Landon
Heading for the center of the school was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. I could hear gunfire, but with the echo, it was hard to tell exactly where the shooter was. Everything inside me wanted to flee down A-Wing. Exit the building. Or possibly not move at all. My Converse tennies were fixed to the floor like they’d been glued there.
But I was terrified for Josiah. He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to be. He got depressed and even fatalistic at times. I had no idea what he would do in a situation like this, but I knew in my gut that he needed me.
It wasn’t far. The entrance to the central hall was maybe twenty feet away. I could see the opening to the cafeteria from there. If the way was clear, I’d grab Josiah and we’d run. If I didn’t at least try, at least look, I’d forever feel like a coward. That’s what I told myself.
So I went.
My shoes squeaked on the floor as I ran. I reached the end of A-Wing where there was an opening to the central hall. I hugged the side of the opening, my back to the wall, hiding from view. The shooting was loud here—it sounded close. I took a few deep breaths and peeked around the corner.
Two figures in black with black ski masks stood at the entrance to the cafeteria. They were both moving long black rifles back and forth as they sprayed bullets into the room.
Right then I knew it was bad. As bad as it could possibly be. It was Lunch A—the cafeteria would be full. And Josiah was in there.
Tears made my vision blurry, and I couldn’t breathe. I ducked back around the corner and sank down to the floor, gasping and trying not to lose it. We’d had drills, and there were safety placards posted along the hallways and at every fire alarm. We’d all seen what had happened at Parkland and Sandy Hook and Santa Fe and Roseburg. I followed many of the Parkland students on Twitter.
But even with all that, it was still shocking. This was my school. I’d known most of the kids here my entire life. And from the way it looked—the way it sounded—a lot of people were going to die.
I dragged out my phone. My hands were shaking. I didn’t want to speak, wasn’t sure I could if I tried. So I sent a text message to 911. I had no idea if that would even work, if they accepted texts.
Jefferson Waller HS. 2 shooters in cafeteria. Pls help.
I hit Send. There was a ding as the message went. A few seconds later the word “delivered” appeared. 911 accepted text messages. Thank God. Please, please, please let the cops come soon. Let them already be on their way. Please make them stop!
The gunfire trailed off, then ended. Were the gunmen heading my way? I peeked around the corner again. The shooters were moving fast down the central hall away from me. One of them had his gun up to his shoulder, and he peered down the barrel as he moved double-time, like he was playacting in some SWAT game. The other one swung his gun wildly at his side, bouncing with maniacal energy as he walked.
They both wore all black—black combat boots, cargo pants, long-sleeved T-shirts, gloves, and ski masks. They were both large, but the SWAT-acting guy was thicker around the shoulders and waist. The other one struck me as young. It was something about the brazen bravado, the way the asshole swung his gun like he was skipping in a field of daisies.
Were they students? Did I know them? Whoever they were, my hatred for them burned white-hot. I hoped to God they didn’t make it out alive.
They entered D-Wing, leading with their guns. The more serious guy started shooting, and the manic one followed. There were cries and the dull sound of bullets hitting wood and metal. They disappeared from my view.
Jesus, there must’ve been people in the hall. God help them. And where were the cops? I felt something run down my face and wiped it away. I was drenched in sweat and my insides quivered, like my body was crying its own tears or trying to wash me away.
My phone dinged. There was a reply from 911.
Police on the way. Take cover. Find a closet or cabinet to hide in. Keep responding.
Great advice. Too bad it helped no one.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself. Josiah was in the cafeteria, maybe badly hurt. I had to find him.
I ran for it, as fast and as silently as I could. I reached the cafeteria archway and skidded inside, getting out of view of the hall in case the shooters returned. It wasn’t until I stopped that the sight registered.
I gagged and pressed my hand to my mouth.
There were bodies everywhere. And blood, so much blood, in deep liquid pools and dirty smears across the floor. The sports mural on the right-hand wall looked out with tone-deaf cheerfulness over a room that now held a massacre.
We’d been attacked, assaulted, violated, broken.
I gasped and leaned over with both hands on my knees. I shook my head. A sound came out of me I’d never heard before.
I’m not sure how long I stood there. It was probably only seconds. But my brain churned on darkness, and a fog of horror came over me. I wanted to crumple to the floor and cover my eyes.
My phone dinged in my pocket. I took it out, my mind blank. It was from Madison.
I found Josiah. We’re out by football field with lots of ppl. Where the hell are you????? Get out of there. PLEASE.
I found myself sitting on the floor, my phone clutched in my hand. I should have felt relief because Josiah was safe, Madison was safe, but how could I?
I knew I should move to get out, get to safety, but I couldn’t find the will. All these kids had done was go to fucking lunch. Why? Why?
“Help. Help me.”
The words were low, and they snapped me out of the fog. I looked around. Over by the water fountain was a guy lying on his side on the floor. He was looking at me. He said it again. “Help me. Please.”
A fresh wave of adrenaline and sorrow washed through me. Oh God. It was Brian Marshall. Yesterday, he’d been the picture of youth and glowing health. Now he lay on his side, trying to raise his head off the floor to look at me. His bloody hands clutched his shirt. His face was white, so damn white, and a red pool was growing from his body like an oil spill.
I pushed myself up and staggered over to him. I fell to my knees beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here. Can you lie back? Let me help you.”
Brian rolled onto his back with a groan of pain. But he looked up at me with his dark blue eyes filled with so much relief and trust. Like he just didn’t want to be alone.
Like he didn’t want to die alone.
Hot, sour anger rose up in me again. This shouldn’t be happening. Not to Brian, not to any of them. But anger wouldn’t help right now. I had to get it together. I had to help him. My eyes stung.
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be all right.” I tried to sound confident, but my voice broke.
He was clutching his stomach on the lower left side, his hands bloody and shaking like crazy. Fresh, dark red blood oozed through his fingers.
I gently pulled his hands away and lifted the bloody shirt. I had to fight not to retch. He’d been shot in the left side, above the visible curve of his hip bone. There was a blown-out area the size of a ping-pong ball. Through the gore I saw a glimpse of something shiny and tubular. Internal organs.
Oh my God.
Don’t look. Don’t think about it. Just help him.
I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know much about gut wounds except that he probably had internal bleeding and that it could be fatal. But he wasn’t shot in the heart or lungs, so he had a chance. Except for the bleeding. There was way too much blood.
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