Lockdown

by Diane Tullson

  I hold her tight. “We will.”

  She says, “Josh and the hamster, it wasn’t your fault. No one expects you to be a hero.”

  “That’s the thing, Zoe. I’m not a hero. But I can’t keep living with my head in the sand.”

  She says, “Why now?”

  I look at her. “Why now what?”

  She studies my face as if she’s looking at me for the first time. “Why now, Adam? Why step up now, when there’s everything at stake?”

  I’ve seen Zoe carry spiders by their web and set them outside. With the spider, Josh would do the same thing. He can’t squash a bug, but he’s prepared to blow apart the school.

  I can’t tell Zoe about Josh. I’m not sure it’s clear, even to me, what motivates the guy. He’s fed up with how people treat him, for sure. Chase is an ass. So are a hundred other guys. For me, Chase isn’t the reason I cut school. I’m not sure why I cut school, except that if you cut once and then you cut again, it just gets easier not to come back. It’s not like it feels good. It just starts to feel normal. Maybe it’s the same with Chase. He started acting like an ass, and now it feels normal.

  Maybe Baker is right. For Josh, normal has slid to the extreme.

  I’m not ready to admit to Zoe that on some level I knew this was coming. I’ve always known. It could have been Josh. It could have been a hundred other guys—guys way more likely than Josh to be violent. Baker is right. On some level, I could do what Josh is doing.

  Everyone loves Zoe. Zoe can walk into a room full of strangers and just expect that people will like her. I don’t think Josh has ever felt like that.

  I rest my cheek against Zoe’s hair and answer. “Maybe I’m stepping up because now everything is at stake.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The supply corridor between the theater concession and the cafeteria still has the original flooring from when the school was built. Once-white tiles alternate with a color somewhere between pumpkin and puke. Near the walls, both colors of tile are obscured by a gray buildup of filth so thick you could scratch your name in it. The walls are striped with black marks from generations of caf students and staff driving into the walls with loaded carts. Along the walls, carts are stacked with clean banquet dishes, pallets of canned goods and cafeteria supplies. The hallway smells of old grease.

  We don’t really have a plan, Zoe and I.

  The corridor winds around several corners, tracing the contours of the theater on one side, the cafeteria on the other. Through the walls on the cafeteria side, Zoe and I can hear the hum of frightened voices.

  Josh’s plan, or what we think is his plan, is to use this hallway to enter the open kitchen. From there, he’d have full and easy access to the cafeteria. And all the students in it. The kitchen is at the end of the hallway we’re in, behind a set of swinging metal doors.

  The thing is, we don’t know where Josh is. We haven’t heard shots for a while. He could be behind us, maybe in the theater or concession. He could be ahead of us, waiting in the hallway. For now, the hum of voices from the cafeteria is soothing reassurance that he isn’t in there. Yet.

  Zoe takes my hand. I give it a squeeze. We inch down the hall, clinging to the walls. When we can, we dive between carts or pallets to wait and listen. Then we make another silent step, and another, to the next hiding place.

  Closer to the caf, more carts are lined up along the hallway. We dodge between the carts, finding what cover we can. We watch ahead and behind us for Josh. I want to believe that he’s not even here, but Baker is right: If Josh wants to shoot people, he’ll find them in the caf. And Josh knows about this corridor. He’s the one who showed it to me.

  If Zoe and I wanted to change our minds, we couldn’t, because it would mean retracing our steps, maybe right into Josh’s path. We can only go forward, not knowing what we’ll find around each bend in the hallway. My mouth is so dry that I’ve given up trying to swallow. The skin inside my throat feels like leather.

  My hands, though, drip with nervous sweat. I’d like to wipe them on my pants, but that would mean letting go of Zoe’s hand, and I’m not about to do that. It feels like I’ve been waiting all my life to have her hand in mine.

  I think of Natalie and how close that bullet came to her head. I think of the blood, of how much more blood there might have been. I pull Zoe a little closer.

  How bad is it out there? How many kids are sprawled in pools of their own blood?

  The only thing I know for sure is that I couldn’t stand it if Zoe were hit. If Zoe were hit, nothing would be worth anything.

  Zoe and I slip in between a cart of banquet plates and a drum of cooking oil. With my mouth close to her ear, I whisper, “You stay here. I’ll go ahead on my own.”

  Her eyebrows furrow and she shakes her head. No.

  “Just until I know it’s clear. Then I’ll motion for you to come.” I reach my hand out from our hiding place and wave it.

  Zoe crosses her arms. She’s not happy, but I’m prepared to ignore that.

  I motion for her to crouch down low beside the oil drum. She’s small enough that she can almost fit between the drum and the wall. You’d have to be looking for her to see her.

  Please, don’t look for her. Please.

  I kiss her forehead, and she gives me a small smile.

  I head out into the hallway. I have to zigzag across the hall to find cover between two pallets. From where I crouch, I can see the end of the hallway and the metal doors into the kitchen. I cross the hall again and jam myself between two pallets of mayonnaise. One of the enormous plastic containers of mayo is split along the seam, and the smell of spoiled mayo makes my stomach turn.

  At first I think I imagine it. I take a breath and try to hear over the pounding of my heart in my ears. Then I make it out—the sound of someone talking.

  Someone else is in the hallway.

  I gesture wildly for Zoe to stay put. I can only hope she sees me.

  I peer in the direction of the voice. I can’t see anyone. The person is hiding too. I can’t make out any words, just a voice speaking barely above a whisper. Gathering a breath, I move once more across the hall.

  From my new hiding place, I hear that the voice is a man’s. I strain to hear what the person is saying. I hear bits of it, the words “supply corridor.” It’s like he’s giving orders. It sounds like he’s on the same side of the hall as me.

  I wonder if I can look under this cart. I bend down and put my cheek against the floor. The floor feels gritty. I push my face hard against the floor to see under the cart. It’s amazing what’s under the cart, out of reach of any occasional broom. With my butt in the air, my face crammed against the floor, I can make out the guy’s shoes.

  Running shoes. I let out my breath—so it’s not Josh!

  The shoes are serious running shoes, for serious runners. I listen to the voice and it is suddenly familiar.

  It’s Mr. Connor! He must be talking on his cell phone. Trust Mr. Connor to know about this corridor. He must have figured out, like we did, that this is the most likely path for Josh. He’s waiting for Josh.

  I feel like bursting out of my hiding place. But something makes me move quietly, and I creep across the hall into a recess between two carts, right across from Mr. Connor.

  Mr. Connor is sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up, his head hanging over his knees, his hand over his forehead, rubbing his eyebrows. He doesn’t see me. He’s got a cell phone held up to one ear. He’s doing most of the talking.

  I hear the lightest of gasps coming from where I left Zoe.

  Mr. Connor is intent on his conversation.

  I strain to hear, to know what’s happening with Zoe.

  Then I hear. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. The kind of footsteps boots make. Coming down the hall toward us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Inside my head, I scream at Mr. Connor, “Shut up! Josh will hear you!”

  Mr. Connor continues to talk into the phone.

  I wave my
hands in the air, trying to attract his attention. Still, he keeps his eyes glued to his lap. Mr. Connor is more agitated now, and his voice is louder. Josh would have to be deaf not to hear him.

  Please, Zoe, do not move.

  I imagine Zoe as a rabbit, blending in to the wall behind her.

  The footsteps continue without pause past where Zoe is hiding.

  Thank you. Thank you.

  If Mr. Connor weren’t so busy with the phone, maybe he’d hear the footsteps coming right for him. Why doesn’t he shut up? I think about throwing a coin at him to get his attention, but the footsteps approach and I shrink back against the wall.

  Don’t move a muscle. Don’t even breathe.

  The footsteps stop. Only moving my eyes, I see the toe of one of Josh’s boots. He takes another step and now I can see his entire profile.

  Oh. My.

  Josh is so close I could touch him. The gun is in his right hand, hanging straight down. I could reach out and grab the gun. Except that I can’t move. Josh stands still. His shirt shows dark-blue wet circles under the arms. I see sweat running down the side of his face.

  If Josh turned his head, he would look right at me. I mentally shrink myself. But Josh doesn’t look in my direction. He’s looking across from me, at Mr. Connor. Josh seems intent on Mr. Connor’s voice. He looks calm. Scary calm. His right hand squeezes the handle of the gun.

  Josh takes another step. He’s right between me and Mr. Connor. I can’t see Mr. Connor anymore because Josh is between us. Josh turns to face Mr. Connor.

  Mr. Connor stops talking. I hear the cell phone clatter to the floor.

  Josh is looking right at him. He raises the gun.

  I hear Mr. Connor say “Please.”

  Then Josh fires the gun.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The blast echoes in the hallway and I cover my ears. Josh steps back and wipes something from his cheek. His hand comes away red. I taste puke and swallow it.

  I can hear Mr. Connor crying. At least he’s not dead.

  Josh looks back up the hall toward Zoe, and I pray that she hasn’t made a sound. Does he know she’s there? Is he going to finish Mr. Connor and then go for Zoe? Josh turns back to Mr. Connor and once again raises the gun.

  There’s no time for conscious thought. On liquid knees I launch myself from between the carts. Josh hears me and spins. But I hit him with my full weight and he crumples to the floor.

  Josh snakes beneath me. I wrap my hand around his right wrist, amazed at his strength, appalled at my weakness. My hands are slippery with sweat. He swears at me. I feel his knee come up between my legs. My eyes go black and I gasp for breath. He’s on top of me now. With everything I’ve got, I haul on his wrist, the gun just inches from my head. My hand slips, and his wrist pulls away.

  Just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Not so. Just before you die, you piss yourself. Josh’s finger squeezes against the trigger. But the gun isn’t coming toward me. It’s going to Josh’s own head.

  My right fist crashes against Josh’s cheek. Blood from his nose sprays me in the face. His eyes squeeze shut against the pain, and he lowers the gun. I hit him again as I grab for the gun. I hit him once more and now I have the gun. I flip Josh onto the floor and point the gun at his head.

  When I can suck in a breath, I scream, “Zoe, run!”

  Josh looks up at me. It’s like there’s nothing left of him behind his eyes.

  I sense Zoe standing in the hall. Again, I scream at her, “Run!”

  But she won’t run. She stands stock-still, staring down the hall.

  I turn and look. Mr. Connor is on his feet, not a mark on him. Near where he was hiding, a burst can of ketchup drips from a pallet onto the floor. And behind Mr. Connor, at the metal swinging doors, about ten fully armed police officers aim guns at me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Drop your weapon! Down on the floor!”

  The police are dressed head to toe in blue tactical suits. Their faces are covered with goggles and Kevlar face masks over their mouths. They’re shouldering submachine guns. And they’re screaming at me. I’m the one holding the gun. They think I’m the shooter.

  I look down at Josh. If I drop the gun, he’ll pick it up. He’ll shoot me or he’ll shoot Zoe. Or he’ll shoot a cop. Best-case scenario, he’ll shoot himself, but I’m not betting on best case.

  I shake my head. I try to speak but I can’t make a sound. It’s like those very bad dreams, only this is so real I can smell the cops’ sweat. My hand is shaking on the gun as if it weighs far more than it really does. I’m not sure I could drop it. It’s like I can’t even move.

  If I don’t drop the gun, the cops will perforate me with so much lead that my parents won’t have anything to bury. I lift the gun above my head.

  A big cop moves in closer. “We said drop it.”

  The cop’s gun looks like a cannon. At the end of the barrel is a tube of silver. Baker would know what it’s called. All I know is that it’s to deaden the sound of the gunfire so the officer doesn’t get disoriented.

  The cop’s hand reveals a tiny tremor.

  Big gun. Jumped-up cop. Not good.

  I try again to speak. “It’s not me.”

  The cop looks at me like I’ve spoken a strange language.

  “Not me.”

  Another cop swings in behind me, and I see him grab Zoe and push her to the floor. More cops join him. I shift so that my back is to the wall. Josh is on the floor in front of me. We’re ringed by cops.

  I see myself on a playground swing and maybe my life does flash before my eyes. If so, it doesn’t take long. I hear Zoe cry out, “He’s not the shooter.”

  More cops storm through the doors from the caf kitchen. Maybe they don’t hear her. Every gun is trained on my head.

  Mr. Connor edges toward me. “Adam, give me the gun.”

  I look down at Josh. He’s watching Mr. Connor. I feel his body tense.

  Mr. Connor says, “We know you’re not the shooter.”

  “Do they know?” I gesture with my head at all the cops. “They don’t appear to know.”

  Mr. Connor raises his hands as if to calm the cops. He says, “He’s not the shooter.”

  Some of the cops lower their guns a notch.

  Mr. Connor steps closer. “It’s over, Adam. You’re safe now.”

  I want to believe him.

  I bring the gun down from above my head. All the cops’ guns come back up. I freeze.

  “Adam.” Mr. Connor reaches out his hand.

  Two things happen at the same time. I hand the gun to Mr. Connor, and Josh lunges for it. More than two things, actually. Far more than two things, because as soon as Josh grabs for the gun, the officers open fire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The noise of gunfire in the hallway is incredible. My forehead flattens in the shock wave. It is that fast. Then it stops. My eardrums feel like they are being yanked out of my head, and the hallway starts to spin. I fall to my knees and throw up.

  “Paramedic!” one of the cops shouts into his radio.

  I blink, trying to clear my vision. Where’s Zoe? I struggle to focus. In front of me, the hallway swims with blue armored cops. “Zoe?”

  A cop puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’s okay.”

  I see her then. She’s standing with her hands over her face.

  “Zoe!” I call to her, and she looks at me. Tears are streaming down her face. She tries to come to me, but a cop puts his hand on her arm.

  I try to get up but my feet slide. I look down. There’s blood on the floor. I scramble to get up, my hands and legs covered in the blood. I touch my chest, my arms, my legs. I’m not shot. It’s not my blood.

  A cop pulls me out of the way.

  Josh is face down on the floor. A cop kneels beside him and puts his hand on Josh’s neck. The cop shakes his head.

  The metal doors from the kitchen bang open and a team of paramedics blast in, pushing a gurney.

&nb
sp; I look down at Josh. Beside him on the floor, his glasses are twisted, the lenses broken. I reach down and pick up the glasses. I straighten the metal frames the best I can. One of the lenses pops out. I hold it between my thumb and finger. I clean it on the bottom of my shirt.

  The paramedics are running and I think it’s weird they’re in such a hurry because Josh is obviously dead. Then I see Mr. Connor.

  He is on the floor. His face is contorted with pain. A cop kneels beside him, his hands pressing against Mr. Connor’s thigh. Blood squirts from under the cop’s hand. Josh’s gun is still in Mr. Connor’s hand. Another cop takes it from him and sets it on the floor.

  The paramedics drop the gurney down beside Mr. Connor and surround him. They work fast. One of them holds a mask to Mr. Connor’s face. Another rips bandages out of sterile packages. Finally, the cop who was applying pressure to the gunshot wound sits back on his heels. His hands are covered in blood. His face is sheet white.

  Collateral damage. I bet this part of his job never feels normal.

  The paramedics hoist Mr. Connor onto the gurney.

  On the floor, where Mr. Connor was hiding, something catches my eye. I step to the spot and bend down. It’s a photograph, a wallet-size photo, the same as the one on his desk, of his wife and baby. I pick up the photo. In it, Mrs. Connor is smiling and the baby is asleep in her arms.

  I think about how Mr. Connor was sitting with his head down. Maybe he had the photo in his lap. Maybe, as he counted the moments of the lockdown, he kept his eyes on the photo. Maybe he wondered if he would see his family again.

  The paramedics have the gurney up on its wheels. Mr. Connor is strapped on the gurney. He’s covered with a blanket. One of his hands is out of the blanket while a paramedic adjusts an iv.

  I cross to the gurney. A paramedic tells me to get out of the way. I ignore him. I place the photo in Mr. Connor’s hand. Mr. Connor looks at me. His hand closes over the photo. Then, at a run, the paramedics push the gurney down the hall.

  I find Zoe crouched on the floor. Someone has draped a blanket over her shoulders. I sit on the floor beside her and put my arm around her. She leans her head on my shoulder.