English and history classes were taught in the main building. Theatre, arts, music, and the gymnasium were in the right-hand wing. Science and math classes took place in the left-hand wing. These wings were connected by covered, paved walkways passing through the courtyards between them.
Directly behind the main structure stood the cafetorium—a combination cafeteria and auditorium. Next to that was the band hall and practice field for the marching band. Across an open field stood the athletic compound consisting of the football field, baseball and softball fields, and the fieldhouse. A sense of urgency blanketed the parking lot of Killough High School, ramping up Noah’s heart rate. Heat reflected from the cracked, black pavement seeped through the soles of his custom boots. Car doors slammed. Exhaust drifted from the tailpipes of running vehicles.
Noah and Rhyden raced toward a knot of men studying a set of blueprints near an armed, tactical assault vehicle. The huge clock on the front wall of the center of the building read 1:39 p.m.
Rhyden scanned the groups of students already evacuated, his focus jumping from group to group in search of Bree and Sam. “I don’t see my girls.”
Noah’s knees buckled. Not the girls. Please, Lord, not the girls. “What do we have here?” he asked Sheriff Preston.
“So far it appears to be a hoax. We received a call about several suspicious packages in the gym, but we haven’t seen or heard anything yet. We started evacuating the students and staff from the classrooms closest to the gym.”
The area swarmed with first responders. County deputies, city police officers, constables, and state troopers wrapped in Kevlar vests scurried to and fro. Radio chatter filled the air. Firefighters and medics hovered on the outskirts of the lot, restrained from entering the scene by Incident Command personnel. Air life helicopters swooped across the football field. Waiting.
****
“Okay, kids, pop quiz.” Mr. Routh, Bree’s biology teacher, grinned. “On the front lab tables, I have stations set up. Ten in total. In each tray you will find an internal organ from a fetal pig. You must identify the organ and give a brief description of its function. Working in pairs, you have one hour to finish.”
Bree checked the clock hanging on the wall above Mr. Routh’s desk—1:29 p.m. Chairs scooted over the floor as students paired up.
Ding! Ding! All over the classroom text notifications began ringing. “What’s going on here?” Routh asked. “Haven’t I told you not to have cell phones in class?”
Ding! Mr. Routh’s cell phone notification rang.
“Hey, Mr. Routh,” Malcolm, a junior with attitude, popped off, “aren’t you supposed to turn your cell phone off in class?” The class erupted in laughter.
“Funny, Malcom. Is this some kind of joke?” the teacher asked.
All the students in class had their cell phones out, comparing text messages. Every phone said the same thing. —Boom!—
The room erupted in chatter.
“Okay, folks, calm down. Put your phones away. You’re wasting time.”
Bree gathered her paper and pen and met her best friend, Jenn, at station number three where a grayish-green gelatinous mass lay in the silver specimen tray.
Jenn poked it with the end of her pen. It wiggled. “Gross.”
Bree giggled. “Quit playing with it. Large intestine, right?”
Her friend poked it again. “I think so. It’s supposed to absorb water from the undigested food and get rid of waste.”
“Sounds good to me.” Bree scratched the answer down on her notebook paper before she and Jenn stood up to advance to the next station.
“Tick-tock, people,” Routh reminded them. “You now have forty-five minutes to complete the quiz.”
Pop, pop! Pop, pop, pop!
As screams echoed down the hallway, the fire alarm shrieked.
“What’s going on out here?” The biology teacher opened the door. Bree watched in stunned disbelief as dark red blood and gray brain matter sprayed from the back of his skull. He collapsed, falling to the floor to the sound of singing.
Pop, pop, pop! Boom! Boom! Her stomach clenched. Bile boiled at the back of her throat.
Richard, a senior Army JROTC cadet in the class, grabbed Mr. Routh. A bullet flashed past his head. Two more bullets plowed through the open doorway. The girl standing next to Bree screamed and clapped her hands over her ears to block out the sounds of the gunfire.
Richard dragged the teacher into the classroom; a trail of blood and brain matter smeared the floor. He slammed the door shut. “Down! Everyone get down.” Twisting the lock on the doorknob, he shoved the teacher’s desk in front of the door. Several other students rushed over and helped pile furniture in front of the door, blocking the path of the shooter.
Bree rushed to Mr. Routh’s side. His skin was cold to the touch. No pulse. No respirations. Tears clogged her throat. She raised her frightened gaze to Richard and shook her head.
Bullets pounded against the door. One passed through, hitting Richard in the leg. He screamed. A loud thud hit the door, jarring it in the frame. The shooter tried to bulldoze into the room. Several boys pushed back. After several unsuccessful attempts, the shooter’s footsteps echoed off down the hallway.
Keeping low to the floor, Bree scrambled closer to Richard. She eased him to the floor. Hands shaking, she grabbed a wad of paper towels and applied pressure to the wound. Warm, slippery blood pulsed through her fingers. The coppery odor flooded her senses. Saliva filled the back of her mouth. Her stomach roiled. Swallowing back a sob, she called out, “I need help here.” She tried to breathe through her mouth to keep from vomiting.
“Here.” Another student ripped off his T-shirt. “Use this.”
Bree plucked her pocketknife from her boot and cut strips off the t-shirt. She wrapped the strips around Richard’s leg. Color faded from his face. Another student grabbed a wooden dowel and helped her twist the shirt into a tourniquet. “Come on, Richard. Stay with us.”
He passed out.
The shooter returned. Another barrage of bullets pounded into the door, followed by a physical assault. The barricade could not hold against this kind of pressure. Bree grabbed her phone. It slipped from her bloody fingers. She wiped her hands on her jeans and grabbed it again to dial her dad. It went straight to voicemail. Damn it.
She switched to her text app and thumbed down to her dad’s number. Her fingers flew across the screen.
—Active shooter. High school. At least one fatality, multiple injuries. I’m ok—
Her throat tightened with tears as her fingers trembled over the keys.
—I love you, Daddy—
****
“A hoax?” Noah asked. His pulse settled a tiny bit.
Rhyden cut in. “I don’t see my girls. Where are they?”
“Not all the students are out. We started on this side of the campus.” The sheriff pointed to the gym. “The basketball coach discovered a couple of suspicious packages beneath the bleachers around 1:15 p.m. They looked like pressure cookers. About the same time, a custodian found a few more hidden under the lunch tables in the cafeteria. While they were reporting their findings to the school resource officer, half the student body and most of the teachers received a one-word text Boom. Principal Harkness activated the fire drill procedure and contacted us. We got here within six minutes but so far, nothing.”
Students and teachers trickled from the front central doors of the school. Officers lined the sidewalks, herding them to a secure location a safe distance from the school where they could be searched and questioned.
The sheriff continued, “No one, so far, recognized the number the text came from.”
“Burner?” Noah asked.
“Most likely. We think it’s a prank…senioritis and all that, but we’re evacuating all the students before we send the ATF bomb squad and their dogs in.”
“I don’t see Sam,” said Rhyden in a tight voice. He resumed scanning the parking lot. “Or Bree.”
Ding! R
hyden’s text notification sounded. He looked down at the screen. “Fuck!”
Before he said another word, muffled shots rang out from the far side of the school. “Bree texted me. Active shooter. Science building. Injuries. I’ve got to get over there.”
While Rhyden rushed toward the far side of the school, responding officers hunkered behind their vehicles, rifles resting on the hoods, aimed at the school. Noah chased after his friend. More shots sounded. Screams echoed from inside. The trickle of students exiting the front double doors became a flood.
And chaos erupted.
****
A couple of students huddled in a corner, hysterical. Bree crawled over to them. “Hey, shhh. We need to keep quiet.” She surveyed the room. “And we need to get out of here.”
Outside the building, lights flashed, and sirens wailed. Cop cars and ambulances flew into the parking lot. Malcom pried the classroom windows open and began helping other students out. “Stay down,” Jenn whispered as she and Malcolm boosted others through the window. “Stay down.”
Students raced across the lawn toward the waiting first responders. SWAT officers waved the teenagers to take cover in nearby ditches. The shooter began taking potshots at them as they fled, pinning the remaining students down.
Crouched next to the unconscious Richard on the floor in the classroom, Bree texted her boyfriend.
—Trapped. Shooter at school. Love you—
The response was instant. —Get out of there—
—Trying—
****
Noah, along with the sheriff, several Bennett County deputies and investigators, and other first responders, charged toward the building, weapons drawn. Students fled the building, some elbowing and shoving their way out, some helping those who had been trampled get back to their feet, dragging them to safety.
“I still don’t see my girls,” Rhyden said when Noah caught up to him.
“We’ll find them. I know this school inside out. Every nook and cranny.”
The two men separated from the main force of officers and slipped into the left wing of the school through a side door. Weapons at the ready, they swept down a deserted hallway, clearing abandoned classrooms as they went.
Radios crackled. “Anyone have eyes on the shooter?”
“Negative, no eyes on.”
“Negative.”
“Nothing on the south end of the school.”
Noah added a negative response to the chatter. A noise from the classroom on the right drew his attention. Using hand motions, he indicated to Rhyden that he would enter the door high. Rhyden would go low. Moving quickly but quietly, they rushed the room. A metallic rattle came from beneath the teacher’s desk in the far corner.
The rangers exchanged a tense stare. Rhyden pointed to himself and gestured to the left.
Nodding, Noah rolled his footsteps to avoid making noise and cut to the right. He dropped into a duck walk as he crept toward the desk. Weapon at the ready, he swept the chair away. “Come out. Now. Hands where I can see them.”
Rhyden covered his partner from the other end of the desk. More scraping noises came from beneath the desk. The smell of ammonia permeated the air. Noah gestured toward the desk with his head. He holstered his gun and held up three fingers.
His partner nodded in agreement.
Muscles tensed, Noah folded his fingers down…three, two, one. When the last finger folded, he blew out a quick breath, grabbed the top of the desk with both hands, and flipped it onto its side.
Before the rattle of metal against tile stopped, Rhyden stepped in and pointed his pistol at the figure huddled on the floor. A mass of red curls shook in fear. Rhyden slipped his gun into his holster and held a hand out to help the young woman cowering on the floor to her feet.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, she scrambled backward away from him, much like a blue crab scuttling across the sand. Back up against the overturned desk, she whimpered, clutching at her throat. She whipped her head from side to side, searching for an escape.
“Easy now.” Rhyden gentled his voice. He kept his hand extended and kneeled to her eye level. “We’re here to help. Are you hurt?”
The girl shook her head no. Visibly trembling, she placed her hand in Rhyden’s and allowed him to help her to her feet. Keeping his voice soft, he said, “Let’s get you out of here. What do you say?”
The girl released a muffled sob and buried her face in Rhyden’s chest. He placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and guided her to the classroom door. As he did so, calls of “all clear” rang out from the radio followed by “we’re sending in the dogs.”
Chapter Fifteen
After Bree left Richard with the EMTs, she overheard another girl telling a paramedic the blood covering her wasn’t her own. She looked down at herself. This isn’t mine, either.
An ambulance raced out of the parking lot past her, lights flashing and siren wailing. Another zoomed in to take its place near the triage area. Life flight choppers swooped into the parking lot, slinging up dust and dirt everywhere, loaded up the next patient, and took off again.
She stumbled blindly toward the tent erected to shelter the students from the rain just beginning to fall. Richard’s blood soaked her clothing. As it dried, the cloth had stiffened. She scrubbed her hands together, trying in vain to eradicate the bloodstains.
Media swarmed all over the campus. “Miss. Miss!” A journalist and her camera operator rushed toward her. “Can you—”
Bree shook her head. “Please.” Her voice cracked. An urge to smash the camera shoved in her face raced through her. She stepped back. “Just leave me alone.”
She turned away and ducked behind the walls of the tent to hide from the cameras. Someone handed her a sign-in sheet. By this, she knew authorities were attempting to get a list of everyone. Students and teachers huddled together, some praying, others weeping. Some stood silent in shock. She searched for Sam and her dad. She spotted her dad and Noah still helping students from the building. No sign of Sam. God, please, don’t let my sister be hurt.
Chatter overwhelmed the tent. Everyone speculated on who could have done this horrible thing. No one seemed to know. One girl, crying into her phone, kept repeating, “The shooter’s hiding with us.”
Bree’s heart dropped. No way. She’s just panicking, that’s all. Rumors flew. The shooter was a former graduate who blew out his knee in the final football game last year, losing all his scholarships and getting hooked on opioids. The shooter was one of the janitors who had been having an affair with a student. The shooter was a girl. Suspicion filled the tent. No one knew what to believe. No one knew who to trust. She scrutinized other students. Could it be? Who?
Her phone dinged. —Have to see you—
She read the text from her boyfriend, and milling
around the edges of the holding area, she texted back.
—Waiting to be released—
—Meet me behind the gym?—
Bree looked around, found her father and Uncle Noah. They’d be busy for a while yet.
—K. Just for a minute—
—In uncle’s truck—
—Not the Buick? What color?—
—Green pickup, older model—
—K lu—
—lu2—
All of a sudden, rain dumped from the sky in buckets. Bree’s pulse kept pace with the rapid rhythm of the rain hammering on the roof of the tent. She slipped out and headed toward the gym. She passed a huge bus with “AMBULANCE” stenciled on the side.
A pickup truck pulled around the corner of the building. She sped up to catch it, but the truck turned right and continued driving. Impatiently, she shifted her weight from foot to foot as she sheltered in the doorway, wishing she had clean clothes to change into. Bree slipped her phone from her pocket, checking for new messages. Her phone was blowing up but no new messages from her boyfriend or her sister.
Where is he?
Headlights crept up the road in her direction. Th
e vehicle slowed to a stop half a block from the gym. Bree squinted at the truck but couldn’t make out the color through the downpour. The truck crept closer. Green! She dashed to the corner as the old truck slid to a stop. Water dripped from her hair into her eyes, blurring her vision. She jerked the door open and jumped in.
“Damn, it’s nasty out here. Oh my God, you can’t imagine how scared I was.” She shook her hair out of her face and glanced up. “Wait, you’re not—”
A coarse voice, like sand on glass, replied, “No, acushla, I’m not.”
Bree scrambled out of the truck. She pivoted and ran only to slam into a wall of muscle. She spun back the other direction. Beefy hands wrapped around her upper arms from behind, lifting her off her feet. No!
She squirmed in his grasp, trying to free herself. I did not escape being shot to be kidnapped. She smashed her head backward into his nose. Ow! She swung her legs, hammering her boot heels into his knees.
The man dropped her. “Bitch!”
Her feet hit the pavement. The impact shot pain up her shins. She stomped on his instep, hard. Frantically, she glanced around for help. Everyone was still at the front of the school sorting out the shooting aftermath. No one else was out in this storm. He grabbed her. She jammed her elbow into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.
“Help!” she screamed. No one responded. Remembering her training, she yelled, “Fire!” People afraid to get involved in the problems of others responded more quickly to threats to themselves, but there was no one around to hear her shouts.
The driver circled around the front of the truck. Bree made her move. She exploded forward, drilling her shoulder into his sternum. He doubled over. She drove her knee into his groin—and ran.
Her boots slipped on the wet pavement. The first guy grabbed her by her ponytail, stopping her in her tracks. He transferred his iron grip to the back of her neck, shaking her like a rag doll. Spinning her around to face him, he drew back a meaty fist. His punch caught her in the cheek, snapping her head back.
Broken Toys Page 15