The Morning Of Read online

  The Morning Of

  S.B. Cody

  Copyright © 2021 S.B. Cody

  The right of S.B. Cody to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-31-6

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  PART II

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  PART III

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  PART IV

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  For Nicole & Taryn

  PART I

  Lockdown

  1

  It could never actually happen here. Everyone in town held this general belief. Of course, they would never say so out loud; most weren’t even aware that they held it. Common sense dictated that, of course, it could happen here. What was stopping it? You heard stories all the time about it happening in places just like this. So while basic logic insisted that it was entirely possible, everyone went about their day-to-day lives confident that they were safe from what had become an all-too-common occurrence. We shouldn’t judge too harshly for their naiveté though. Doesn’t everyone share this belief? That they are somehow immune from the worst that life has to offer. Other people had to deal with the debilitating illness, the awful crimes that made the front page. If we actually believed we were susceptible to the awfulness of the world, would we ever actually head outside our doors? Would we ever walk down a dark street if we believed a heinous killer laid in wait for us? Would we ever get on a plane if we believed that it would end in a fiery mess of twisted steel? Would those 1,067 people have walked into Stanford West High School if they believed that twenty-eight of them were never going to leave alive?

  The town of Stanford sat in the center of Missouri with a nice, manageable population of about 120,000. It avoided the small-town atmosphere, so you were never under any obligation to say hello to every person who crossed your path. At the same time it wasn’t so large that you had to take three different buses and a subway just to get to where you were going. What constituted downtown was really just about ten blocks all situated around one street, appropriately titled Main. If someone wanted to walk it, they could do it no problem, and with no real fear of getting mugged. Of course, that’s not to say that there weren’t some bad parts of town. The southern and eastern parts were where you’d find some of the more low-income areas. West Stanford High, however, had the good fortune of being situated in the middle-class part of town, making it the more desirable of the two high schools in the district.

  The school was situated at the bottom of a small hill that would be filled with cars every morning at arrival time. The red-brick facade of the school stood tall against the sky. A line of glass doors stood at the end of a concrete patio. These doors led into the lobby where a security desk sat front and center. At this desk, Zach Levinson lounged, watching the seconds tick by. He fought to keep his eyes open, willing the school day to come to an end. But it was only 8:30, and the kids were just now settling down for their second period. All day, he buzzed in person after person; hardly stimulating work. But it was only something to hold him over until he got accepted to film school. One day, the theaters would flock with people to see the new blockbuster from the next Spielberg. At least that was his plan, but the best-laid plans of mice and men…

  Zach forced his eyes open just in enough time to see someone walking towards the front doors. Normally, he would think nothing of it, but this person was dressed all in black, standing out sharply from the bright sun pouring in. He had on black cargo pants, a worn-out black hoodie, a book bag strapped to his back, and most concerning of all: a Michael Myers mask covering his face. Zach didn’t need to force his eyes open any longer. They shot open in shock. Given a bit more time, he may have been able to sort the whole situation out, but after just a few steps inside, Michael Myers drew something shiny and metallic from one of his pockets. Zach only had time to get a brief glance at it before it became level with him and screamed out a bullet which hit Zach square in the forehead, sending him sliding back in his chair and to the ground. Blood spat from the back of his head. Michael then quickened his pace. He hurried to the desk, reached over, and pressed a small button. To his right, the front office door clicked and unlocked. Not wasting any time, he hustled inside.

  At the main desk a group of women, most of them older and graying, stood to await the school’s new guest. Michael raised his gun again and fired off two more shots, not really aiming. Still, he managed to nail the attendance secretary, Dolores Lewiston, in the side which sent her tumbling and all others ducking down. Michael now turned to the right so he could head behind the desks. Just as he did so, Sergeant Blake, the school resource officer, rushed out, his hand on his own gun. He got it about halfway up before Michael fired off one more round, landing a shot in Blake’s eye. Blake hadn’t even hit the ground before Michael pounced and began going through his belt. From it, he withdrew a set of keys including one allowing access to any room. He grabbed the gun, stood, and rushed out of the office.

  Behind the desk, one of the secretaries had pulled herself out of shock and gone to the intercom. Pressing the button to broadcast to the entire building, she screamed out, “Lockdown! Lockdown! We have an active shooter! This is not a drill! Shooter is in the main hallway!”

  That message rang out in every corner of the school. Michael Myers ran down towards the library which lay at the end of the hall. At the doors, the librarian struggled to get the doors closed and locked. But the doors were heavy and Michael rang out another shot that sent her sprawling onto the blue carpet. A stream of blood p
ooled beneath her gut. Michael burst inside. The students ducked beneath tables and behind shelves, desperate to do anything to shield themselves. Michael, quick around the shelves, staked out anyone who thought they’d hid in time. One girl huddled in a corner, her hands held high in defense. “Please. Please. Please!” she cried out. Michael didn’t spare her a glance. He simply sped by her while lowering his gun, and fired; sending a bullet into her head. He ran over to a table where a boy and a girl crouched underneath, arms clutched to the legs as though they thought they’d be carried away. Michael stopped by the table, reached under with his gun and shot off two more rounds. The boy caught one right at the bridge of his nose. A hole opened up in the girl’s shoulder. A few more students and another librarian laid in wait. Michael just ignored them and headed back into the hall, knowing he had to keep moving.

  He sprinted, his footsteps pounding against the tile and echoing off the walls. One student dashed across at that moment, desperate to duck inside a bathroom. Michael fired off a couple rounds, hitting the student in the leg, sending him crumpling to the ground. Right as Michael walked by the bathroom, the door creaked open a sliver and one more shot was fired into the door, but he didn’t bother to check to see if anyone had been hit. There were a lot of rooms to peek into. As he continued, he stashed away his gun into his book bag and withdrew another. And so down the hall he went, rocking the handles of each door that he passed, seeing if any prey laid in wait.

  Back before the first shot had been fired, and Michael Myers was still heading towards the school, someone else stood in a bathroom on the bottom floor. They went right to the trash can to find a bag just where they were told it would be. This new figure found an Uzi, another dark hoodie, a pair of cargo pants, and a hockey mask. With all of that on, the two figures were indistinguishable, except that this new one now resembled Jason Voorhees. Decked out, Jason took the gun and stood by the door. Quick muffled breaths came from behind the mask. Beneath it, Jason poured sweat. He just couldn’t believe that this was happening. Before it had all seemed hypothetical, but now it was all too real.

  And then there it was. The call for a lockdown. Just what he had been waiting for. He knew what he was supposed to do, but now found that his feet wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move.

  Upstairs, Michael Myers unlocked a classroom door where over a dozen people waited. He yanked on the handle only for it to come to a halt after only opening a crack. Tied to the inside handle was a cord that snaked up and wrapped around a flagpole. From inside came a sea of gasps and whimpers for help. Michael reached inside and fumbled for the knot around the handle. Someone pounded against his hand, trying to get Michael to back off. He couldn’t get a good enough grip on the cord to untie it. He retreated only to stick his hand back in with the gun this time. He fired off a few blind shots. A couple hit the back wall. A shrill cry made it clear that at least one made contact with someone. Michael immediately went back to the cord and got it untied in no time. The door swung open wide now. A small cabinet sat in the doorway, but a quick kick got rid of that. Michael stepped inside. Right beside the door, the teacher lay on the ground clutching his gut where the bullet had landed. Michael fired a single shot down, hitting the teacher in the head. Students huddled against the wall closest to the door. A few took off running, managing to squeeze by and escaped into the hall. Others stood and shuffled their feet, not sure what to do or where to go. Most of them just sat on the floor looking at the figure above them. Mouths open. Tremors traveling throughout their bodies. This situation had been practiced, and in their heads, they all had an idea of what to do. They could run like a few had. They could rush the shooter, throwing things at him, wrestling the gun away. So many of them imagined themselves doing just that. Charging forth into danger and saving the day. Being the hero of the school. That didn’t happen though. Instead, they froze. A few cried out realizing that this was it. All the plans for their life wouldn’t come to pass as Michael raised the gun and began popping off shots, firing into the huddled crowd.

  2

  Two hours before Michael and Jason would lay siege to the school, Connor Sullivan pulled his car into a spot right up front, the perfect place to park. Front entrance was within spitting distance and a back road out of campus wasn’t much further. Made getting out of here at the end of the day really easy. And as he prepared for the day, getting out of here was the only thing on his mind. It was only October, but Connor had already begun counting down the days until summer. He looked up at the building, feeling like there might as well be bars on the windows.

  Connor looked down at his watch. There was still an hour until the day officially began. He typically didn’t get to school this early, but he had been desperate to get out of the house without a fight with his wife, Brandy. He began to relive the whole thing, feeling the simmering tension of the morning heating up once again; he pushed it away and forced himself out of the car.

  As soon as he was inside he headed right to the teachers’ lounge where he knew there had to be a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him. Once he opened the door to the lounge the scent wafted right up into his nostrils, and he made a beeline for the pot that still had steam rising up from it. Off to the side sat one of Connor’s fellow English teachers, Lance Milton, sipping on his own cup. He had a pair of glasses with huge lenses. Students constantly debated whether he wore them ironically or not. His gut had just begun to spill over his belt which he seemed to own with pride.

  “Sully, what’s happening, man?” Lance called out.

  Connor offered a groan, just barely audible, in reply.

  “Well. Aren’t you in a good mood this morning? Seems like you…”

  “If you even say that I have a case of the Mondays, I will kick your ass,” Connor muttered, taking a seat across from Lance. That had often been a favorite saying of Lance’s that had soon worn out what little welcome it had.

  “Damn. Something crawled up deep in there, didn’t it?”

  “Having a bad morning,” Connor said, wincing through the hot, bitter taste of the coffee. “Goddamn,” he spat out.

  “Put some sugar in there, dammit. I will never understand how you drink this black.”

  “I drink it for the caffeine. Not the taste.”

  “You should advertise for Starbucks. So who died that put you in the funk? Haven’t even seen a student yet.”

  “Brandy and I almost got into a fight this morning.”

  “Almost?! How will your marriage ever survive?” Lance shouted in a high-pitched voice and threw his hand over his chest.

  “Shut up. I say almost because I got my ass out of there before it could get going.”

  “Avoidance. The key to any healthy relationship,” he said with a smile and tilt of his cup. “So what’d you do?”

  “Who says it was me?”

  “Come on…”

  Connor sighed, wondering how he got roped into actually having this conversation. He had been hoping for some peace and quiet. “She found out that a friend of hers from college just got pregnant.”

  “And how does that make you feel?” Lance asked in his best impression of a shrink.

  “Will you knock it off with that shit?” Connor knew that Lance’s insistence on always being a smart-ass endeared him to his students, but it wasn’t working on him.

  “Sorry,” Lance said, hiding his eyes, realizing that he’d taken his shtick a bit too far.

  “It’s just that lately she’s been dropping some none too subtle hints that she wants to have one.”

  “How long you been together?”

  “Twelve years. Married for five.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “Why would I want to have kids? All the bitching and moaning and complaining that we have to deal with here every day… I’m going to go home and deal with it all over again?”

  “Is that mug half full there, Sully?”

  “Helpful.”

  “What are you still doing here?”

&
nbsp; “You think I don’t ask myself that?”

  “You need to shit or get off the pot.”

  “They should put that in a fortune cookie.”

  “I think I missed my true calling.”

  Right as he finished talking, the door swung open again, and in walked someone who could easily have been mistaken for an FBI agent. He wore a firmly pressed black suit, and blond hair cut into a flattop that wouldn’t even shake in an earthquake. This was Dr. Leland, the Associate Principal. He didn’t even spare Connor or Lance a look. In fact, his face didn’t so much as quiver. He went over to the coffee pot and poured himself a small cup. “Mr. Sullivan. Mr. Milton,” he whispered in way of a greeting.

  “Dr. Leland,” Lance blurted out in a voice that came off much more mocking than he intended. Connor shot him a quick look as a way to tell him to shut up. Lance’s eyes went wide, realizing that he might have crossed a line. But if Leland noticed, he didn’t let on. He simply turned on his heels and headed back out.