by D. J. Molles
There was the roar of an engine.
She saw a black blur out of the corner of her eye, coming in fast. The black Tahoe screeched to a stop behind her, its engine block positioned to provide her with cover.
Kurt grabbed her by the back of the neck and shoved her down behind the front wheel of the Tahoe. “Keep your head down!” His thighs pressed her hunched form against the tire, the heat of the engine like a hot blanket over her face.
He fired rapidly over her head and shouted, “Peel! Peel! Peel!”
I need a fucking gun, Angela thought.
The pain in her belly was now knocking on the door of agony.
Boots on the ground.
Anthony skidded around the front of the truck while Kurt laid cover fire for him. He slid, his knee pads scraping. Came up squatting back on his knees and heels.
“Get her back in the building!” Anthony bellowed.
Something hit the truck. A hard, metal-on-metal thwack!
“Shit!” Kurt ducked below the engine block.
“What about the truck?” Angela managed.
“He’s dead,” Anthony replied. “Now move!”
Kurt hauled her onto her feet and half-dragged, half-pushed her to the doors of the Support Center.
He’s dead, rang in her ears like a language she didn’t understand—until she looked over her shoulder and saw the silhouetted shape of the driver of the Tahoe slumped against the wheel, with ribbons and splatters of dark red across the inside of the windshield.
For you.
Because of you.
Halfway to the building, Angela’s legs gave out again.
She tried to apologize to Kurt, but her breath just came out in ragged gasps. And the shame of physically failing was rapidly washed away in the thundering reality that this was real, this was actually happening, this was no waking nightmare.
This might be the end.
“Abby,” she managed.
The glass doors loomed in front of her.
In their reflection, she watched as Anthony spun and ran to catch up to them. His leg went out from under him, and he staggered.
Angela meant to call his name, but what came out instead was, “Abby…”
They hit the door.
Bullets chased them. Destroyed the glass.
People were in the foyer. Civilians. Wide eyes. Half-crouched postures.
Two guards, running up with pistols drawn.
“Across the way!” Kurt shouted at them. “At the top of the school! Tell command!”
Kurt pushed her behind a large reception desk that was made of concrete and marble and pressed her down into a sitting position.
The marble felt freezing against her back. Angela realized she was shivering fiercely. Her teeth clacking together.
Kurt laid his rifle down and ripped open the IFAK he carried. He looked at the civilians crowding into the atrium area. “Get the fuck behind cover!” he shouted at them.
Angela grabbed Kurt by the shoulder. “Anthony!” she finally managed.
Kurt grabbed her arm, took it off his shoulder, and placed it over the hole in her stomach. “You first. Put pressure there.”
***
They were still ten miles from the Fort Bragg Safe Zone when Carl’s voice crackled in Lee’s earpiece.
“Lee, something’s going on at Bragg.”
Lee frowned out the windshield as the dirt-and-leaf covered roadway sped by them, years of unrepaired potholes rumbling under their worn out tires.
Carl was their designated radioman who kept comms up with Fort Bragg command. The rest of them only kept the squad comms.
“Alright,” Lee said, holding out any rash judgement for the moment. “What kind of something?”
“It’s not super clear yet,” Carl responded. “Mitch just asked about gunfire…wait, hold on…”
Lee’s stomach plummeted.
Was it primals? Had the wire been breached? The high-voltage fences around the Fort Bragg Safe Zone had kept them out so far, but they were smart. Had they figured out a way in?
“Lee,” Carl said, and the tone of his voice had changed to something that Lee did not like. “It’s Angela. Someone shot her. They got an active shooter right now. Right outside the Support Center.”
Lee thrust a finger forward and said, “Go!”
But Abe had heard the transmission and had already punched the accelerator.
***
“Patch everyone into the command net!” Mitch ordered into the radio as he sprinted across towards the middle school.
The broad side of the first building was in front of them, about a hundred yards away.
Rudy and Morrow were keeping pace behind him, heading for the left side of the school building, while Logan and Blake kicked out to the right.
“You’re patched,” the Watch Commander said.
“Who do I have over at the Support Center?” Mitch demanded.
“Diamondback One!” a voice came back, taut as high-tension cables. “This is Kurt Barsch. I’m in the atrium of the Support Center.” He sounded breathless. “I got Diamondback Actual secured, but she is injured—I repeat Diamondback Actual is injured. Diamondback Two is down. It’s just me.”
“Fuck!” Mitch said to himself, and then transmitted: “Where’s the shooter in relation to you right now? And how many are there?”
“Ahh…I don’t know how many there are. But I saw muzzle flashes from the top of the school.”
“Copy.” Mitch raised his rifle along with his eyes, scanning the top of the school building. But it was immediately apparent that the shooter was on the opposite side of the building from them. “We’re coming up on the east side of the middle school. I’ve got the team with me. We’re gonna clear that school building, okay? Can you pinpoint where you saw the muzzle flashes from?”
“He’s not shooting anymore. It was in the middle of the building. Maybe the fourth window in?”
Shit…
Another thought occurred to Mitch.
They returned fire.
Right at a fucking school.
“Yeah, copy,” Mitch said. “Command—has the school gone into lockdown?”
“Command to Mitch, lemme confirm. Standby.”
Mitch, Rudy, and Morrow hit the eastern side of the building, right at the corner. Rudy immediately covered their backs, high, addressing the windows over them, while Morrow covered their backs low.
Mitch peered around the corner with his eyes and the muzzle of his rifle.
About two hundred yards away, he could see the Support Center. The black Tahoe that drove Angela around was sitting at the front, not moving. Even from where he was he could see that the vehicle was shot up.
“Command to Mitch. School’s in lockdown. Guards are moving to intercept on the third floor. That’s third floor.”
Good.
“Blake and Logan,” Mitch said over the comms. “Hold that northwest corner for us. And everyone, pay the fuck attention to what you’re shooting at—there’s kids in there.” He released the PTT and looked back over his shoulder at Rudy and Morrow. “Hey! On me!”
He went around the corner of the building, crossed the face of it at a quick pace. Windows to his right. Out of the corner of his eye he saw people in those windows. A quick glance. His eyes flicked over a kid, staring at him with terror on his face.
Mitch motioned him down, and the kid dropped onto his belly.
At the next corner, Mitch stopped. “Next side is the shooting side. There’s an entrance about ten yards in from this corner. We’re gonna hit that, then take the stairs up.”
“Roger that,” Rudy responded.
Morrow squeezed his shoulder. “On you.”
Mitch turned the corner. Scanned low. Scanned high.
Mild spring air. Sunshine.
A clear and beautiful day.
The sun glinted off the windows of the school.
All except one.
Because it was busted out.
Mitch focused his rifle on that window. “Third floor! Fifth window in!”
Many of the classrooms on the third floor were not in use. Mitch hoped to God that the broken window belonged to one of those empty classrooms. Otherwise, it meant that the shooter was in there, barricaded with a bunch of kids.
The entrance to the school was right ahead of them.
It occurred to Mitch that if the school had gone into lockdown, they might have to breach that door, and they had no breaching equipment. It also occurred to him that they weren’t equipped for an assault, or a standoff. It was just them, their soft armor, and their rifles.
Shoulda just watched the damn food crowd in full gear like I fucking wanted to in the first place…
A shadow in the window caught his eye.
A shape.
A man.
Mitch brought his rifle’s optic up, but he didn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t ID who it was—A teacher? The shooter?
Mitch heard gunshots. Muffled, because they were inside the building.
Then the shape of the man came through the window.
“Contact!” Rudy yelled.
But the shape of the man wasn’t a threat.
He was flying out. Out into midair. Then nosing down. His legs and arms held at his sides, like he was a skydiver trying to build as much velocity as possible.
He tilted in midair.
Hit the ground, back first.
“Holy fuck,” Mitch rasped, then started running. He couldn’t see the body through the tall weeds around the school building. He kept his rifle up as he ran. “Watch that window!”
Had the shooter thrown someone out the window? Was the shooter still inside, still waiting to gun them down in this open space?
“Contact!” Rudy yelled again.
Mitch snapped his gaze up and saw two shapes in the window, but they were waving their hands urgently in front of their faces, palms out, the signal for “hold your fire.”
“Friendly! Friendly!” they were shouting.
Back to the body on the ground.
He could see it now.
Writhing.
Still alive.
Mitch slide-tackled the body. He heard a grunt of air come out of the man. He snatched the wrists. Yanked the body harshly so it turned over, belly down. Then wrenched both arms behind the back and pinned them there with his knee.
One of the arms felt limp. Detached.
Mitch got his first solid look at the man.
Middle aged. Shaggy brown hair.
He grabbed that shaggy hair and wrenched the head back and around, heedless of any neck injuries—that was not his problem. Blood dribbled out of the man’s mouth. Crushed innards. Maybe rib-punctured lungs.
“Who the fuck are you?” Mitch shouted into the man’s ear.
The man’s eyes stared at the ground. Blinked. Went wide. He struggled for air.
Mitch pulled a little bit of weight off the man’s back to let him breathe.
The breath that the man took rattled terminally and more blood came out of his mouth. He tried to say something, but it wasn’t audible.
“What? Motherfucker!” Mitch shook the man by the hair. “Who the fuck are you?”
The last bit of air came out of the man in a groan. His lips moved. Made words.
His last.
“Preserve the union,” he muttered through blood.
Then died.
SIX
─▬▬▬─
ABNORMALITIES
The two dirty pickup trucks came screeching to a stop in front of the Soldier Support Center.
Lee jumped out of the passenger side of the lead truck, his rifle at a low ready, rapidly taking in the scene.
At the front doors, a black Tahoe listed on flat, bullet-popped tires. All the windows shattered.
Slouched behind the cover of the engine block was one of Angela’s bodyguards, Anthony Mizzutti. He was conscious, but Lee saw the dark red stain that had soaked his left pants leg, and the tourniquet he’d applied on his thigh.
The glass doors to the Support Center were stitched with holes in several places. One of the big windows was broken completely, the glass littering the sidewalk in front of it.
Julia appeared beside Lee, her rifle slung, and her big medical bag on one shoulder. “Where is she?”
Lee had no clue, but he was already moving towards Anthony. He got low, unsure if there would be more incoming rounds, and sidled up next to the man.
He touched the man’s left leg, felt the wetness, now lukewarm. “Is that the only wound, Anthony?”
“Yeah,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “Get Angela. She’s inside the atrium with Kurt.”
Julia patted Lee on the shoulder. “I’ll get Angela, you take care of him. Cover me.”
Lee came up over the hood of the Tahoe with his rifle. Across the road stood the school. He saw men in the tall grass by the side of the building, focused on something at their feet. It looked like Mitch and his guys.
Lee panned up to the broken window directly above them. He rested his rifle on its rail and held it there with one hand while he keyed his comms with the other. He’d already patched his radio back into the command frequency. “Mitch, can you advise on the shooter? Are we still hot?”
From two hundred yards away, he watched Mitch look around. “Yeah, hold what you got. Shooter is down. I repeat, shooter is down. But we need to clear this building. Check for secondary hostiles.”
“Roger that. Keep an eye out for devices too.”
“Yeah. Hey, Blake and Logan, you guys copy that traffic?”
Logan’s voice came back: “We copy. We’re on the third floor now. Room to room. Standby for all-clear.”
Lee sunk down behind the engine block again. Looked at Anthony. “What can I do for you right now?”
“Nothin’.” Anthony eyed Lee, then his right shoulder. “You got some water in that Camelbak?”
Lee nodded, pulled the drinking tube from the shoulder of his rig and leaned down so that Anthony could get his lips on it. The man drank deeply for several seconds, then let the tube fall out of his mouth.
“How you feeling?” Lee asked him. “You with me?”
“Yeah, I’m with you.” Anthony looked pale, but his eyes were still sharp. Focused.
Lee clipped the drinking tube back to his rig. Looked over his left shoulder. The rest of his crew had taken up positions behind the engine blocks of their two white pickups, rifles trained over the top, covering in the direction of the school.
He made eye contact with Abe. “We need to get this guy to the Med Center.”
Abe nodded at him. Shifted into a sprinter’s stance. “Alright, coming to you.”
Lee gave him cover while he scuttled over.
“Hey!” Julia’s voice from behind him. “Comin’ out with one! Moving to our pickup!”
“Move!” Lee called back, still covering.
He heard the shuffling of boots behind him.
He wanted to turn and look, to see how bad it was, but he kept his attention forward.
Watch your lane. You can’t do anything for Angela that Julia hasn’t already done.
No one had said she was dead. That was the important part, right? And Julia wouldn’t be rushing her out right now if she had died.
She’s still alive, he told himself.
“Logan to command, we’ve cleared the third floor. No sign of an additional shooter. No sign of any booby traps. Everyone’s saying it was just this one guy. We’re gonna continue on, get all the rooms cleared, but I think we can downgrade a bit here.”
Lee pulled his rifle off the hood of the Tahoe and slung it to his side. Abe was there beside him. “Let’s both grab arms. Hobble him over to Carl’s truck.”
Lee got Anthony’s left arm, and Abe his right. They lifted. Anthony hissed but gutted it out and they hobbled him over to Carl’s truck.
As Lee passed his own truck, it roared to life. Kurt was in the driver’s seat, and Juli
a was in the backseat, hovering over a body. In the moment that he passed the back window, Lee saw a frizz of blonde hair, and a hand that was clutching the backrest of the seat.
She’s alive.
God, please let her stay that way.
***
Lee stalked into the waiting room of the Medical Center’s surgical wing. Julia was waiting for him.
It was a typical hospital room. A failed attempt to be warm and inviting, but you couldn’t hide the utilitarian practicality that went into everything medical. And it still smelled like a hospital.
Like latex and disinfectant.
Lee shucked his rifle off his shoulder and set it down in a chair, next to where Julia was standing. He’d already doffed the rest of his gear, and managed to shove Deuce into the front door of his house around the corner, before high-tailing it back.
Lee’s voice was stone cold. “How is she?”
“She’s in surgery.” Julia put her hands in her pockets. “Bullet was through and through. She was conscious the entire time. I don’t think it hit anything vital. But we won’t know until the surgeons get in there.”
“Surgeon,” Lee said, emphasizing the singular aspect of it.
They only had one true surgeon. The others on the surgical staff were two registered nurses who’d worked in high-level trauma centers. They knew more than the average medical practitioner, but they were still learning.
“What about Anthony?” Julia asked.
“The nurse triaged him as secondary to Angela.” Lee shook his head, wondering how Anthony felt about that. The man was a solid soldier. Lee thought that if anything, he would have insisted on it that way, even if the nurse had triaged him as primary. “They loosened the tourniquet when I was in there with him and it didn’t squirt.”
“That’s good.”
They stood in silence for a long moment. The waiting room had a single window that looked south, right at the school buildings. From their vantage point they saw the broken window on the third floor, and the tall grass underneath it that had been mashed by foot traffic.
And the body that had flown out the window.
“Who was he?”