Boy Shattered

by Eli Easton

  Deny—if there was any risk the path out wasn’t clear, shelter in place. Lock the classroom door. Pull the shade. Barricade the door. Then get away from the door area.

  Defend—if you couldn’t do either of the above, attack the shooter, preferably in a group.

  I wasn’t in a classroom, so I couldn’t barricade inside. My gut reaction was to get out of the school. The front doors were closer, but the gunfire was coming from my left, from the center of the school. I could go right, run down A-Wing, and leave through the emergency exit.

  I almost did that. I took one halting step in that direction.

  Then I remembered Josiah.

  His fourth period was gym, but he currently had a pass due to a faked “sore ankle.” He was supposed to spend the period studying. Which he usually did…

  In the cafeteria.

  Brian

  I WAS in a crappy mood for a Friday. I’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep the night before because my dad had been on a tear, something about the deep state and pedophiles. One of his radio talk shows must have set him off. I’d gone up to my room and played a video game, trying to ignore the whole thing. But even after he went to bed, I was too upset to sleep.

  So there I was at school on Friday, feeling like moldy cheese someone had hidden in a dirty gym sock and left to sit in the sun for about a week. We had a big game that night, and I was dragging ass. I decided to skip my fourth-period gym class and go to Lunch A instead of B. I figured I’d hit the cafeteria, load up on carbs and protein, then go take a nap in the nurse’s office. If I could get an hour of shut-eye, I might be able to play ball.

  I shot Coach an email about gym class, texted Jake to say I wouldn’t be eating with them, and headed to the cafeteria. As I walked in, a dozen people said “hi” or just stared. I bumped fists with a couple of guys and smirked at the flirting of a few cute girls. I’d noticed an uptick in attention this year, my first year as starting quarterback. It was kind of surreal. It’s not like any of them really knew me.

  The cafeteria was a huge room. On the left side were the inbound and outbound openings to the serving line. On the right-hand wall was a mural of team sports, featuring some of the school’s star athletes from the past and the marching band with their red uniforms and gold instruments. There was a water fountain right in the middle of the mural. The wall straight ahead was all glass windows and faced the school’s front walkway. There were tons of tables and chairs, and it was always loud as hell.

  I went through the line and got spaghetti, salad, and a banana smoothie. I was rung up by one of the cashiers, a bored-looking older lady in a hairnet, and stepped out into the seating area. I scanned for a quiet table where I could sit alone and scarf my food quickly. Spotting one, I started to cross the room.

  And then it all fell apart.

  There was a distant noise from the hallway, odd enough to catch my attention. It was a series of pops. It sounded like when I used to pop bubbled packing material as a kid. A second later, the light above the door started flashing red.

  Red. With no alarm.

  Shooter.

  Surely it was a drill. Or a glitch? Like that nuclear warning that happened in Hawaii. It couldn’t be real.

  The PA came to life with a static whine. “Invader in school. Active shooter procedures now in effect. I repeat. Active shooter procedures now in effect. This is not a drill. This is not a drill.”

  I stood there like a statue while, around me, the room turned into chaos. A chair clattered to the floor as someone near me jumped up. Girls screamed. A guy pushed a smaller kid out of the way as he ran for the hall. I would have dived to catch him, but I was still holding my tray with both hands. The kid hit the floor, scrambled to his feet, and half slid across the linoleum in his hurry to get away.

  Meanwhile, my brain was still off-line.

  There were more pops in the distance that I now recognized, absolutely, as gunfire. Glass shattered. Screams. They were the kind of screams you never want to hear, the kind that said something had gone terribly, horribly wrong for the screamer.

  My stomach fell to my feet, and I was filled with a sense of dread so strong I wobbled. This was really happening. Here, at The Wall. Now. There was a shooter in the building. Bullets were being fired. People were being shot.

  I shoved my tray at the nearest table, pushing it so hard it slid and fell off the other side. I needed to do something, move. But what?

  Then it struck me, like a one-two punch.

  There was a shooter.

  And I was in the cafeteria.

  The cafeteria was the worst place in the entire fucking school to be. There were no doors that could be locked and barricaded, nothing but a wide opening into the hall. I remembered the active-shooter drill we’d had, but I’d been in a classroom that day. In a classroom, the teacher was supposed to lock the door and barricade it, then we were to get as far away from the door as possible. That’s what we’d practiced.

  What the hell were we supposed to do in the cafeteria? Panic clawed at my gut. Everyone was rushing three directions at once. What had they told us to do? Why hadn’t I listened better?

  Three words came back to me: Avoid. Deny. Defend.

  You were supposed to get to the nearest exit or, failing that, barricade inside a room with a door. I had to get out of this huge, open room.

  I headed for the hall. A bunch of kids were already moving in that direction. And maybe not that much time had passed in my deer-in-headlights state, because it seemed like they were all running in slow-mo.

  I mapped a route in my head. I wouldn’t go for the front entrance to the school, which was to the left. The shooter was more likely that way. I’d turn right, run down the central hallway to D-Wing. The D-Wing was a quiet hall of classrooms. I’d tear down that hall to the exit at the end. It would be safe outside. And if I couldn’t make it that far, I’d go into a classroom. Assuming I could find one that wasn’t already barricaded.

  This flashed through my mind in an instant, more picture than words. I took a few stumbling steps toward the hall. Then the mass of bodies trying to exit collided with people trying to get inside. There was an instant pileup.

  A dark-haired kid with glasses who looked about twelve shouted in a high voice, “Two shooters! They’re coming this way!” His face was so white with fear, it chilled me to the bone.

  They’re coming this way.

  A wave of terror slicked through me as I stood there with no Plan B. The gunfire was louder now—tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. There were gut-curdling screams, a grown man’s screams. A plea. “God help me!” Something large fell and broke. Some part of my brain registered that the gun rounds were fast. Automatic? Semiautomatic? Two shooters. And there I stood, in the middle of a wide-open space.

  I was going to die. It was a certainty, cold and blunt, like it had already happened. Me, and everyone else in this crowded cafeteria. We were going to die. There was a heartbeat in which I could almost accept it, when it felt so inevitable there was no point in fighting.

  And then something inside me screamed. Please God, no. Not before I’ve even had a chance to live.

  I turned to the windows. Kids were beating on the glass, but the windows only slanted open a little at the bottom. One really small kid was trying to squeeze through. I prayed he made it.

  I turned to the serving line, but it was jammed with kids already. People were screaming and pushing, and it looked like the people already inside had nowhere to go.

  In the dining area, people were turning the large tables onto their sides and ducking behind them. For a moment, I was tempted to join them. But I knew those laminate tabletops wouldn’t stop bullets.

  Rat-a-tat-tat. The gunfire was right outside. I was so frightened I wanted to puke. My pulse pounded in my ears. Do something. Anything!

  My gaze landed on the water fountain across the room. The wall at the fountain was built out a foot or so, maybe for pipes. And, right above the silver water spigot, the mural showe
d a girl in a band uniform with flowing blonde hair and a trumpet raised to her lips. My terrified brain latched on to this as a sign, like she was an angel showing me the way.

  My Nikes pushed against linoleum, propelling me forward in a half run, half dive. I reached the water fountain and pushed myself tight into the corner furthest from the hallway. The build-out was barely deep enough. If I stood sideways, the shooters might not see me. But if they walked all the way into the room, I was dead.

  There was no time to pick another hiding spot. My gaze skimmed over kids huddling behind tables. It was like watching a car wreck in slow-mo.

  A breath later the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat was there, loud and horrible. I couldn’t see the hallway or the shooter. I didn’t want to look, only pressed myself back against the wall as hard as I could. But I saw what the guns did. Tables, chairs, the windows—and bodies—jumped and splintered under a rain of invisible bullets. Shrieks and pleas mixed with gunfire and the thwunks and pings of the bullets hitting targets.

  The sound was worse than anything I could ever imagine. The tables that had been set up as barriers were riddled with holes. Red spread across the gray linoleum floor.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it all away, willing it to please, please, please stop. Stop hurting them. Please stop hurting them.

  I heard bullets hit the wall I was standing behind and the metallic ping as they struck the water fountain. A burning wave of heat in my stomach told me I was going to be sick. My brain managed a stuttered warning.

  Get down. Get down, get down, get down.

  I slid down in that corner, curling myself into a ball, trying to get as small as possible. My stomach hurt. I tucked my head down, wishing I had a shell I could draw into, like a turtle. But I had no hard shell, only soft flesh and tissue and a fear so deep it was cold and black and heavy, like gravity was sucking me down, like I could die from that alone. My eyes and mouth were hot from the emotion that wanted to be let out—from the screams that demanded to be let out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t make a sound in case they heard me. I choked down those screams, swallowed them. They went down hard, clawing at my insides, like maybe they’d live inside me forever.

  I became aware, slowly, that the gunfire had stopped. Silence mocked my ringing ears. Part of me wanted to peek around the fountain and see where the gunmen were. Were they walking farther into the cafeteria? Were they about to see me?

  But I couldn’t look. I could not. I couldn’t face what I might see. I didn’t want to see a gun raised, pointing at me. If I was going to die, I didn’t want to see it coming. My heart hammered against my thighs. My ears hurt from the sudden silence, broken only by low groans. I smelled the stale, coppery scent of my breath where my face was pressed against my knees. My gut ached from being clenched so tight.

  I think I disappeared inside my head for a bit. I don’t know how much time passed before I became aware again. It was gunfire that woke me up, shooting adrenaline through me with a fresh jolt of terror. But this time the sound was far away. Somewhere else in the building. The shooters had moved on.

  There was a feeling of utter relief that was practically euphoric. They’d left, and I was still alive. I’d survived! I opened my eyes slowly and saw the gray sky outside through shattered windows. Cold air touched my face. My vision was dark and swimmy, and I blinked to clear it.

  Then I looked around. And the feeling of relief vanished.

  The scene in the cafeteria didn’t look real. Tables and chairs had been blown over or back by bullets, but some still stood on their legs, looking strangely normal. Under and all around them were bodies. The ordinary, everyday clothes—hoodies, jeans, tennis shoes, T-shirts—were so wrong. So, so wrong. And, God. There was so much blood.

  I became aware of sounds then. Soft sobs came from somewhere to my left. A pile of bodies stirred, like someone was trying to get out from underneath it. At the windows I saw a girl in bloodstained pink pants sitting on the floor, crying and trying to text on her phone. But her hands were shaking so badly, she couldn’t seem to do it.

  I had a phone. I should call the police. 911. Tell them to send help. Ambulances. Please.

  My hands felt like they didn’t belong to me as I uncurled my body to get to my phone. My fingers were cold and numb. I felt achy and weak. The idea went through my head that I was in shock. I reached for the front pocket of my jeans to get my phone, and it was all wet there. I looked down.

  My entire shirt and the top of my jeans were red with blood.

  I stared at it. The pain came, sharp and achy, growing like a beast rising to the surface. A gush of blood oozed through the fabric.

  Fuck. I’d been shot.

  Chapter 4

  Landon

  HEADING FOR the center of the school was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. I could hear gunfire, but with the echo, it was hard to tell exactly where the shooter was. Everything inside me wanted to flee down A-Wing. Exit the building. Or possibly not move at all. My Converse tennies were fixed to the floor like they’d been glued there.

  But I was terrified for Josiah. He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to be. He got depressed and even fatalistic at times. I had no idea what he would do in a situation like this, but I knew in my gut that he needed me.

  It wasn’t far. The entrance to the central hall was maybe twenty feet away. I could see the opening to the cafeteria from there. If the way was clear, I’d grab Josiah and we’d run. If I didn’t at least try, at least look, I’d forever feel like a coward. That’s what I told myself.

  So I went.

  My shoes squeaked on the floor as I ran. I reached the end of A-Wing where there was an opening to the central hall. I hugged the side of the opening, my back to the wall, hiding from view. The shooting was loud here—it sounded close. I took a few deep breaths and peeked around the corner.

  Two figures in black with black ski masks stood at the entrance to the cafeteria. They were both moving long black rifles back and forth as they sprayed bullets into the room.

  Right then I knew it was bad. As bad as it could possibly be. It was Lunch A—the cafeteria would be full. And Josiah was in there.

  Tears made my vision blurry, and I couldn’t breathe. I ducked back around the corner and sank down to the floor, gasping and trying not to lose it. We’d had drills, and there were safety placards posted along the hallways and at every fire alarm. We’d all seen what had happened at Parkland and Sandy Hook and Santa Fe and Roseburg. I followed many of the Parkland students on Twitter.

  But even with all that, it was still shocking. This was my school. I’d known most of the kids here my entire life. And from the way it looked—the way it sounded—a lot of people were going to die.

  I dragged out my phone. My hands were shaking. I didn’t want to speak, wasn’t sure I could if I tried. So I sent a text message to 911. I had no idea if that would even work, if they accepted texts.

  Jefferson Waller HS. 2 shooters in cafeteria. Pls help.

  I hit Send. There was a ding as the message went. A few seconds later the word “delivered” appeared. 911 accepted text messages. Thank God. Please, please, please let the cops come soon. Let them already be on their way. Please make them stop!

  The gunfire trailed off, then ended. Were the gunmen heading my way? I peeked around the corner again. The shooters were moving fast down the central hall away from me. One of them had his gun up to his shoulder, and he peered down the barrel as he moved double-time, like he was playacting in some SWAT game. The other one swung his gun wildly at his side, bouncing with maniacal energy as he walked.

  They both wore all black—black combat boots, cargo pants, long-sleeved T-shirts, gloves, and ski masks. They were both large, but the SWAT-acting guy was thicker around the shoulders and waist. The other one struck me as young. It was something about the brazen bravado, the way the asshole swung his gun like he was skipping in a field of daisies.

  Were they students? Did I know them? Whoever they w
ere, my hatred for them burned white-hot. I hoped to God they didn’t make it out alive.

  They entered D-Wing, leading with their guns. The more serious guy started shooting, and the manic one followed. There were cries and the dull sound of bullets hitting wood and metal. They disappeared from my view.

  Jesus, there must’ve been people in the hall. God help them. And where were the cops? I felt something run down my face and wiped it away. I was drenched in sweat and my insides quivered, like my body was crying its own tears or trying to wash me away.

  My phone dinged. There was a reply from 911.

  Police on the way. Take cover. Find a closet or cabinet to hide in. Keep responding.

  Great advice. Too bad it helped no one.

  I took a deep breath, bracing myself. Josiah was in the cafeteria, maybe badly hurt. I had to find him.

  I ran for it, as fast and as silently as I could. I reached the cafeteria archway and skidded inside, getting out of view of the hall in case the shooters returned. It wasn’t until I stopped that the sight registered.

  I gagged and pressed my hand to my mouth.

  There were bodies everywhere. And blood, so much blood, in deep liquid pools and dirty smears across the floor. The sports mural on the right-hand wall looked out with tone-deaf cheerfulness over a room that now held a massacre.

  We’d been attacked, assaulted, violated, broken.

  I gasped and leaned over with both hands on my knees. I shook my head. A sound came out of me I’d never heard before.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there. It was probably only seconds. But my brain churned on darkness, and a fog of horror came over me. I wanted to crumple to the floor and cover my eyes.

  My phone dinged in my pocket. I took it out, my mind blank. The message was from Madison.

  I found Josiah. We’re out by football field with lots of ppl. Where the hell are you????? Get out of there. PLEASE.