Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  I watched him disappear around the corner of the lunchroom, and like the Pied Piper, students and teachers followed without question, their numbers soon clogging the doorways. I studied the body of Rashid, whose chest was still moving up and down. How much time had passed? I wasn’t sure, but I thought less than two minutes since Rashid had told me. That gives us maybe nine minutes.

  “What do you want us to do?” asked a voice, disturbing my calculations. I looked up to see Tyrone, his bright smile flashing. Other students came up behind him and I recognized Goat loping along with the small group.

  “Hi, Miss S,” Goat said. “Glad you’re all right.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “How can we help?” He gestured to some friends standing behind him.

  “A couple of guys grab Rashid and carry him out,” I said. “Be careful. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

  “Sure,” said Goat. He turned to the tall guy next to him and said, “Clete, com’on.”

  The two boys lifted the body of Rashid and started toward the front of the building. I watched as they moved and joined the crowd queuing up to get out through the narrow doorway.

  Another student, a black-haired boy with a pimply face, pointed to Jesus. “Should we get him?”

  I bent down and felt his carotid artery; there was no pulse. I shook my head. Then I moved a few steps to where Yassim still lay atop Jerod. I repeated my inspection and again, no pulse.

  I turned to Tyrone and pimple-face and, pointing to the dead terrorist leader, said, “Roll him off Mr. Thomas.”

  They reached down and clumsily flipped the limp body of Yassim off Jerod and the bloodied terrorist’s body plopped onto his face with a clunk. Terrified of what I would find, I placed my quivering fingertips on Jerod’s neck. I eyed the right side of his body that was covered with blood, the gray sweatshirt sleeve completely drenched in red. At first, I thought I felt nothing, no pulse, just like the other two and my hopes plummeted. But then, just before I pulled my fingers off his neck, I felt it. A very weak pulse, but it was there. My heart leaped, even as I had to remind myself that the pulse was barely detectable. But it was there!

  “Hurry, Tyrone and you, pick him up and carry him! Let’s go!” I cried.

  They needed no further encouragement. Tyrone grabbed Jerod's legs and the other student his arms. The two strong young men struggled at first--Jerod’s unconscious body was so limp it was hard to handle--but then they got the hang of it and started walking quickly, his wounds bleeding between them as they stepped. I followed right behind.

  I looked around the cafeteria and noticed that most of the students were around the corner and down the hallway. With Jerod in tow, we had to move more slowly and by the time we reached the front of the lunchroom, we were the last ones out.

  The boys hesitated slightly as they tried to round a corner, having to maneuver Jerod through the doorway. I watched, agonizing, as Jerod’s head lolled to one side or the other as the boys angled his body through the doorway. My heart prayed, demanded that he survive. The seconds ticked away in my head.

  “You guys all right?” I asked, nervously.

  “Yes, ma'am, we’re okay,” replied Tyrone, though a little out of breath.

  “Let’s keep going. We don’t have much time,” I said, trying to encourage them.

  “Till what?” Tyrone had asked. He and his partner stopped to adjust their grip on Jerod.

  “Never mind, guys. Let’s just keep going,” I added quickly.

  My eyes moved to the floor and I watched Jerod bleeding, leaving a trail of red, oval drops on the white linoleum. I stayed to one side so I didn’t step in the blood, as if that would somehow desecrate him. Not wanting to think about how much blood he was losing, I looked ahead.

  We turned another corner and headed down the main hallway. I peered beyond them and could see the front foyer. Where the beautiful entryway had once stood, there were no glass doors or side panels anymore and the cold air blew in full on our faces. The expensive glass was fractured, scattered into millions of pieces lying like loose misshapened diamonds on the floor. The metal frames were twisted into grotesque shapes that looked remarkably like some exotic modern art sculpture. My bare feet exposed, I tried my best to avoid the broken glass, but it was no use. The sharp edges bit into my flesh, slicing across my soles. I looked down and saw my blood drops trailed beside the path of Jerod’s blood.

  Then I glanced ahead and caught sight of Hal Thompson. Standing in the space that had been the doorway, the principal was waving his long arms in exaggerated sweeps, beckoning us furiously. Then he pointed to a watch on his wrist.

  My eyes darted from him to the two boys carrying Jerod. “You guys are doing great. Just a little bit more.” I tried to keep the edge of panic out of my voice. “You can make it.”

  Just then, two dark figures brushed past Hal at the opening and another pulled him roughly away from the building. In a few seconds, the two men were beside us and were grabbing Jerod’s body from Tyrone and his partner. I realized that the men were wearing dark-blue flak jackets and had the letters FBI stenciled across the back.

  “We’ll take him,” the older one said. “We have to hurry and get out.” With that, he took Jerod from the teens and hoisted the limp body on his shoulder, fireman style. He took off at a trot for the blasted-out exit, Jerod’s body flopping on his shoulder. The second FBI agent grabbed the two teens and said, “Can you guys run?”

  The two teens nodded in unison.

  “Okay, as fast as you can, make for the outside,” he directed. Now sensing the danger, the two boys sprinted for the opening, each one trying to best the other. Then he turned to me, “You, too, ma'am.”

  He grabbed my arm and propelled me, trotting the last hundred yards. My feet, riddled with lacerations from the glass, screamed in pain with every step. As the agent and I ran, his hand on my elbow, I glanced briefly across at him and noticed the side of his head. A long, old-fashioned sideburn--one they would have called muttonchops—bordered the side of his face and he was sweating profusely. I had just enough time to think, how odd. I glanced ahead again. Up to the doorway and through, we kept moving. The agent didn’t relinquish his grip till we were out, twenty yards clear of the structure.

  Standing there trying to catch my breath, my gaze swept left and right, taking in the scene in front of me. Husks of blackened school buses lay in contorted positions, like toys destroyed and discarded by some angry giant. Lined up behind the skeletons of the burned-out buses must have been fifty FBI agents, standing shoulder to shoulder, clad like the two that had come to escort us out of the high school. The agents formed a ring that encircled the entire front of the school and three other agents stood off to the side, talking with Hal Thompson and a handful of students. One of the students, an overweight, redhead girl, gestured toward me and the group turned in my direction. As I took in the scene, I watched, frozen to the spot, as a discarded, plastic Wal-Mart bag puffed up with air, pranced in the wind in front of me, rolling over like some brown cellophane tumbleweed. I studied the apparition for a few seconds, momentarily mesmerized by the strange dance. I stared down at my bleeding bare feet and the ground beneath and then finally started moving again. My feet protested anew with every step. After three uncertain steps, I brought my gaze up and saw as the line of agents, still thirty feet ahead of me, part and a gurney come through the opening and the agent lowered Jerod onto it. Four med techs surrounded him and were swallowed by the blue wave. Only then did I notice the flashing strobes of the ambulances and squad cars behind the agents.

  Behind me I heard a slow rumble build and started to turn to see what was happening. A huge explosion rented the air behind me. A pressure wave of heat and wind slammed into my body with incredible force. Then, nothing.

  Chapter 58

  “Three minutes, Mr. President,” the technician called to Ryan Gregory, who nodded behind the crew of make-up men.

  Harold Samson gazed at the monitor and watched the p
resident shoo away the TV men and focus his attention on the teleprompter, his eyes concentrating on the scrolling lines. He sat behind the desk in the Oval Office, looking regal and handsome and assured again. He had showered and dressed, once again resplendent in a navy suit with white shirt and red tie, a perfect patriotic symbol for the nation, thought Samson. Yes, the President was ready to tell Americans what they wanted to hear.

  “Mr. President, we want to do a final light check. If you’ll look into number one camera?” the female director asked, somewhere off-camera.

  Harold watched the screen as Gregory tried out a reassuring smile for the cameras.

  “Great. Thank you, Mr. President. Ninety seconds, sir.”

  Samson stared down at his own clothes, tie askew, white shirt spotted with perspiration marks and stray food stains. He stood, with two other cabinet members, in the outside office, focused on the Chief Executive as he got ready to address the nation. Harold’s eyes took in the figures of two other members of the team--Dickson and Garcia--also banished to the outer office. They too looked spent, their clothes equally disheveled. Only Chief of Staff, Dean Settler, remained in the inner sanctum, off to the side and out of view of the camera. Just far enough so the strings would still reach, thought Samson, cynicism in full throttle.

  Samson shook his head and took another sip of his drink in his hand, a double Scotch and water. He figured he deserved it. Hell, he needed it. He thought about Settler, off in the wings. After the students and teachers had escaped and the school building had exploded, it had taken Settler only three minutes to pounce.

  “Mr. President, now that the crisis has passed,” he had begun. There hadn’t even been an accurate body count yet. “We need to talk about your response.”

  Gregory had looked up with those tired, red eyes that seemed to have been bearing the pain of the nation. He had said nothing. Samson stared at the image of the President on the monitor, trying mentally to reconcile the image on the screen with the spent man he had witnessed two short hours ago. The face on the monitor looked perfect, no bloodshot eyes, no hint of fatigue. The marvels of modern medicine, Samson thought.

  “Mr. President, the nation needs you right now,” Settler had said. “We can’t let the media run with this. We need to spin this in our direction.”

  “Dean?” Ryan Gregory had said.

  “Sir, you are the president and right now three hundred million Americans want to be assured that their safety and security is not threatened. And hell, yes, it won’t hurt your campaign any, sir.”

  No one else in the Situation Room said a word. The entire group was exhausted and stunned, except the Chief of Staff. He seemed to get more animated with “the opportunity,” his scarecrow features swelling as if some plastic surgeon had injected collagen in the pores. Samson was once again amazed at the Chief of Staff’s callous ability to use the tragedy to boost the President’s ratings.

  Settler continued, “Sir, you’ve had to give up almost twenty-fours hours of critical campaign time, holed up in this bunker,” he argued. “What’s wrong with spinning this in our favor to get some of that advantage back?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “We could talk about the U.S. standing up to terrorism. And you could salute the heroism of individual Americans.”

  “And you could talk about the deployment of the FBI as a strike force,” Dickson had contributed, sensing the tide was shifting.

  “No, not strike force,” Settler had argued and Dickson had looked wounded. Then Settler corrected, “The FBI rescue force.” Dickson smiled at the change and nodded. “We need to work up a full statement, Mr. President,” he continued and then suddenly added, “For your approval, sir.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then.” Gregory had disappeared through the doorway.

  “I’ll make arrangements for the President to pre-empt prime time,” Settler had said, as soon as the President was gone.

  Samson had risen from the table. The other three men noted his move and stopped talking. “This is more your thing. I’ll let you guys handle this. I need a drink.”

  The announcement on the TV brought Samson back to the present. A solemn voice declared, “The President of the United States.”

  The camera opened with a wide shot, showing Gregory behind the desk and the green carpet with the presidential seal on the floor in front. Then the camera moved in tightly on the President, sitting erect in the chair.

  “My fellows Americans, as you have probably heard, a group of cowardly terrorists tried to strike at the heart of America, but they failed. Their target was a small high school in rural Ohio, Thurber High School in Hammerville, Ohio. At this high school, this band of ruthless terrorists held more than five hundred innocent students and teachers hostage for almost six hours in the school cafeteria. These terrorists had demanded the release of another Al Quaida terrorist, a convicted murderer named Asad Akadi, who had been slated to be executed for his crimes at six o’clock today.”

  He paused and stared into the camera, working the audience.

  “I am pleased to tell you that we did not and will not, as long as I am President, negotiate with terrorists. Per the law of the land, and the determination of the court and a jury of his peers, Asad Akadi was executed at six o’clock p.m. He will terrorize America no more. And the terrorists’ attempt to take control of the school was thwarted, all because of the courage and heroism of individuals at the high school, coordinated with the strategic tactics of our own FBI. The Department of Homeland Security was able to make secret contact with one of the hostages and, with her help, we were able to save nearly all the hostages. I can tell you now, my fellow Americans, that we have been in constant contact with the hostages and we provided hope and ultimately rescue to those caught in the maelstrom of this ordeal.”

  “All this was not without cost, though. Several of our fellow citizens lost their lives in this crisis and rescue, including some heroic teachers and brave members of the FBI. Many more were injured in the confrontation.”

  Gregory’s face seemed to inch closer to the camera and Samson could have sworn he saw a tear in one eye. “Those injured includes one teacher who risked her own life and stood up to the terrorists. Her name is Dee Dee Sterber and tonight she lies, unconscious, in a hospital bed. Ms. Sterber, on behalf of the five hundred hostages and on behalf of Americans everywhere, our humble thanks for your unselfish heroism and courage. Our prayers are with you,” he said quietly.

  “My fellow Americans, we will never rest, as long as there are terrorists whose only desire is to destroy our cherished freedoms,” President Gregory continued, once again adopting a presidential tone. “Once more, the enemies of these freedoms have been defeated and tonight we are sending a message to terrorists everywhere: we will not rest until these terrorists--these criminals--are dragged out of the burrows where they hide like cowards and brought to the light of justice...”

  Samson turned away from the television. He scanned the room and noticed everyone’s eyes were riveted on the screen. His glance came to rest on the drink in his hand, which was now empty. He looked up at the TV, but no longer heard the President’s words. In disgust, he realized that Settler had been right: the whole thing was turning out to be a real PR coup for President Ryan Gregory.

  Gazing back at his empty glass, he thought, I need another drink. He turned and walked out of the outer office. Tomorrow, he decided, he would draft his letter of resignation.

  Chapter 59

  I struggled to open my eyes, but my lids felt glued to my sockets. I took a full, deliberate breath, then tried again to slowly raise my eyelids, but they wouldn’t budge. Unable to see anything, I tried to focus my attention on my other senses, but found my brain slow in cooperating.

  Something soft cushioned the back of my head. And what was that smell, that odd mixture of garden scents and chemicals? I knew it, but couldn’t place it. My ears picked up noises of someone beside me, not talking, just some movement along w
ith some breathing. I sensed someone was there, hovering, and my paranoia kicked in. The vision of the metal barrel of a large pistol gripped in a bloody hand coalesced in my head, fractured piece by fractured piece, like some ugly, misshapen puzzle. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure I had killed Jesus at all. The horrific image of the terrorist leapt into my mind, standing in front of me with that disgusting leer, waiting for me to look up at him, just before he pulled the trigger. I jolted my eyes open and uttered a squeal.

  “Well...welcome back to the land of the living,” said a voice beside me.

  It was--not Jesus or Yassim--but a woman. I turned and studied the image beside me. Her figure seemed to be wrapped in layers of cotton and I blinked twice. It took several more seconds for my clouded vision to clear and for the image to register in my brain. I fought to concentrate but my senses were dulled, dimmed as if oozed through some barely permeable filter.

  As the haze started to lift, I could make out that the woman was about my age, though slimmer. As she stood beside me, my gaze took in a white smock with flowers scattered across it, miniature smudges of tulips, daffodils, and lilacs. Her auburn hair was tied haphazardly in a ponytail, as if she had been in a hurry to put it up. She had an attractive face, sparkling green eyes above a petite nose with a scattering of freckles on her cheeks. She smiled warmly, her lips two thin pink lines bracketing white teeth.

  “Good to see those eyes of yours,” she said warmly. She checked and adjusted the feed on a tube that hooked into my arm from a translucent bag dangling below a metal stand. My gaze followed the path of the tube and I saw two other long tubes dangling down like the arms of some pale spider.