by Tom Leveen
The kid drops a massive duffel bag to the floor. It makes a clunking sound. He levels the rifle in his hands.
See, now’s he going and making a thing of it. That’s a bad idea. “Aw, come on, bitch,” I say. “Don’t be getting—”
I land on my back.
It feels like my body’s trying to breathe through new holes in my lungs. There’s a sound like wet asthma, and it fills the hall.
I somehow watch as the kid in black looks at my phone on the tile floor. My thumb must have tapped the answer key, because Amy’s voice comes through. I hear it so clear, so fine and so nice …
“Donte, it’s me. You have to get out of school. Okay? Are you there? Listen to me, get out of school, I—I think my brother Danny’s—”
The kid in black brings a booted foot down on my phone, smashing it silent.
I think the kid picks up his bag and walks down the hall.
I got to get up, got to
DREA
BETWEEN CLASSES
The girl dressed like a stitched-up doll wasn’t a target, not necessarily. He knew someone would have to go first, that’s all. Break the ice. If he could do one, he could do a hundred. Whoever happened to cross his path first, they had to go, that’s all. That’s it. Life sucks sometimes. You don’t always get to decide things.
He’s a little surprised he didn’t throw up—or at least, not yet. In fact his heart feels like it’s beating once per minute, in great slow waves, instead of the rapid pace he’d anticipated despite the pills he took to keep calm. There is a method to all this. There is a goal. The pills are working excellently.
The bell ending first period rings. The faceless gunman stops in the middle of the hall, drops his bag again, reloads, and holds the rifle at hip level.
Doors open. Students pile out. Shouts of eagerness, of delight over the Halloween holiday. Some people have really outdone themselves, with spot-on celebrity impersonations or outstanding visual effects. Seven people from the drama department have done themselves up like Walking Dead characters and attendant zombie walkers.
So when the real blood sprays from one of their torsos, it’s no wonder most people think it’s part of the day. A cool trick.
Then the sound hits. The rapid stutter of the semiautomatic rifle that is somehow not nearly as loud as most of them would think, but loud enough to identify itself, loud enough to make clear that this is not part of the day after all.
Screams rise at once, a chorus of fear and disbelief. People run for cover. They dive into classrooms, they run down the hall. A few get knocked over. A few can’t move.
The gunman waits for the worst of the noise to settle before reloading again. A few students roll around on the ground, moaning. He paces by, looking for friends and enemies and seeing neither until he encounters an Athleader, a tall guy named Martin, he thinks, on the ground squeezing tight to the wall. Paralyzed, it seems, with fear and something like a refusal to believe this is happening.
The gunman lowers the point of the rifle toward Martin.
Martin waves his hands in front of him, scooting away fast, his paralysis gone. “C’mon, man, don’t. Don’t, all right? Come on, don’t do this.”
The gunman keeps the AR at his hip.
“Dude, bro, c’mon,” Martin groans. He really says it. Dude, bro.
“Come on, what?” the gunman says. The voice is robotic, disassociated.
“Come on, don’t kill me man, all right? Don’t kill me, please …”
“Okay.”
Martin stops sliding backward. Lowers his hands a bit. Like he’s not sure he should believe it.
The gunman pulls the trigger, waving the AR back and forth. Martin’s knees explode. Martin screams, high and hard and loud.
This is real, the gunman thinks. It’s happening, people are really dying. Maybe I should stop. Maybe …
A door opens. It’s Mr. Bladder. Or Ballsack. Whatever his name is. Apparently, he missed the opening anarchy, mistaking it for good clean Halloween fun.
“What in the world is—”
Loud flutters of lead poke into his chest. For one second, the pattern is like a smiley face. Have A Nice Day.
Butler/Bladder falls against the door and slides down it. People in the classroom scream. The gunman walks over to the door and peeks inside, working through a quick word problem: if one quarter of the class is on its feet and one quarter are already on the floor, how many are still frozen in their desks?
“Mmm,” he says, scanning the crowd. “Nah. Have a nice day.”
He moves on. He has other things to do, and the clock is ticking. He grabs his bag and moves further into the school.
“Attention, attention,” Dr. Flores bellows over the intercom. “This is a lockdown. This is a lockdown. This is not a drill. The code word is red pen. The code word is red pen.”
That’s two words, Dr. Floor, the shooter thinks, just as someone peeks through the windows in the library doors, then disappears as they meet his own gaze. He moves toward the library. There’s no reason to go to the gym.
The freshmen will be safe there.
VIVI
“The code word is red pen,” Dr. Flores bellows over the intercom, interrupting my chemistry teacher’s lecture on titration curves. She keeps on talking right over it, and hardly anyone pays attention.
Our classroom door opens and Mr. Winters, my French teacher, pokes his head in.
“Shut it down,” Mr. Winters says.
“Shut what—”
“Red pen,” Mr. Winters says. His eyes are as wide as the windows.
It’s like some invisible hand yanks my chem teacher’s spine out from the base of her neck. Like she didn’t hear Dr. Flores say it just five seconds ago. She stands up straight and walks briskly to the door with her keys in her hand. She pulls the door shut as Mr. Winters goes away down the hall. Our teacher locks the door, hits the lights, and the room goes dark.
She points to a wall where the American flag is hanging from a thin black stick.
“Against the wall,” she says, her voice firm, face set in plaster. “Get down, no talking.”
Which makes everyone start talking at once.
“Quiet!” our teacher says and it vibrates the bones in my arms.
We all shut up.
“Against the wall,” she repeats. “Right now. Absolute silence. Get on the floor, stay low. This is not a drill.”
But we don’t move, not yet, maybe because we’re still hoping that this is not a—
“Lockdown,” she says. “This is a lockdown, get out of your seats, and move to the wall, now. There is an active … an active …”
She can’t say the next word.
At last we listen. We all shuffle to our place under the American flag and don’t say anything.
Then: shots.
Semiautomatic rifle shots. I recognize them from the Dez. Twenty-two caliber bullets. I used to go to sleep to them when I was little. What are they doing here? We’re supposed to be safe here, me and Daddy, that’s why we came all the way up here … to get away from all that down there …
We move in slow motion, trading wide-eyed stares of disbelief. It must be a joke. We’re all thinking it. It must be some Halloween prank, and somebody is really going to get their ass beat when it’s all over.
Down some nearby hallway is the sound of drums snapping; no, popcorn bursting; no, .22 caliber rounds being fired in rapid succession … it echoes throughout the entire school. People gasp. Fists get jammed into mouths. Our teacher’s eyes are unblinking, her jaw tightly clenched.
“We should do something,” a boy grunts.
“Shh!” the teacher says. And I’m glad. We should do nothing, we should sit and wait and someone will come get us, someone will come get us, someone will come.
And where is Sam? Is he okay? Oh, God, God, no, don’t do this …
DONTE
My eyes creep open. Not far away, a boy is splayed in the hallway, blood pooled beneath him. The
kid groans. Moans. Weeps. Words.
I got no spit. No feeling in my left arm. But I got a mission. A job. A duty.
Drag myself toward the boy, using one arm. One-ninety never felt so heavy.
“Comin’,” I say, or think I say.
The boy must be three, four, five football fields away. This crawl is taking so long.
“Comin’. Comin’.”
“I’m sorry!” the kid screams.
Gotta get to the kid.
I reach him. Sit myself up against the wall. Need a break. Just a quick break. Where’s the water girls? Need a drink.
Everything goes black.
Then red.
Then I can see again. It’s been two seconds or two hours since I reached the bleeding kid.
I grab the boy’s shirt and pull him close. Blood comes out from his mouth. Tears crease his face.
“Sorry,” the boy mumbles.
He’s a drama kid. Played in that show. Hamlet. That was years ago. Wasn’t it? No. Last week. Maybe. It was before. Before the pain. Before the numb. My chest hurts, I think.
I pull the boy up into my lap. His head’s below my chin.
“Doan wanna,” the boy spits.
“Shh,” I say. I kiss his hair. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.”
“Doan wanna die.”
“Don’t be afraid. I got you. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.”
Shouting. Somewhere far off. Then an explosion of noise. And another. I think I should jump at the sound but my body won’t respond. I feel the boy’s chest on top of me, rising. Falling. Rising. Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
“Don’t be afraid. I got you. This is a man’s game now. Don’t be afraid.”
Everything goes black.
Then red.
Then
DANNY
The warning bell for second period goes off. Maybe it’s warning people about me. About today. Today is here. I am here. Today’s the day.
I walk into the library. Carefully, but not slow.
The library is quiet except for the buzz of students desperately trying to be—
quiet.
The library isn’t even a quarter full, and it must be my lucky day, because it’s easy to find Brady Culliver and Brianna Montaro huddled behind a table, their backs to a bookshelf.
I stop in front of them and raise the rifle.
“Oh my God,” Brianna Montaro says, like a sigh. Not a scream. I’d rather
SHE SCREAMED!
Brady Culliver says
nothing.
He wears a white button-down with a black-and-gold striped tie. His eyes cross momentarily on the barrel as I point it in his face.
It makes me
LAUGH!
But not out loud. Just inside. I whip off my mask because it’s too fucking hot. And I want them to know who it is. They have to know. It’s all part of the
PERFECT PLAN.
The tabletop is littered with college guides. There’s no college in his future. There will be no future at all for these two.
“Any last words?”
“I’m sorry,” Brianna says.
“… What?”
“I’m so sorry,” Brianna says—then erupts into tears. They seem to jet from her eyes and bathe the floor.
THE Brianna Montaro is wracked with sobs. Her entire body convulses. Her eyes disappear into her
SKULL,
pushed back by the force of her weeping.
Brady is still staring at the gun, frozen. But then his eyes dart to Brianna Montaro. He glances up at me.
“Don’t do it,” Brady whispers. “Come on, man. You don’t want to.”
“Oh, but I really, really do. Just like you really, really want to bang my sister. Move into
MY FUCKING HOUSE!
Be my dad’s son. Don’t tell me what I want.”
Brianna is having trouble breathing now. Her inhalations are jagged and shallow, the cords of her neck straining, her cheeks awash with tears.
“Would you shut up?”
Brianna tries to answer. Takes rapid breaths, trying to get the air to respond. At last she manages to say, “I’m g-g-g-gonna die.”
We’re back on script. How stale, flat, and useless are the things of this world! Something like that. I forget the line now.
“That’s right,” I tell Brianna. “But I tell you what I’ll do.”
I set the AR on the table and take Dad’s pine-green nine millimeter Glock from my bag. I’ll use this instead. Less risk she’ll get paralyzed or become a vegetable or something. It’ll be quick, like turning out a light, no big deal. The round is bigger, so it should do the job.
Brianna keeps babbling. “I just p-p-pissed my pants and I’m scared and Jesus God I’m s-s-s-so sorry, Danny.”
Never—
Never, even once, have any of them said my name.
Although Brady hasn’t moved, there is movement in his eyes. But it’s not a plot or a plan. Brady is not gearing up to try for one last jump, to try and get the gun away from me, or make a break for the AR on the table.
No.
There’s a piece, maybe only a small piece, but a piece all the same … a small piece of him saying:
Do it.
I swing the Glock toward him. “You wanna die, Brady?”
Brady swallows.
“Sometimes.”
No, no, no!
No, this is not how things go.
Brianna leans over her own legs, forehead pressed to the industrial carpet. “S-s-sorry, so sorry,” she chants, hugging herself.
The library doors open. I spin, aim the gun. I will
KILL
the next
SON OF A BITCH WHO—
“Is that cherry bombs or something? Anybody know what’s going … oh.”
CADENCE FULLER
says this with no regard for the quiet of the library, but she does go quiet for once when she meets my eyes. Her shoulders drop. It is almost comical.
“Oh no,” she says.
“I told you not to be here!”
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Are you really doing this, Danny? This is what you meant? Come on. Don’t be that guy. I don’t want to read about this tomorrow! Come on.”
“Go home, Cadence!”
Cadence licks her lips. “Can’t. I’m involved now.”
“Go, god damn it!”
“Danny, I am so freaking scared right now, you have no idea. Please stop scaring me, okay?”
“Cadence—”
“I know how this works! You kill a buncha people then put a bullet in your head. Right? Isn’t that it?”
Actually she’s wrong. Half-wrong, anyway.
And the pistol. So heavy now. And off schedule. I’ll have to go room to room to find everyone on my list …
“You’re making me think we were never friends,” Cadence says.
“I told you not to come today.”
“Yeah, but unless you put that stupid gun down, you’re gonna die, and that makes me feel like an idiot. Because somehow you think no one gives a shit, and I do, Danny. I do.”
Brianna is still crying, and it reminds me that my back is to Brady. Tactically a bad idea. I shuffle to the side, where I can keep an eye on everyone, but Brady hasn’t moved.
He had a chance to tackle me, and he didn’t take it. Some sports hero.
“Yeah, man,” Brady says. “I care—”
“Hey, shut up, meathead,” Cadence says. “I’m talking to my friend Danny right now, ’kay?”
I laugh. Ha ha, Brady! Meathead Brady, that is great, and I feel so dizzy.
“Danny?” Cadence says. “Let’s just go get something to eat, okay? Come on. Don’t make me eat lunch by myself for the next four years. You’re all I’ve got, man. Well, Pete, I guess, but he wears those kilts all the time and—”
“You don’t love me.”
“I don’t want to have sex with you, that’s entirely di
fferent.”
“But I love you.”
“Prove it.” She holds out a hand. “Give me that.”
“Will you love me?”
“I already love you, dummy. Otherwise I would’ve run screaming out of this room like an hour ago. Dude, would you look at my hand? I’m shaking like hell. I swear to God, Danny, I’m gonna puke. I hate puking. Don’t make me throw up, please.”
“If I give it to you, then what?”
“Then we sneak off campus and get some coffee,” Cadence says. “Or ice cream, if you want. We could head down to Fifty-Third and Third, go to Jamaican Blue or something. Hey, after this, we can do whatever you want. Just let’s go before anyone else comes in here. Okay?”
I look at Brady and Brianna. She’s still crying, but totally silent. Brady appears not to have blinked, like, ever.
The problem here is that I have a job to do. The problem here is that if I’m going to get what I want, I can’t stop now.
I point the gun at Brady Culliver.
Okay, Cadence, I think. Let me just do this one thing real quick. I just need to
DESTROY THIS ASSHOLE
real fast. Okay? And then I’ll have what I’ve always wanted.
CADENCE
Danny points the gun at the football player and my heart squeezes tight in my chest. I wonder for no particular reason if Dad ever saw someone killed, or if he ever had to kill someone, or if he was just always safe and secure in his submarine. I never asked him and I never really wanted to and now suddenly it’s all I can think about before seeing this poor kid’s head get blown up.
Except Danny doesn’t the pull the trigger.
“I am going to destroy my father,” he says, staring at the football player.
He says it calmly, like with a little fake-relaxed smile at the corners of his mouth, his eyes half-closed like he’s totally at peace, except he’s totally not. He thinks he’s fooling me, or maybe himself, but he is anything but serene. Maybe the big pistol in his hand is ruining the image.
I lick my lips and say, “Why do you want to kill your dad?”
“That’s not what I said. I said I’m going to destroy him. Slowly. Over years, if possible. It’s perfect. Perfection.”
“You mean you’re not going to kill yourself?”
“Oh, eventually, I’m sure,” Danny says with that same fake calm voice. “But not today. I mean, maybe I’m crazy, but I’m not stupid. I won’t do well in prison. Honestly, look at me, right? Skinny little faggot. They’ll make me snap in there. So sure, someday I’ll kill myself. But first? I’ll be in the newspaper. I’ll be on the news. I’ll be all over the web. I’ll be famous, at least for a little while. They’ll all ask me questions. They’ll want interviews. And I’ll give them. I’ll tell them all about my dad and his little jock-sniffing candy-ass athleaders. And then maybe people will stop talking about how great he is and how great his players are. Maybe they’ll finally talk about who those cocksuckers really are when no one’s looking.