by April Henry
When the mall isn’t open, Culpeppers closes with a metal roll-down security shutter. If Amina pulls it down, will it stop bullets?
She doesn’t know, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than standing here, waiting to die.
PANIC
3:57 P.M.
The fire alarm starts shrilling overhead as Miranda runs past the Shoe Mill. The sound partially masks the screams behind her.
Laden with bags, shoppers are coming out of the stores. Most of them don’t seem to be in any hurry. They’re acting like it’s a drill, like it won’t make any difference if they ignore it. Then a man in a tan sweater barrels into the hall. His face is pale, his mouth and eyes wide. His fingers are clamped around his biceps, where the fabric is soaked with blood.
People look in the direction he came from, toward the food court. Miranda risks a glance over her shoulder. It’s rapidly emptying out. In the middle of all the tables and chairs, a woman wearing a red scarf jumps out from behind the janitor’s cart, where she had been hiding. Screaming, she runs toward the corridor where Miranda and the others are.
She doesn’t make it.
The shoppers around Miranda begin to panic. They scream, swear, drop their packages, call out each other’s names and to God.
And as Miranda pushes past them, they surge toward the exit doors.
NONE OF THEM
3:57 P.M.
Eight minutes ago, Parker Gray agreed to let his little sister, Moxie, buy a pretzel by herself. He’d given her a five-dollar bill, pointed her in the direction of Auntie Anne’s. She liked talking to people, and people liked talking to her. Seven years old, curly blond hair, and big blue eyes. Cute as a bug, everyone said.
Cute to everyone but Parker. She was more a weight around his neck. Today was teacher in-service training, which meant a day off from school. He should have been having fun. Instead he was a free babysitter, since his parents were both at work. But it wasn’t like he was going to sit at home watching episodes of Dora the Explorer. He could at least hang out with his friends while Moxie alternately played with his phone or stuffed her round little cheeks with treats.
Now his friends have already sprinted away. Everyone who can still run is running. Parker stands in the middle of the food court, spinning. Screaming over the shrill of the fire alarm. “Moxie! Moxie! Moxie!” Not seeing her anywhere. Auntie Anne’s is deserted. His mind plays a panicked loop. Is she hurt? Is his sister dead?
A bullet zips past his ear and buries itself into a pillar. The space has emptied out. Chairs overturned. Drinks puddled on the floor. Blood puddled on the floor. And people slumped in such awkward sprawls that he knows they must be dead.
But none of them is a little girl in a red coat.
TRAPPED
3:58 P.M.
Miranda pushes through the crowd toward the exit doors.
She’s only a dozen feet away. But something is stretched across the exits. Cable bike locks, black rubber-coated braided steel, now link together the silver handles of each pair of doors. She pushes on the nearest door anyway. It opens an inch before the cable catches it.
In the door glass, she sees people running from other exits through the parking lot into the gathering dusk.
Miranda’s trapped. She and all the people behind her. There’re only two ways out of this hall. One is through the locked doors. The other is through the food court, where the shooting started. Where the few remaining people are frantically trying to leave before they die.
And any minute, one of those men will come running down the escalator and finish what they started.
VIDEO GAME
3:58 P.M.
It’s like a video game. That’s what Cole Bond tells himself as he runs along the edge of the food court, sheltered by the overhang, past the bodies that lie crumpled on the linoleum floor.
That lady in the blouse who got shot first, she wasn’t real. None of this is real. It’s just an excellent animation. Maybe on one of these 3-D TV sets they have now. If he wanted, he could press the pause button. And if he turned around, his own couch would be at his back. He could get up and go to the fridge in the garage and get another beer.
He tries to tell himself that these bodies never existed outside the game. They never had real lives that got cut short. The coppery smell hanging in the air, that’s just his imagination.
When Cole’s feet slip in blood, it becomes harder to deny reality.
But he has to. Because if he acknowledges that all this is here and now and real, if he acknowledges what just happened with his two older brothers, then something inside Cole will break.
Ahead of him, a girl in one of those Muslim headscarves is trying to pull down Culpeppers’s metal security shutter. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
Cole can’t do anything for the lifeless bodies on the floor, but maybe he can stop this surreal horror from happening to more people.
LIKE HER LIFE DEPENDS ON IT
3:59 P.M.
Miranda has to get out of here. To get to any of the other exits, she is going to have to cut back through the food court. But there’re fewer and fewer people left alive out there, and those few are even more obvious targets. She ventures back to where the hall meets the food court. In front of LA Nails, sheltered by the overhang, she tries to figure out what to do. How to stay alive.
She spots Parker underneath one of the escalators. He’s screaming his little sister’s name as he frantically scans the area.
The busboy Parker was taunting is dragging the rich girl whose mother was shot across the open space. They are almost clear when there’s another POP, POP, POP. He grabs his thigh and keeps lurching forward.
A whistle carries even over the fire alarm. Miranda looks for its source. A tall, thin guy standing just inside Culpeppers pulls his fingers from between his lips. On the other side of the entrance is that dark-skinned clerk, the one who wears a headscarf. She beckons Miranda with an urgent hand. With the other, she’s pulling down the roll-down metal security shutter.
Miranda runs toward the closing shutter like her life depends on it.
Knowing that it does.
4:00 p.m.
DISPATCH: Police, fire, or medical?
RON SKINNER: Police! We’ve got people being shot here!
DISPATCH: Okay. Tell me who you are and your address.
SKINNER: Ron Skinner. I work security at Fairgate Mall. And there’s people being shot here!
DISPATCH: Okay, Ron, take a deep breath. Is there still active shooting?
SKINNER: I don’t know! Hurry. Please hurry. They shot Gabriel and Zach. They work here too. I’m not sure where Timmy is. All we’re issued is pepper spray and zip ties. And they’ve got assault rifles!
DISPATCH: I’m dispatching cars now. How many shooters are there? What’s their location? Another caller stated that they were in the food court.
SKINNER: There’s a lot of them. I’m trying to check all the cams. They started in the food court, but now they’re all over. If they figure out I’m up here in the security office, they’ll kill me, too. You’ve got to get your people here now! Please, please. I don’t want to die!
BEFORE HE SEES US
4:00 P.M.
Miranda’s not the only one desperately making for Culpeppers. Ahead of her, the rich girl and the injured busboy are also heading for the store and the slowly lowering metal security shutter. The top of one of his pant legs is already dark and shiny with blood. His arm is looped over the girl’s shoulders. As thin as she is, she is somehow half carrying him.
How close are the men with guns? Miranda looks back over her shoulder. Parker’s in the same spot underneath the escalator, spinning in frantic circles with his hands outstretched. He’s stopped yelling “Moxie!” but it’s clear he’s still looking for his little sister. If Miranda didn’t already know it was Parker, if she hadn’t seen him just fifteen minutes ago, she would not recognize him now. His mouth is wide and turned down at the corners, his f
ace streaked with tears.
When her eyes focus past Parker, Miranda freezes. On the far side of the food court, one of the killers is coming down the escalator. Instead of running down the steps, he stays on his stair as it descends, as calm as a casual shopper. A casual shopper with an automatic rifle in his hands. He’s dressed all in black, including a black ski mask with holes for his eyes and mouth. He’s like a bug or a monster. Or a terrorist.
Is that what they are? Terrorists?
Over his clothes, he wears something like a short black apron with narrow, deep pockets holding red rubbery bricks with wires coming out of them. After a beat, Miranda’s brain supplies the term. It’s a suicide vest.
The escalator is otherwise empty, but at the bottom there’s a pile of three or four bodies. One of them, a woman with curly black hair, is still moving. Her legs churn weakly against the red-streaked linoleum.
Without any hurry, the man raises his rifle and fires. Her limbs jerk and then stop.
The shot breaks the spell that has held Miranda. She has to get out of here! The killer’s gaze is still focused in front of him. He isn’t looking her way. Not yet. But in a minute he’ll turn. He will turn his head and he will see her and he will kill her.
She’s just ten feet from Culpeppers. Ten feet from the metal shutter that might save her. The shutter that is already down to chest level as the busboy and the rich girl duck underneath it.
Still, Miranda turns back, ignoring the voice in her head screaming she’s a fool. She sprints toward Parker and yanks his wrist, spinning him toward her. “Come on!” she says, her voice an urgent whisper that barely competes with the shrill ringing of the fire alarm. “Before he sees us.”
He resists, but she tugs harder, her eyes on the gunman, who is stepping off the escalator.
Instead of following her, Parker gasps. Not in horror, but in something closer to joy. He’s spotted something in the hall with the locked doors that Miranda just abandoned. He tears his wrist from her grasp and races away.
Miranda turns back toward Culpeppers. The metal roll-down shutter is almost to the floor now. All she can see are knees and feet. And one head and a beckoning arm. It’s the guy who whistled, his face contorted. He’s not making any sound, but Miranda can read his lips.
He’s mouthing “Hurry!”
A foot from the rattling shutter, Miranda throws herself on her belly and rolls underneath.
Just before it closes.
4:01 p.m.
DISPATCH: All units, be advised, reports of active shooters inside Fairgate Mall. Possibly at the food court. 68 and 53, respond.
UNIT 68: 68 copy.
UNIT 53: 53 copy.
DISPATCH: One reporting party is a security officer on-site with access to cams. I’ve got ambulances en route.
UNIT 68: Confirm shooters still on scene?
DISPATCH: Affirm. First RP reports they’re still inside, multiple shots fired. Second report, from the security guard, is at least eight, probably male, unknown race, black clothing, possible AR-15s.
UNIT 53: What about the other security guards?
DISPATCH: RP says they’re down.
UNIT 68: Notify SWAT for call out.
DISPATCH: Affirm. SWAT’s been notified.
UNIT 68: 68 on scene.
DISPATCH: Copy.
UNIT 53: 53 about two blocks away.
UNIT 68: I’m at the south side, 53. Dispatch, we’re gonna need more units. There’s at least five exits on this side, and there’s people pouring out of them. But I’m not hearing any gunshots.
DISPATCH: Copy. All available units, respond to the Fairgate Mall.
UNIT 43: 43 on my way.
UNIT 41: 41 about ten minutes out.
UNIT 68: [shouting in the background] I’ve got at least three who’ve been shot, but there’re hundreds of people just running around. We need more cars. We need to set up a perimeter.
DISPATCH: Copy. I have 43 and 41 and who else?
UNIT 45: 45 just entering the property.
UNIT 14: Unit 14 en route from the substation.
UNIT 77: 77 on the way, but traffic’s congested on 26.
UNIT 115: 115 is on I-5, but it’s backed up as well.
DISPATCH: Any plainclothes responding, make sure you have your raid gear on.
UNIT 53: [moans in the background] This is 53. I’ve got at least five more injured in the parking lot. One male with chest wound appears critical.
DISPATCH: Copy. Fire is responding.
UNIT 68: Call Tigard, Beaverton, Oregon City, Salem, Vancouver, and anyone else for additional support. We’re going to need everyone we can get.
DISPATCH: Copy.
UNIT 45: I got another person outside shot, a female in the leg. We need rescue hot.
DISPATCH: 45, your location?
UNIT 45: East side of the mall on foot.
DISPATCH: Copy, 45. We’ll alert rescue.
UNIT 14: [sirens in the background] 14 on-site, west side. No gunshots heard.
DISPATCH: Confirm, no gunshots heard?
UNIT 14: Affirm. Not since my arrival.
UNIT 68: 68. The shooting appears to have stopped. I’ll assume command. Have fire stage in that old Sports Authority lot. It’s freestanding, on north side of mall. I want at least eight units establishing a perimeter and controlling traffic. For now, command is in front of Nordstrom on south side. Nordstrom opens directly into the food court.
DISPATCH: Copy.
IT’S YOUR LUCKY DAY
4:02 P.M.
When Miranda yanks at Parker’s wrist, he doesn’t have time to wonder why she’s in Fairgate Mall or why she, of all people, is trying to save his life. Because Parker catches a glimpse of a small figure dressed in red.
Moxie!
Shaking off Miranda’s grip, he takes off after his sister. Sticking to the perimeter, sheltered by the overhang of the second floor, he sprints flat out.
Parker darts into the corridor where he just saw the flash of red. Even though he’s lost sight of her, Moxie has to be here, because there’s no way out. Ahead of him, the exit doors are chained shut. Behind him is the food court, where the only people left are dead or dying, and at least one of the killers is on the hunt. Moxie must be among the couple of dozen people frantically milling around, or maybe in one of the small stores that lie on either side. With a wrestler’s agility, Parker cuts through the crowd, squeezing between a woman wearing a white visor and apron and a middle-aged guy dressed head to toe in Blazers gear. Parker zigzags between a kid he vaguely recognizes from school and a girl who looks like a teenager but has a baby in a stroller. Past an old guy in high-waisted jeans and white puffy tennis shoes, a young woman in impossibly high heels, three college girls clutching shopping bags and one another. Santa is here too, or at least the guy who was posing for photos a few minutes ago. Now he sits on a bench, his face red and sweaty. Parker dodges and weaves and slips, his gaze bouncing from one person to another: from an older black lady to a forty-ish businessman to a guy with a bushy beard and gauges. To a man with a shaved head hiding behind a pillar, a gun in his hand. To a middle-aged guy holding his arm like a tourniquet, blood welling between his fingers.
But no Moxie.
She must be in one of the stores. On one side is a Shoe Mill, and an AT&T phone store. On the other is a Coach store, a Van Duyn, and something called Eternity Day Spa. They are all small enough that the only way in or out is through each store’s main entrance. Moxie must be hiding in one of them, either in fear or blissful ignorance. Waiting desperately—or maybe just with an impatient giggle—for Parker to find her. He hopes it’s the second one. Hopes that she has no idea what’s going on. Hopes that he can snatch her up, keep her from seeing the dead, and find a way out.
The fire alarm suddenly stops. For a second, the silence is as loud as the piercing shrill had been. Then it’s filled by the sounds of people crying and freaking out and yelling into their cell phones and asking each other what to do.
&nb
sp; Parker is about to dart into the nearest store, the Shoe Mill, when a metallic clatter makes him turn. It’s one of the ski-masked killers. He’s pulling a seven-foot-tall folding metal security gate across the end of the corridor, right where it opens out into the food court. His AK is slung on his back. One side of the gate is bolted to the wall. It rattles along on casters, opening like an accordion. As soon as the guy reaches the other side, they will be penned in like animals. Animals at a slaughterhouse.
The crowd’s panic ratchets up even higher. The guy with the gauges starts to run toward the rapidly closing opening. But on the other side are two more guys wearing ski masks, both of them shouting, “Stay back!” and pointing their rifles at him and the people behind him.
Parker imagines bullets mowing half a dozen people down. But then the guy’s shoulders slump and he steps back.
Just before the security gate is all the way across, the killer who was pulling it steps inside. His lips are as full as a girl’s. In his head, Parker christens him Lips. Lips swings his rifle in a half circle so that they all step back.
All three killers are wearing suicide vests. One of the two men on the other side of the gate locks it with a padlock. He has a dark mole just underneath his left eyebrow. Mole points the rifle at the people they have penned in. The third killer puts a megaphone to his mouth. His eyes are the silvery blue of a wolf’s.
“Listen up, everyone,” Wolf says. “If you want to live—and I’m supposing you do—you have to be quiet and you have to do what we say.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “Because if you disobey us, you will be killed. To begin with, anyone who is still on their phone, turn it off. Now!”
Parker thinks to look for the man with the shaved head and the handgun, the one who was hiding behind a pillar, but he’s disappeared. If that guy shoots one of the killers, will that trigger the explosives?
