Shooter

by Caroline Pignat

  “NOAH!” I scream again. His body lies motionless in the skewed rectangle of light that spills into the atrium. The mangy fur of his cloak. The bright orange of his hat still covering his face. The dust winking in the shaft of sunlight. Numb-brained, my eyes absorb it all, record every vivid detail.

  I have to get to him. To Hogan, deathly still on the other side. I elbow my way through the stunned bystanders.

  Gun still drawn, an officer circles them, kicking away the weapon, and it slides towards me as I approach. The broom handle, the stupid broom handle that might have cost their lives. Two other officers roughly roll Noah over onto his stomach, kneel on him, and wrench his arms behind his back to secure them in handcuffs. Finally, one of them yanks off Noah’s hat and I start to cry.

  Noah. Poor Noah, with his hair plastered to his sweaty head, his face streaked with tears, and his eyes, wide and wild in the sunlight’s glare. He is terrified. More terrified than I’ve ever seen him.

  And he is alive, thank God. He’s alive. I shove my way through the crowd eager to reach him.

  Another officer moves towards Hogan, kneels by him and checks his pulse. Even as he presses, I feel mine stop. He unclips his radio and requests paramedics. But through it all, Hogan never moves.

  “Hogan!” I yell, veering towards him. I fall to my knees beside where he lies on his back. His eyes are closed. A hole five inches below his collarbone bubbles and oozes a dark red that puddles beside him. Blood—not paint. “Oh my God—Hogan?”

  “Here.” The officer takes my hand, presses it against the wound that pulses hot and slick. I want to pull away. To run away. I want to be sick. “Keep the pressure on it,” he says to me. “Can you do that?”

  I nod. Swallow, but my mouth is dry. “Is he going to be all—?”

  “YEAAaAAARrgggh!!” Noah thrashes and snarls like a wild animal as the officers wrestle him to his feet. His face is grimaced, his neck bulging with effort.

  “Stop!” I cry. “You’re hurting him!” But I can’t get up. I can’t leave Hogan. I can’t help Noah.

  “Wait! No!” Isabelle pushes and shoves through the stunned crowd to Noah’s side. “He’s autistic; he’s autistic. He doesn’t understand!”

  The officer seems confused. The furry suit, the hat, the dramatic entrance. Surely, this guy is in on it.

  “He’s innocent!” she says, her eyes frantic. “We have to get everyone out. NOW!”

  Isabelle is right. The danger is far from over. Many students made it through the one open door on the other side of the atrium. Maybe even Xander. But hundreds more still press at the exit or gather around us for a better look, at Hogan—oh God, Hogan!

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say to him, to myself, to Noah. To anyone that might be listening. “You’re going to be okay.”

  I glance around the atrium knowing that the bomb could be hidden anywhere, could explode at any moment. Could kill every one of us. Hope and time are running out. Seeping through my fingers, like Hogan’s blood.

  And I just can’t stop it.

  HOGAN

  My chest is on fire. My legs numb.

  Oh my God—I’ve been shot!

  The thudding in my ears slows.

  Am I dying?

  For the second time today, I ask myself that same question. Only this time, I am shot. I am bleeding. I am injured. I don’t know how bad.

  You look like hell, Hulkster.

  It’s Randy.

  He is sitting beside me, glinting in and out of the shaft of sunlight like he is only dust. He smiles. But this time, it isn’t mocking. He seems glad to see me.

  Randy? My mouth doesn’t move. Am I dying?

  Randy shrugs. It’s up to you.

  I’m sorry, I say. I’m so sorry about everything.

  I know. He nods slowly. It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault.

  And though the burning in my chest continues, the heavy weight has lifted.

  He flickers.

  What’s it like where you are? I ask. Are you okay?

  It’s like a winning touchdown that lasts forever. He smiles and flickers again. Don’t worry about me, I’m good. We’re good. And I’ll be waiting for you, whenever it’s time. But I’d say you got a few more plays to go, Hulkster. You’re going to—

  “—be okay,” Alice says next to me. Her voice pulls me like a lifeline. And my mind reaches for it, my heart holds onto it with whatever I’ve got left.

  I look back. Randy is gone, but through the beam of sunlight I see the birds. His bird. And I see something else. A guy. Shimmying from a second-floor window across the wire that secures the big white bird to the wall. He’s on the wire scrunching and stretching, inching along it like a caterpillar. Making his way to the center of the flock where a red ball dangles.

  I grip Alice’s hand.

  ISABELLE

  The police don’t let Noah go, but they seem to ease up on him.

  Hogan is sprawled on the floor. Alice is beside him, holding his hand. She has her other hand pressed tight against his chest. There’s blood—a lot of blood. It’s spilling through her fingers. Puddling on the floor. But I make myself kneel down beside them.

  “Guys, we have to get out of here.”

  “He can’t move until the paramedics come,” Alice says. And I can tell she means that she won’t either.

  He’s lost a lot of blood. How much is too much?

  Hogan mumbles as he stares off, eyes glazed.

  “Just relax,” I say, but he lets go of Alice’s hand and slowly points up at the Doves of Peace, where something among the large birds catches my eye. “Xander?”

  It is. He has somehow made it across the wire and he’s straddling one of the birds high overhead. A good thirty feet in the air.

  What the hell is he doing?

  The flying X is not shooting any more—maybe it’s out of paint bullets—but it’s buzzing him, diving and clipping at Xander’s head. He ducks and swats at it, slipping sideways on the bird as he loses his grip. The sculpture sways dangerously.

  “Careful!” I shout.

  The plane buzzes by again. I may not know what Xander’s up to, but whatever it is, clearly Maxwell is trying to stop him. Then I see it: a red shape among the birds. It’s hanging on a long wire just out of Xander’s reach. It’s the Magneto helmet from the video.

  The bomb!

  But can Xander get to it? In time? And even if he does, does he know how to defuse it?

  I look across the atrium. Hundreds of students cram the exit. All of them, all of us, right beneath a bomb that could go off any second. Could fire hundreds of bullets. In all directions. Could kill us all.

  Alice and Hogan meet my eyes and we look back up at Xander Watt—the only one who can save us.

  Xander pumps his legs, swinging the bird back and forth. The Tank, still around his neck, clatters against the wire. He’s going to kill himself before he gets anywhere near that helmet. I worked on a dove back in grade 10 Art class. Randy King’s. They are just fiberglass frames covered with papier-mâché, secured to the ceiling and walls with wire. Wire meant to bear the weight of one bird. Not a person. Especially not one swinging from it.

  I expect each swing to be the last. The one where the sculpture splits, the wire snaps, or the bolts just rip right out of the wall. Total disaster—for Xander. For all of us.

  But on the next pump, Xander springs off the bird and lunges for the helmet. The left cable of his bird snaps as he leaves and the bird drops, swooping towards the right wall. Even as the dove plunges, I hope it will pull up at that last second. But it rams the wall, hard, its head breaking into splinters, before it crashes to the floor.

  Xander hangs from the helmet’s wire, spinning high above the atrium like a circus performer while the drone attacks.

  But this isn’t a show. There’s no net. And that isn’t a helmet. It’s a bomb.

  Worst of all, time is running out.

  “Forget the drone!” I yell up at him from where I kne
el.

  “Focus, Xander,” Alice shouts. “You can do it!”

  Ignoring the drone, Xander rolls upwards, and wraps his feet around the wire. Dangling by his legs, he starts yanking at the front of the helmet. He’s tugging, tearing, trying to pull something from the eye sockets. Then, with one final heave, it comes free—

  —and so does he.

  The wire securing the helmet to the ceiling snaps and Xander drops. Thirty feet. Three seconds, if that, but it all happens in slo-mo:

  His right arm windmilling—

  his legs kicking as he tries to tread air—

  the Tank floating just above him, strap slack as it falls—

  and tucked like a football in the crook of his left arm: Magneto’s helmet

  red metal shining as it passes through the ray of light—

  the bomb drops—

  and Xander falls—

  —just like the dove.

  Alice throws herself over Hogan, covering their heads with her arm. But I just watch it all fall. Horrified. I wait for it to explode.

  There is no blast. Just a sickening—CRACK!—as Xander hits.

  He lies, not ten feet away, on the atrium floor beside the broken dove. His legs splayed. Head turned away. He doesn’t move. No one does. The Tank is shattered beside him. Its film unspools, exposing its brown guts. All of his pictures, his stupid pictures, dying in the light. He has that damn helmet still gripped in his arm. Through the ragged hole torn in its face falls a thin stream of ball bearings.

  Click.

  Click.

  They hit the marble floor. Each one the sound of a life spared. Xander’s right hand still holds whatever he ripped from the helmet. Wires. A digital display.

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  The small, silver balls glint in the light and then roll into darkness, as I watch the red numbers count down.

  On the second floor, in the room above the mural, a light flashes as one final shot rings out.

  Then all is silent.

  May 14, 2016

  ‘On a rampage,’ say peers

  By Todd Ryder

  Staff Writer

  BIRCHTOWN—A 17-year-old student involved in yesterday’s shooting at St. Francis Xavier High School has “always had anger issues,” classmates said.

  Multiple sources confirm this ex-linebacker was well known for his temper, arrests for drug use and theft, and antisocial behavior.

  One 14-year-old student said she’s “not surprised the cops shot him,” while countless others stated that “the Hulk,” as he is commonly known, was “naked and on a rampage” through the school only moments before the “police took him down as he attacked one of the high-needs kids.”

  One grade 9 student reported seeing four seniors fleeing him on the third floor as they escaped the boys’ washroom, where he may have held them captive.

  In interviews, students agreed that they thought the incident at the school was “just another X-Men prank,” an ongoing tradition this year at St. Francis Xavier. Whether “the Hulk” is the mastermind behind these X-Men stunts of false alarms, vandalism, and social disturbances remains to be seen. But parents, students, and administration all agree that it had escalated far beyond mere high school pranks.

  “It’s those damn video games,” said one mother. Others blame heavy metal music, violent comics, and lack of funding for certain medications. Whatever the influence, one thing remains certain: the school community demands action.

  “I don’t care if he’s under age. He’s taken it to the next level,” said one concerned parent. “It’s time the justice system does the same. And if they don’t, I will. Someone has got to teach this kid a lesson.”

  Speculations persist concerning the teenager’s involvement in a previous altercation at the school in 2014 that resulted in the death of his brother. Charges in that case were not laid.

  Last night, masked paintballers vandalized the teen’s home. His parents were unavailable for comment.

  Regional Police also refused to comment on either the student’s previous arrests or their investigation into this shooting.

  Several students were admitted to hospital with injuries sustained during the attack. Two remain in critical condition, and one is confirmed dead.

  ISABELLE

  The school shuts down for a week—and so do I. After filling out police reports and interview after interview at the station, I got into my bed and stayed there. They’d interviewed me for hours. Separated us, so we’d keep our stories straight, I suppose. But it was only me and Alice. Noah doesn’t speak. And Hogan and Xander—who knows if they will speak again?

  I stay in bed—but I don’t remember sleeping. I’m just replaying those scenes. That day. Those sixty minutes.

  Was it only sixty minutes?

  Images loop through my mind, like a slideshow of Xander’s demented photos: Xander—sprawled on the atrium floor. Hogan’s blood all over Alice’s hands. Noah freaking out. Smoke. Chains. Ambulance lights. And all the while the alarm still ringing in my ears. At least, until…BANG! the gun explodes—and I wake again.

  My parents let me be, at first. One day rolls into another. I don’t eat or shower or care.

  “Fresh air,” my mother says, finally barging in and pulling open the curtains. Sunlight burns my eyes. “That’s what you need.” She moves to the clutter on my desk. Pins a ribbon back on my bulletin board. Starts picking up my pencils. Organizing. Obsessing. Fixing.

  I don’t speak. She’ll never get it. Never get me.

  My mother stops rearranging my pen caddy and instead sits on the bed beside me. She looks around at the mess that is my room and sighs.

  I close my eyes—just waiting for her to tell me I’d feel better if I took a shower or cleaned my room.

  “Do you want another Tylenol?” She rests the back of her hand against my forehead but there’s no fever. “Why don’t you call Brianne?” She pauses. “Her mom said she was in the office when it happened. She’s probably upset.”

  “Who cares?” I mumble.

  My mother looks around the room, unsure of what to do or say next. She never comes in here. I can tell she feels uncomfortable.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks, because she has no idea how to help. For a moment, I wonder if a real mom would know. If Teresa, my DREX mom, would know. My mother doesn’t do well with this kind of nurturing—these kinds of needs.

  “Juice…or toast or something…” She trails off into that awkward silence again.

  If I wanted a ride or a new phone, if I needed money for school, she’d be all over that. But I don’t even know what I need. So how can I ask for it?

  “Is it…Darren?” she asks, her voice unusually gentle.

  My eyes fill up. I look away.

  “Did you guys have a fight?”

  And then I see those pictures again—Darren and Bri. My Darren. My Bri. I feel sick.

  “He cheated on me,” I say, my voice low. “With Bri.” I wasn’t planning on thinking about it ever again. Least of all by telling her. The last thing I need is a pep talk about other fish, better friends, and new beginnings at Queen’s—a place she still thinks I am going.

  I close my eyes and rest my forearm across them, not wanting to see her disappointment in me as I add, “…And I didn’t get into Queen’s.”

  Hot tears seep out and roll back into my ears.

  But instead of trying to cheer me up, or push me forward, instead of trying to pick me up and dust me off, instead of completely freaking out over my scars—which I just realize she has now seen—my mother does the one thing I never expected. She lies beside me. She wraps me in her arms. She kisses the top of my head, greasy hair and all. But she doesn’t say a word.

  We lie like that—and I cry. Like, snot-sobbing ugly-cry, until there’s nothing left. And my mom cries too. But she never lets go. She just holds me tight, tight enough so that I can finally let go.

  And that great big bre
ath I’ve been holding for so long, years really—the one that makes my heart ache and shoulders tense, the one that makes my arms bleed—at last, it’s released.

  NOAH

  RIIINNNG!

  The lunch bell sings four seconds long.

  Kids get up and go.

  And Mr. Dean and me

  Sweep side to side.

  All the way across.

  And back.

  Across.

  And back.

  Clearing crumbs and crusts

  Spreading

  quiet

  clean

  Like soft, flannel sheets.

  Swish.

  Swish.

  Swish.

  On the shiny square tiles.

  It’s nice.

  ALICE

  They let us back in after a week. The police wanted to be sure there were no other Maxwell surprises left behind. They say they got them all. But that doesn’t help me. I still jump every time a locker slams. Panic in the crowds and stairwells and bathroom stalls. And even though I know they cleaned up the broken dove, and ball bearings, and…blood, I avoid the atrium altogether. A cold has settled in my gut, a trembling knot that ties me up and holds me hostage. Even now.

  Fear.

  It wakes me in the night. Hunts me in the day. I can’t even write any more. It’s as if my imagination has been poisoned—my greatest gift has become my worst enemy, conjuring threats and dangers everywhere. Every noise. Every person. Every story.

  I envy Noah. Being back in school, back in his routine, is exactly what he needs. Noah lives in the moment, and probably doesn’t even remember those ones I’ll never forget.

  Stories about Hogan spread far and wide and, of course, the media ran with them. Journalism is supposed to be based on fact—not rumors. But the reporters were too lazy, the sources too eager to gossip, and the readers too gullible. Some even blamed Mr. and Mrs. King for “what their son has done.” That isn’t journalism, at least not the kind of journalism Ms. Carter taught us. It’s gossip. Sensationalism. Hysterical fiction.