behind him … or his weapon.
“What are you doing here?” she yelled through the window.
“Open the door, Claire!”
Peter wasn’t sure if it was his tone of voice or her doing the math, but judging from Josie’s hand on her open mouth, she just realized that he was the reason for the lockdown.
“What did you do?”
“Open the door; I just want to talk.”
She shook her head no, lips pursed.
He stepped aside so she could see that Claire was with him, then brought the pistol from behind his back.
Josie’s eyes widened.
She opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind her.
“What are you—”
“I just want to talk,” he said, aiming the gun at her.
“What are you doing here? You need to give me Claire and go home before you do something you regret.”
“Too late.”
Josie seemed to notice the duffel, open to a small armory. Perhaps she also saw the rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Oh my God, what did you do?”
“I did what I had to. What you made me do, Josie.”
“What are you talking about?” She tried to step past him, reaching out for Claire.
“No!” He shoved the pistol in her face.
Claire cried out, “Daddy, please. Stop!”
“Don’t worry, honey. Mommy and Daddy just need to talk some things over, and then we’ll go.”
“You’re not going anywhere with her. Not in this state. Why don’t you just give me the guns, Peter?”
“No! I am leaving here with my daughter. There’s nothing you, or anyone else, can do to stop me.”
Peter heard the sound of a door opening behind him. Josie’s eyes went even wider as she shook her head no.
Peter turned to see her lover, Mr. Montgomery, stepping outside with his perfect skin, nice suit, and bright-white teeth.
He turned, aimed his gun at Mr. Perfect.
Montgomery put his hands out, fingers outstretched as if to suggest calm. “Whoa, Peter, what’s going on here?”
“I’ve come to take my daughter back and say goodbye to Josie. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Please, Daddy,” Claire said, “I don’t want to go anywhere.”
He ignored her.
Mr. Perfect tilted his head and lowered his hands. “I know you’re having a rough time, Peter. Why don’t we talk this over, see if we can’t come to some kind of agreement?”
“Who the fuck are you? What the hell does any of this have to do with you? Oh, yeah — YOU’RE FUCKING MY WIFE!”
“Please,” Josie said, “go back in your classroom, Mr. Montgomery.”
Mr. Perfect looked up. “But—”
Something clicked in Peter, seeing the love in his eyes. The kind of look that Peter felt for Josie not too long ago. He wasn’t just fucking her.
Mr. Perfect was in love.
Peter aimed at his head and shot him twice in the face.
There goes those white teeth.
Josie screamed. Claire slipped from Peter’s grip and raced down the hall.
“Claire!” Peter yelled.
His daughter screamed as she ran.
“Come back!” He aimed his pistol — just a shot in the foot to slow her.
He lined up the shot.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, Josie threw herself at Peter, knocking him to the ground, hands on his gun.
“Let go!” He struggled to free himself from Josie’s grip before Claire vanished down the hall or into one of the rooms, disappearing before the police showed up and making it impossible to find her.
“Let go, you bitch!” Peter met Josie’s eyes as they each struggled for control of the gun.
“No,” she said through gritted teeth, using every ounce of her weight and strength to push the gun’s barrel back toward him. Her thumbnail dug into Peter’s trigger finger, pressing back trying to make him release it.
He could feel her hot breath on his face, their struggle bringing the pistol closer to him.
Their eyes locked, and for a moment he flashed back to when they were dating, how many times he’d been lost inside those blue eyes, wondering what she was thinking, and how he’d lived his life so long without her. With a profound sorrow he realized how few times their eyes had met in their last months together, hell their last two years.
He wasn’t sure when the magic died. If it was after he lost the job or before. It just sorta happened. Now Peter realized for what felt like the first time ever she’d never look into his eyes again. Not with anything close to love.
Now there was only fear and hate.
They continued struggling for the gun as he found himself lost in Josie’s eyes, trying to find some shard of the love she’d once felt.
The gun went off.
Her eyes went from hate filled to confused. Her mind tried to make sense of the reality that she’d been shot.
“I’m so sorry.” Peter swallowed, tears filling his eyes.
He wished he could take back the bullet, and wondered how in the hell it had all come to this.
Oh God, oh God.
Peter tried to talk to her, to let her know he was sorry, but Josie’s eyes stayed open, staring into her death.
Hot blood seeped onto his hands, arms, and chest as whatever hope he had of anything — living with Josie, or even with Claire — drained into the void.
It’s over.
He got up.
Dropped the gun.
Looked for Claire, but didn’t see her.
He had to find her. He couldn’t let her live like this, without a mother, and once he killed himself, without a father.
Better to send her to heaven first.
He wouldn’t be going with her — if there was a hell, he’d punched his ticket. But no God would send his baby to hell.
Peter grabbed the rifle and glanced down at the open bag full of weapons. He had enough no matter what the day would bring. He would get his daughter, no matter how many people he had to kill.
“Claire! Come here!”
No response.
He could hear her crying and banging on a door down the hall, around the corner.
“Please, let me in!” she cried.
Peter ran toward her. He had to reach her before she got away. Didn’t she realize that he was the only one who could help her?
He turned the corner as she ducked into the room.
Peter fired his rifle into the slammed door, shots shattering the window and peppering the wood with holes as the bullets tore through and into the classroom.
Kids screamed.
He wasn’t sure if he’d hit them or if they were just unreasonably scared.
He used his rifle’s butt to kick away jagged shards of glass still in the doorframe.
Reached inside and opened the door.
Peter pulled the door open, aimed the gun at a heavyset blonde teacher standing in front of Claire.
“Give her to me.”
“No!”
He pulled the trigger, hitting her with several shots.
She fell on top of Claire, knocking the girl down and pinning her under the corpse.
Kids raced from the classroom.
“Sorry, honey, but this is for the best,” Peter said as he stepped toward her.
Claire screamed, face red, tears streaking her cheeks as she tried to shove the teacher from her body. “No, Daddyyyyy! No, please! Please, Daddyyyyy!”
Peter hated the sound of her crying. It cut through him as if she were still an infant. A shrill pain like nothing else.
The thought of killing his own child was sickening, but it was the right thing — to end her suffering. After this there would only be a horrible life of misery ahead. How could you come back from your father going on a kill
ing spree and ending your mother?
You couldn’t.
He aimed down the rifle at her, closing his eyes. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
A voice came from behind them.
A girl’s voice: “Please, Mr. Williams, you don’t need to do this.”
He spun around, stunned. He pulled the trigger without meaning to, but the bullets sailed straight through the girl.
She looked down, and then up at Peter, seemingly as surprised as him.
“Who … what are you?” he asked, backing away.
The girl looked to be in her early teens. She had long, dark hair and was quite pretty. She was wearing a long, flowing white dress that seemed to radiate some kind of light, even though Peter had never seen anything like it.
“My name is Paola, and I’ve come to save you.”
“There’s no saving me, not after what I’ve done. Please, leave us be.”
“Why? So you can kill your daughter?”
“You don’t know anything!” Peter fired more shots at the girl. Still the bullets sailed through.
“What the fuck are you?”
She must’ve been a delusion, further proof of his mental decay.
“You’re not here,” he said, turning away from the apparition and giving his attention to Claire. She was shaking, lips trembling, begging him not to kill her.
“I’m so sorry, baby. But you’ll be with Mommy. I killed her. Don’t you want to be with Mommy?”
She shook her head no, and her crying turned into a cracked wail of despair as she realized her mother was dead. Her mouth was open, saliva bubbling from her lips.
Peter flashed back to when she was three-years old and had got bitten by the neighbor’s dog. She was rushed to the hospital for stitches on her face.
He looked at the scar turning pink as it did whenever Claire was scared or angry. She wailed, “Please, Daddyyyyy.”
He aimed the rifle, wanting to end her suffering before snuffing his own.
He heard the girl’s voice louder in his mind.
“You will not kill your daughter!”
He turned to her, “Stay out of my head!”
She stepped toward him, but her steps were more of a floating motion.
“This isn’t you,” she said, just inches from his face. “You’ve been infected, and there’s a parasite that is breaking you from the inside. It’s not you, Peter. Please, put the gun down.”