The Morning Of Read online

  “Yeah! Let’s hear from the psycho! He knows all about being evil!” Jamie called out. There was some restrained laughter throughout the room. Dennis didn’t say anything in response, but a small frown found its way onto his face.

  “Knock it off, everybody. Jamie, talk to me after class,” Connor told him, feeling his blood boiling. He didn’t have any patience for that kind of shit. He took a breath to compose himself. “Anyway,” he continued. “Point is, that Archie and the Vigils view themselves as better. They never feel bad about the things they do because they think they’re entitled. Those people can be the most evil of all.”

  The lesson proceeded and Connor was pleased to find that it went better than he anticipated. Kids caught on much faster than he thought, and they ended up having ten minutes before the bell rang. He just told them all to continue reading in the book. Once they got going, Connor called Jamie up to his desk to discuss his little comment from before. He stood there, wavering from side to side, eyes up toward the ceiling.

  “Jamie, why are you making fun of people? What did Dennis ever do to you?” Connor asked.

  “What? It was just a joke,” Jamie replied as though he was offended.

  “Maybe for you. But I didn’t see him laughing.” The only reply to that was a shrug of the shoulders. “Nothing?” Connor asked. Another shrug. “Well, if you decide to make another joke, you’re going to be laughing by yourself in detention. Go sit down.” Jamie headed back to his desk with a scoff. That one Connor ignored. He would have checked in with Dennis next to make sure he was okay, but he’d asked to go to the bathroom a few minutes before that, and wasn’t even back before the bell rang, signaling the end of first period.

  And now it was time to do it all over again. To Connor this job often felt like Groundhog Day. The kids had shuffled in blabbering about some nonsense. After a while it all started to sound the same anyway. The tardy bell rang and everyone sank into their seats.

  Connor hoisted himself out of his seat, ready to recite his script again. But before a single syllable had been produced, it came over the intercom: “Lockdown! Lockdown! We have an active shooter! This is not a drill! Shooter is in the main hallway!” With that, Connor’s stomach dropped. He and the rest of the class just looked around as if something in a foreign language had been shouted at them. No one really seemed sure of what to do. They all just waited. Waited for someone to come on and say it was all a joke, but with every passing second it became more and more clear that this wouldn’t happen. The silence was broken with a whimpering that came from a girl sitting in the back. This broke Connor out of his stupor and he sailed across the room towards the door. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he had already gotten there. He opened the door and swung his way into the hall while fumbling his key out of his pocket. It slid in and twisted, locking the door. Connor slammed it shut, trapping him and all the students inside the room. And hopefully keeping anyone else out.

  “Everybody get against the wall,” Connor said in a rushed whisper, pointing to the wall closest to the door. They all moved over in a mad rush. Meanwhile, Connor went about throwing his weight against the cabinet that stood beside the door. It slid in place, hopefully serving as one more barrier against anyone getting in. With that done, Connor killed the lights and huddled next to the barricade, knowing that if someone got through all of this, he may need to act. The whole time he shook as though he was having a seizure. His stomach threatened to come rocketing up any second, but he still felt a certain amount of relief. Relief that he actually managed to remember the procedures. Except for one thing. He felt his phone shift in his pocket which reminded him. He fished it out and dialed in 911.

  “911. What is your emergency?” the operator said, coming on after a single ring.

  “Yes. I’m at Stanford West High School…” Connor started in a hurried voice.

  “Yes, sir,” the operator said, interrupting him. “We have gotten multiple calls. Units are responding. Have you been able to secure yourself someplace safe?”

  “I’ve locked up and blocked the door.”

  “Very good, sir. Can you hear anything from in the halls? Do you have an idea of where the shooter is?”

  Connor took the phone away from his ear for a moment and listened. The distant cracks of gunfire could be heard, but he had no idea of the origin. “No. I have no idea,” Connor said back into the phone.

  “That’s fine, sir. If you remain where you are, you should be fine. Just make sure that you do not open the door for anyone. Repeat, DO NOT open the door for anyone. Once the building has been secured, someone will come by to let you out. Do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Stay put. Do not make any noise. And do not open the door.”

  “Thank you.” With that the line went dead. And now there was nothing left to do but wait. And hope.

  3

  As Kristin waited for her second hour to begin, she struggled to hold back her tears. Her first class had been a train wreck. She’d had this great lesson planned that she had been excited about. It was just the kind of lesson she wished someone would come in and observe, so that they could finally see what a good teacher she could be. But it wasn’t meant to be. From the moment class began, things began to fall apart. It started when some little cocksure punk named Danny came in telling her how good she looked while eyeballing her up and down. Just being near him made her squirm. Nevertheless, she persisted and tried carrying on with the lesson. It soon crumbled as the kids took things into their own hands and started yelling across the room. Kristin wasn’t sure what happened in that moment, but she flipped; and soon found herself yelling louder than she knew possible. From there she printed off some random worksheet to keep everyone busy and let them know that a single peep would result in detention. The entire time, she just sat at her desk and tried to get herself back under control.

  As first period came to an end and the second began, Kristin wondered if she dared tried to do it all again, but it soon didn’t matter as the message screamed out over the intercom: “Lockdown! Lockdown! We have an active shooter! This is not a drill! Shooter is in the main hallway!” Kristin’s head snapped up, her eyes scanning the room assuming that one of the kids must have shouted this out, that being the only rational explanation. But every student sat there with their mouths open like caverns. Kristin’s mind whirled. She continued to look out, waiting for one of them to tell her what to do. But that was up to her. She ran her mind through all the steps they’d been taught. She needed to lock up! She needed to barricade the door! She needed… Wait… They said the shooter was in the main hallway… And they were right by the back door. They could get out of here!

  “Everybody get up. We are heading right outside,” Kristin said in a quivering voice, scrambling out of her seat and heading towards the door, practically tripping over her feet. The students started to rush toward the door. “Okay,” Kristin began again through deep breaths. “Head right towards the door and go outside. Stay together. Head for the nearest road. I’ll be behind you.” Kristin poked her head outside the door. There was nothing. No one. No sound. You’d never think that someone was upstairs with a gun. She stepped out and began to usher the students out the door and towards the exit. They all hurried out at a quick pace.

  Kristin watched each of them pass by her. She couldn’t help but let a small grin creep onto her face. It was going to be okay. She and all her students would be safe in no time.

  But, of course, Kristin had no way of knowing about the second shooter waiting just inside the bathroom door across the hall, who was just now getting ready to emerge.

  The bathroom door burst open. Kristin collided with the sight of someone decked out in a dark hoodie and hockey mask, and a gun in their hand; far away from the main hallway. The shooter recoiled a bit, not expecting a line of kids. Kristin let out a scream. The line of students all turned at once. Upon seeing the shooter they took off at a sprint. The gun jumped up and
began to spit out bullet after bullet. Kristin looked on in horror as two of those bullets found a mark. The heads of two of the students opened up, spraying blood on the walls and on Kristin. The rest of the students flew out the door. The shooter took off, running the other way. Kristin stood there, blood all over her face, jaw hanging down, not moving an inch.

  Connor and his class had been hunched down for ten minutes. The whole time, Connor forced out a series of uneven breaths. Every few seconds, he would glance back at the crowd of kids huddled up behind him. Every so often, there’d be a soft cry, but for the most part the room was dead silent. Connor kept glancing down at his watch, wondering when this would all pass. Wondering when they would be safe. The entire time a cacophony of gunshots, screams, and pounding footsteps echoed in his ears. He tried to figure out where it was coming from; needing to know if they would be next. But it was everywhere, and it was nowhere.

  Until… A sound stood out from all the rest. No gunshots, but footsteps going back and forth. Unless someone had been stupid enough to venture out into the hall in the midst of all this, it meant that the shooter was closing in on them.

  “Mr. Sullivan,” a half whisper cried out from behind him. Connor turned to see a boy practically in tears. “They’re right…” Connor put an angry finger up to his mouth not wanting a peep to be heard. A fumbling came at the lock. A shaking of the handle. A key slipping in place. From behind him, Connor could hear a choked cry from one of the kids. But this time he didn’t even shush them. The lock to the door had slid back and the light from the hall crept in from behind the cabinet. The hinges squeaked, sounding like the howl of a hyena. A hollow thud echoed from the cabinet as it started to scrape across the floor. Connor knew that he needed to act. Knew that he needed to jump up and fight them off. From behind him, the whole crowd of kids was a screaming pile. Desks even began to topple as some of them tried to find cover. Connor strained against himself, willing himself to move. Not until the tip of the gun began to peek around the corner of the cabinet did he bust loose of his shackles. Now he was up on his feet and falling forward. His shoulder drove against the cabinet, forcing it back, hitting the shooter in the arm. The gun flew back, a series of bullets rocking out and sailing across the room. Connor spun around and came face to face with the shooter. He froze for a second, absorbed in the hockey mask, but that didn’t last long as the gun started to swing back into view. He reached forward and grabbed the shooter by his arms. The two pistoned back and forth, Connor desperate to keep clear of the gun. Their arms became twisted up like a pretzel. Connor’s hands slipped up Jason’s sleeves and felt smooth flesh interrupted every couple of inches with rough patches, like lines of rocks in the middle of a grassy field.

  He gave a push and threw out his arm, throwing the shooter back. The shooter tumbled, tripping over his legs and sprawling out into the hall. Connor stared down, wondering if all of this had actually happened. He didn’t have long to wonder, though, as he soon saw the gun begin to raise and point its way towards him. Connor ducked back behind the cabinet and shoved it against the door. A few shots rang off of it, sounding like a series of explosions inside Connor’s head. Out in the hall came more footsteps. Fast this time and heading down the hall. Connor looked back out on his room. There were a few holes in the back wall and a crowd of kids in tears. But they were all there. And they were alive. Connor had been so shaken that he’d forgotten to breath. Once he got his lungs cooperating again he looked back down at his watch and saw the time. 8:50. Would this ever end?

  Being thrown back by Connor, Jason tumbled out into the hall. He scrambled to his feet and found Michael staring right at him. Even with the faceless mask, he could tell that Michael was not pleased. Michael said nothing and just threw his arm behind him and pointed. Jason followed along like a shamed puppy. They headed down the hall and then up one flight of stairs before stopping in front of a classroom. Michael retrieved the keys from Jason and unlocked the door. He and Jason charged forth, heading into a pile of desks that had been stacked and served as a barrier. They both kicked and pushed at it, sending them clattering down onto the ground. From off to the right a student rammed into Jason, sending him crashing into the opposite wall. Michael turned and fired, sending the student to the ground. From the corner, a stapler shot forth, just missing Michael’s head. He whipped around and let off another shot, this time hitting the teacher and laying her out on the desk. From there Michael and Jason gathered themselves and turned to look out at the rest of the class. There were only a handful of kids here, but they all sat, pinned against the wall. Nowhere to go.

  Out in the hall, the gunshots sounded like a series of fireworks going off, intermingled with grunts, groans, and shrieks. And then without warning, it all came to an end. Michael sauntered into the hall, looked up at the security camera on the ceiling, and gave a small wave of his fingers before disappearing back into the classroom, neither him nor Jason to be seen again.

  4

  The Stanford Police Department took pride in their measured response time to an active shooter within a school, at just under four minutes, coming in below the national average. Of course, the only experience they’d ever had with responding was during drills, under ideal circumstances. With the police force otherwise occupied, as they were this morning, that response time increased quite a bit.

  On the other side of town sat the Evergreen Housing Development. In reality it was simply a set of tightly-packed, cramped apartments. The name wasn’t meant to be ironic, but it certainly seemed that way to people since hardly any trees stood in the whole area. When the place had been built five years ago, the name had been chosen to invoke a sense of beauty and splendor. It didn’t last long as it quickly fell into disrepair. The city council had pushed through the development as a means to service the low-income families of the area. Once it was built they largely turned a blind eye to it. Building it made them look good to constituents. Maintaining it meant raising taxes which was the death knell come election time.

  Two weeks ago there had been a call to the police, just as there often were in the area. Reports came in of someone walking around carrying a gun. Responding to the calls were Officers Clayton and Lewis. Once they arrived, they were out the door, Clayton already with his gun drawn; eager to save the day. First thing either men saw was a dark figure walking between buildings. In his right hand he held an object that in the dark of night, Clayton couldn’t make out, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Aiming and steadying his gun, he fired three quick rounds at the figure in front of him who sank to the ground before Clayton’s and Lewis’s eyes. When they stepped closer, it became clear what had just happened. What Clayton assumed to be a gun had been nothing more than a phone. And who Clayton assumed to be some deadly killer had instead been some kid, who couldn’t be older than fifteen.

  “Holy Christ,” Clayton said upon realizing what he had done.

  Lewis trained his eyes on him and simply muttered, “We’re fucked.” And fucked they were. It came out that the kid who Officer Clayton shot had been fifteen-year-old Noah Spaulding. That night he had simply been on his way home from visiting a friend who lived in the same complex. And far from being a criminal, he was on the honor roll at East Stanford High. All his teachers responded that he couldn’t be more polite and friendly. It soon became clear that Noah’s only crime was being black.

  The very next day calls came for Clayton’s arrest. Two days later a small protest formed right outside the police station. Captain Barron graced them with his presence for a brief moment to announce that Clayton had been put on paid leave and that there would be a thorough investigation. But that wasn’t good enough for the crowds. Protests continued like that for the next two weeks, many of them gaining national coverage.

  Today was the culmination of all of that. From around the country other groups bussed in, bringing what had at most been fifty people at any given time to over 200. And they had all gathered at Evergreen, only about 150 feet from where Noah ha
d taken his last breath.

  Included in this group were a swarm of police, posted on the outskirts. With them was Officer Julie Lipton. Julie had been on the force for the past twenty years. She had been in her share of tense situations over that time. This definitely placed near the top of the list. Felt like enough of a powder keg that she could practically feel the flames on the side of her face.

  She looked out on the sea of people, the vast majority of them black, but some white people thrown in there as well. About half of them were holding up signs with sayings such as “Black Lives Matters” and “Who Polices the Police?”. She had seen these kinds of things on the news from across the country. They seemed to be happening more and more as of late. And frankly, Julie wasn’t even sure how to feel about it. As a black woman she could testify to the kind of crap that you could get because of your race. And if some high-school kid could get shot for doing nothing more than walking home, why shouldn’t people feel pissed? She had a sixteen-year-old herself, and if something happened to Terry… she couldn’t even imagine what she would do. At the same time, she couldn’t help but be a little hurt by what people were saying about her and her friends. Long hours spent away from their families. Her husband sitting awake at night wondering if she would come home again. Her, petrified that she wouldn’t see her son again. It also didn’t help matters that she’d had a few sideway glances from the protesters and some mumbles of “Uncle Tom;” all of them upset that she would “fraternize with the enemy.”

  Fucking Clayton! she thought to herself. All of this was his fault. She’d been working with him for a couple years now, and she could say with confidence that he didn’t have a racist bone in his body, but that didn’t mean the guy wasn’t a fucking idiot. Trigger-happy son of a bitch. Seen one too many cop movies. And because of him, most of the force was here now, all in the name of keeping order. She felt more than a little worried that they’d only make the situation worse. They weren’t exactly popular with this crowd.