I hear someone running, and then what sounds like a shotgun rather than a machine gun this time, and then a horrible retching sound from whoever got hit. Mr Whitmire is giggling like a kid playing a shoot-’em-up arcade game.
Mrs Oberman claps both hands over her mouth, shuddering and terrified, sweat running down her face. We’ve got to keep quiet. This room is all we have, all that’s keeping us from him and his guns. We need him to walk on by and think it’s empty.
I cower next to the door, wishing I could make myself small enough to disappear.
Footsteps.
Slow footsteps.
Too slow.
I dart my eyes around the room, but there are no cupboards for me and Mrs O to hide in. Even the tables aren’t going to provide much cover, and the act of moving things around to protect ourselves will make enough noise to draw his attention.
Move, asshole! Walk on by. Just walk on by. Please. I don’t want to die.
I think of Mom. Dad. My sister. Eli. I’m never going to see them again. They’ll be holding on to each other, crying over what’s left of my body in some sterile, depressing funeral parlor, wondering what the hell happened in my final moments. My throat closes up until I feel throttled, and I can’t catch a decent breath. My eyes prickle with the threat of tears.What’s going to be left of me? Half a head, like Callie, and a body that looks like Swiss cheese? Closed casket all the way? I’m rigid and shuddering with panic. This isn’t happening.
Thiscannotbe happening.
We were having such a great night, dancing and laughing and grinning into each other’s eyes as we thought of the rest of the evening and the rest of our lives ahead. How did this happen…how did it turn to…
No. NO! If I lose it now, I’m done for, and so is Mrs O. I have a pregnant woman to protect. I didn’t protect Callie, but I can protect her, and her baby, and I’m gonna. I WILL.
I hold my breath and try to be too rigid to move, since relaxing is just impossible.
I’m not religious, I’ve never had any beliefs, but it turns out I’m not above begging a higher power for help.Please, whatever god is out there, make this stop…don’t let him find us…
And the truth comes crashing down on me. God is a fairytale. There can’t be a god. There just can’t be. No omnipotent being who loved us would abandon us to this kind of horror. There isjust no way to justify it. I don’t care if you’re a god or a man. No reason, no “plan”, is good enough to make this OK.
His footsteps sound different.He’s walking away. Oh, thank FUCK…
I feel icy sweat trickling down my spine as my thoughts stop racing, replaced with exhausting relief. Mrs Oberman looks as weakly, passionately relieved as I feel as our eyes meet. She holds her hands over her bump protectively, as though hoping they could shield her baby from what’s happening. Her baby that’s sleeping inside her, with no idea of guns and murder and the kind ofScarface-times-a-billionshit this evening turned into.
I rest my head against the wall. Just gotta stay here and stay silent until help arrives.Ifit arrives? Who’s left that’s going to be able to call for help? I check, but my cell’s not in my pocket, and if it’s not there then I don’t know where it is, shit,shit. Will people outside hear the gunfire? The school is close to other businesses, but they’re all shut at this time of night. Surely eventually our parents and Mrs Oberman’s husband will notice that we haven’t come home and -
Mrs O is waving at me to get my attention. She holds up a bunch of keys, one in particular, and points at the door. Understanding immediately, I look towards the door. Sounds like maybe he’s far enough down the corridor. If we’re careful, if I lock the door really slowly and quietly…maybe we can do this.
So I nod at her and hold my cupped hands out, ready to catch them.
She concentrates hard, eyes narrowing as she aims, and then throws.
They jingle slightly as they leave her hands…but that’s nothing to the noise they make when they bounce off my chest, through my frantic fumbling hands, and clatter to the floor.Metal on thin carpet, loud and ringing. I should have made that catch. I didn’t.
I just killed us both.
There’s silence as we stare at each other in horror, listening for him. His footsteps get louder and he’s sniggering, and…OH GOD.
I grab the keys and try to lock the door, but the door handle rattles hard as Mr Whitmire yells, “GOTCHA, FUCKERHEADS!”
SON OF A BITCH -
I grab the handle and fight with all the strength I have left to hold it tight, dropping the keys in the struggle, but in a battle between a terrified teenager with sweaty hands and a madman with the power of rage in his every move, it’s no contest.
We don’t stand a chance.
I manage to kick the door shut again in the spaces between the chairs just as the door starts to open. It hits him somehow, and I hear his shout of pain. Maybe I got his fingers or maybe his sick fucking head, I don’t know, but my triumph is replaced by cold horror that I just pissed off a psycho with a gun. I scrabble backwards, and my right arm buckles because the wound still burns. He’s swearing, and kicks and then shoots the door, blowing a massive hole in it and smashing through the chairs. I crawl, I struggle into a standing position and run towards the window because I’ll jump out of it, I’ll fucking jump out of the window and break my leg because bones heal but being shot dead won’t, and if I run in a different direction from where poor, cringing Mrs Oberman is trying to hide it might just distract him enough to protect her, protect her, protect her, I should have protected Callie, oh my god, OH MY GOD -
Game over.
