by April Henry
She cuts through the food court and runs down the hall to Parker’s right, so fast that it’s more like a controlled fall. She sprints past kiosks selling phone cases and remote-control cars, and Parker waits for Wolf or Mole to shoot her in the back. But they let her go. Others must have been watching and listening, because four more people dart out of various stores and go scrambling after her.
Wolf’s not being altruistic, Parker realizes. He just doesn’t want any surprises. He already has more than enough hostages penned up in the hall. Better to encourage the ones he can’t control to leave than to have his head on a swivel.
At the other two intersections, the ones Parker can’t see down, Wolf repeats his invitation.
And then the only people left are trapped between the bike-locked doors and the security gate.
As Wolf comes back to the gate, Mole shouts, “We need some of you to line up against the glass doors. Come on, do it now!”
As Lips begins to herd people toward the bike-locked exit doors, Parker takes one step away, then another.
“And all of you at the doors, I want you facing the parking lot,” Wolf commands. “I want them to see exactly what is at stake if they don’t meet our demands. I want them to see who they’re going to have to kill to get in here.”
“Come on, hurry up,” Lips says. “Don’t make me shoot someone to make you go faster. Line up shoulder to shoulder.”
“Santa!” Wolf yells. “You get up in front of the doors. You’ll be the next trending topic on Twitter.”
The guy dressed as Santa starts moving through the knots of people. His tearstained face is nearly as red as his outfit.
As people move toward the windows or away, Wolf speaks in a lower voice into the mic on his shoulder. “Come in, November. Do you copy? November?” When there’s no answer, he switches to “Romeo, have you seen November? Over.”
The answer that comes from his mic is short and decisive. “Negative.”
Parker is at the entrance of the Shoe Mill now. Everyone is focused on what’s happening at the glass doors. He takes one more step back and into the store. Now he can’t see any of the terrorists, which means they can’t see him. But he can still mostly hear them.
“Kilo, the hostages are secured,” Wolf says. “Repeat, hostages secured.” Wherever he is, it’s not in this hall.
Kilo’s voice issues from the killers’ mics. “Good. How many casualties?”
“Nine in the food court. Possibly more who were initially able to leave. One here. So far.” Wolf’s voice is filled with disdain. “He tried to keep his phone.”
“The other guards?” the unseen Kilo asks. As Parker slips deeper into the recesses of the store, he wonders how far away Kilo is. How many other killers are there?
“Taken care of. And Romeo’s in touch with the cops.”
“Did you distribute the message?” Kilo’s voice is barely audible.
“Yes,” Wolf says.
“Then we wait.”
Wolf starts to respond, but his words fade as Parker keeps walking backward into the shoe store.
@jennyhkoln
Portland Police confirm there has been a shooting at Fairgate Mall.
@carriefriday
NOT AGAIN. Praying for everyone at #FairgateShooting. Stay safe.
@SaraKiplinger
Until we know what happened, all I feel comfortable saying about #FairgateShooting is I’m angry—yet again.
@Portland Police
PDX FD units responding to reports of 20-victim shooting incident at Fairgate Mall. PDX PD is working to clear the scene.
@LuPodmove
Oh great. Another mass shooting. Seems like daily occurrence for whatever reason. Sickening! Thoughts with those in #FairgateShooting.
@naturalknots
#FairgateShooting hits very close to home. Its privilege to be here not a right & one we all share together. When will craziness stop?
@MsCampbell Reads
Portland shooting looks v bad. Good luck to law enforcement & God bless. Our police are so appreciated! #FairgateShooting
@tracybarrynews
Active shooter in Portland, OR. Police confirm 4–8 shooters wearing masks and possible body armor. No one in custody. Several shot.
HOW LONG
4:07 P.M.
Miranda leans down and grabs Javier’s hand to help him to his feet. After a pause, Cole does the same on the other side. Once Javier is up, he loops his arms around their shoulders. He grunts when he puts weight on his right foot, his fingers clamping onto Miranda’s upper arm. He smells of acrid sweat and coppery blood and a tiny bit like sweet shampoo.
Together they lurch past the cash register and the dressing rooms. In their wake is a trail of red drops. If the bad guys do get past the shutter, they will know exactly where they are.
They stagger into the storeroom. About fifteen by twenty feet, it’s filled with tall black metal shelving units stacked with neatly sorted clothing. In the back, a small desk sits next to two rows of short lockers. In the corner, an open door reveals a small bathroom with a toilet and sink.
Amina closes the storeroom door behind them. Her mouth is twisted as she stares at her phone.
Miranda, Cole, and Javier make for the chair in front of the desk. Miranda picks out her own unsmiling face on a bulletin board, then looks away, hoping no one else notices.
She starts to lower Javier into the chair. But Cole’s not doing the same. Instead, he uses his free arm to sweep two stacks of plaid sweaters off the nearest shelf and onto the floor.
“He needs to get his feet higher than his head or he’ll go into shock.” Cole’s words are brusque, almost impatient. He kicks the sweaters to spread them out, then he and Miranda lower Javier as carefully as they can. Still, when Javier’s back touches the floor, he grimaces and half rolls onto his side.
Miranda helps him lift his feet onto the chair. All the moving around has loosened the makeshift bandage. “I’m going to tighten this,” she says, taking the ends of the sleeves. He nods and then clenches his teeth. It’s like squeezing a bloody sponge. Should she try to make a tourniquet? She sees a shard of a memory: Matthew with a belt around his biceps. Miranda shakes her head, forcing herself to focus on this room, this guy whose lifeblood is hot under her palms.
“Thank you,” Javier says. “Again.”
She just nods and wipes her hands on her jeans, remembering too late that there’s a bathroom. How long can they take cover back here until they are hiding not with a bleeding boy but with a dead body?
Taking out her phone, she sends the same text to both of her parents, knowing it will produce very different results. Her dad will spring into action. Her mom will probably fall apart.
Shooting at Fairgate Mall. Hiding in Culpeppers. Plz tell cops. Someone shot in leg.
As Miranda finishes, Amina looks up from her phone. “I have been trying and trying, but no one’s answering 9-1-1. How is that even possible?”
“It’s possible because everyone here who can still dial is calling 9-1-1,” Cole says. “They’re overwhelmed. We’re on our own.” His tone is no-nonsense, but his hand trembles when he pushes the hair out of his eyes.
Grace is sitting with her back against the side of the desk. She shakes her head. “No, no, no.” Her voice rises, breaks. “Someone is coming to rescue us.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cole says bluntly. “Didn’t you hear what the shooters said about taking hostages?” Miranda tries to remember what she heard on the other side of the metal shutter. “And if there’s hostages, the police will hang back and negotiate. They won’t want to come barging in, not if that risks everyone getting shot. So this could take a long time.” He opens the desk’s top drawer and starts rifling through it.
Grace’s only answer is a whimper. She starts to rock back and forth.
“This can’t be real,” Amina says. “It’s like a movie. Or the worst nightmare ever.” She closes her eyes. “I just want to wake up.”
>
“None of us can afford to check out, not if we want to live.” Cole opens another drawer. “Look around and see what you can use as a weapon.”
But all the room holds is clothes. What are they supposed to do, blind the killers with a glitter-encrusted sweater?
After rooting around in the desk, Cole comes up with a three-hole punch and a pair of scissors. “We need to be ready to attack if they get inside the store.”
Miranda doesn’t want to pin her life on someone wielding a three-hole punch. “Can’t we lock that door?” she asks Amina.
But the other girl just shakes her head.
Miranda gives the nearest shelving unit a tentative push. It doesn’t budge. She leans on it with all her weight. It shifts the tiniest amount, maybe a quarter of an inch. Still, it’s something.
“If we can use one of these shelves to barricade the door, they won’t be able to open it. Then maybe it won’t matter that we don’t have weapons.”
“That’s a good idea,” Cole says, and Miranda feels a surge of pride.
She moves to the unit nearest the door. “Help me empty the shelves so it won’t be as heavy.” Amina and Cole move toward her, but Grace stays put. Miranda stands in front of her and holds out her hands. “Come on, Grace. Get up and help.”
After a few seconds, Grace, still whimpering, grabs Miranda’s hand and stands up.
“Maybe I can help too.” Javier pushes himself up on his elbows.
“No, you can’t, buddy,” Cole says matter-of-factly. “Moving around is just going to make that wound bleed more.”
Together Miranda, Grace, and Cole start dumping stacks of flannel shirts and boxes of chunky boots on the floor. Amina tries to neatly pile things. The shelves are made of lighter, flimsier metal than the framework of the shelving unit, so they leave them in place.
Miranda mouths the words “One, two, three,” and then the four of them push at the same time. The shelving unit slides only a couple of inches. Without saying anything, they gradually figure out how to work together and the best places to push, skidding it a little farther with each shove. Once, it makes a loud metallic squeal and they all freeze. But when there’s no answering noise from the far side of the door, they resume pushing.
And finally, they manage to slide it across the door.
“Good job!” Javier whispers. Amina mimes clapping. Grace tries on a trembling smile. Miranda can’t help grinning.
Then Cole whispers a curse.
“What’s the matter?” Miranda looks more closely at the door. No hinges, which means they must be on the other side. And that means … She swears too.
Amina’s eyes fill with tears. Grace still looks confused until Miranda explains, “The door. It opens out.”
NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS
4:17 P.M.
Miranda rounds on Amina. “You work here,” she says through gritted teeth. “You know which way the door closes! Why didn’t you say something while we were busting our butts?”
Now all the killers need to do is yank open the door, poke one of their guns between the shelves, and spray the room.
Amina puts her hands on her hips. “Hey, it was your idea, not mine! I was pushing too. I just didn’t think of it.”
“Be quiet!” Cole puts his finger to his lips. “They’ll hear you!”
Part of Miranda knows he’s right, but another part welcomes the anger surging through her veins, burning off some of her terror. “Maybe she wants them to hear us. After all, she’s the one in the hijab.”
“What are you talking about?” Amina whispers.
Grace opens her eyes and looks back and forth between them.
“Allahu akbar, isn’t that it?” Miranda says, “What Muslims say when they shoot people or blow up a bomb?”
Amina’s eyes widen. “Did you hear someone saying that? It means God is great. Something no terrorists understand.”
Rather than answer, Miranda looks away. That had been the terrifying thing. The shooters hadn’t said anything. But why else would anyone do such a hateful thing?
“I’m as American as the rest of you. I’m sick of people calling me a terrorist just because I cover my hair. There’s crazy people in every religion.” Amina raises her chin. “And if I was part of it, why would I be trapped in here?”
“I didn’t hear anyone saying anything about any kind of God.” Cole closes his eyes and swallows. “But I’m sure those guys have some kind of agenda.”
“Yeah,” Javier says quietly. “They want to kill a lot of people. What difference does it make why they want to?”
“All right. I’m sorry,” Miranda spits out. She moves back toward Javier. It’s only a few steps, but by the time she reaches him her legs feel too weak to support her weight. She sinks down on the loose mat of sweaters. She was okay when she was helping him or trying to barricade the door. But her head replays a loop of horror. The blood blooming on Grace’s mom’s chest. The expression on the face of the lady with the red scarf when the bullet hit her. The curly-haired woman’s legs churning against the blood-streaked floor until a shot stilled her forever.
How long will it be until everyone in this room is just as dead?
A touch on her hand makes her jerk, her heart hammering. But it’s just Javier. He gives her hand a squeeze, then takes his away.
Miranda looks around the room. Cole is rubbing his face with his palms. Amina is biting her lip as she types on her phone. Tears roll down Grace’s face as she mutters “Daddy” and “Mom,” stabbing a button on her phone over and over.
Cole looks up. “What have you guys heard in the last few minutes?”
“You mean out there?” Miranda forces herself to think back. “Nothing. Not since that guy made those announcements.”
“I think the killing has stopped. If people were still being shot, the cops would force their way in. But if they’re not, the cops will try to negotiate.”
How long could that take? The sweaters under Javier’s leg are already splotched with red. He needs a better bandage than a couple of sweatshirts.
And Miranda knows just where she can find one.
She slips her hand under her loose sweater and inside the wide Ace bandage wrapped around her torso. No one’s looking her way, so she pulls out the boxes of Clinique mascara and hides them under the pile of sweaters. When she straightens up, she sees that Javier is watching her, but his face doesn’t hold any judgment.
Miranda does the math. If this hadn’t happened, she would be on her way to Matthew now. If this hadn’t happened, soon she would be handing over everything she stole in the past few days. Soon she would be feeling so much better. Or rather, she wouldn’t be feeling anything at all. Instead, now she’s in withdrawal. Shivering, she swipes at her nose with the back of her hand.
“Don’t cry.” Javier’s the one with a bullet wound, but he’s trying to console her.
“I’m not.” Miranda’s eyes are wet, but she’s telling the truth. She tugs the Ace bandage free.
Suddenly, Grace raises her phone to her ear. Her face changes. “Daddy!”
Even as everyone signals her to keep her voice down, they all lean forward to listen.
Then the light in Grace’s eyes dims and the joy leaves her voice. “Oh. Okay. Daddy, if you hear this message, first of all, I want you to know that I love you. Okay? I love you very much. I’m at Fairgate Mall in Portland. Oh, Daddy, there’s men with guns and they’re shooting people.” Her voice cracks. “And … and … and Mom’s dead. They killed her.” She swallows. “And now I’m hiding with a bunch of people in a Culpeppers. In the storeroom.” Her whisper is strangled. “And no matter what happens, just know that I love you and Emily so, so much.” She hangs up, puts her hand over her eyes, and starts to cry again.
Cole moves closer and puts his arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“It’s not your fault,” she chokes out.
Grace’s failure to connect is a fresh reminder of ho
w alone they are. Miranda looks away from her naked pain. She feels so helpless, but maybe there’s still something she can do. “Can one of you guys help me with Javier’s leg? It’s still bleeding.”
Cole gives Grace’s shoulder a squeeze before releasing her and coming over. He leans down. “How’re you feeling, buddy?”
“Okay,” Javier says. His hairline is beaded with sweat. After a pause, he adds, “I mean, it hurts.”
“Try to stay calm.” Cole’s own voice is calm nearly to the point of disinterest. “The more stressed you get, the higher your blood pressure. Which makes you pump out more blood. If we had a field kit, I could dump some coagulants in the wound. But we’ve got nothing.”
Cole sounds so knowledgeable. His hair seems too long, but … “Are you in the army or something?” Miranda asks.
“My brothers were.” His voice falters, and he looks in the direction of the food court, his face contorting.
She doesn’t ask any more. Doesn’t want to know what that past tense means. Or how long it’s been true.
On top of the desk is a sports water bottle. Cole undoes the cap and sniffs. “Water,” he says, handing it to Javier. “Here. Take little sips every minute or two. Drinking is about the only way to replace the blood you’ve lost. But don’t drink too much or too fast or you’ll throw up.”
Miranda holds up the Ace bandage. “Can you help me bandage his leg?”
Cole takes the length of tan elastic from her. “Why do you have this?”
“I hurt my ribs.” Hopefully, Javier won’t say anything about the mascara.
“I thought doctors didn’t strap ribs anymore,” Cole says. “It’s bad for them to be immobile.” When her only answer is a shrug, he turns to Javier. “Let’s take a look at the wound first. Maybe we can pack it with something.”
Cole takes the scissors from the desk and washes them in the bathroom. Returning, he pinches the cloth around the bullet hole on the front of Javier’s thigh and then cuts out a circle. Javier holds himself still, his face shining with sweat.
Cole wipes the blood away with a sweater. The wound, which is toward the outside of his thigh, is not as scary as Miranda feared. About as wide as her pinky, it looks more like a puncture.
