Sean Slater: The survivor

Dying is easy; living is the hard part.

Homicide Detective Jacob Striker knew this too well. Although ‘surviving’ seemed a better word than ‘living’. How could it not? The past two years had been cruel. His wife was dead. His daughter was an emotional void. And now, just an hour into his first shift back from a six-month stress leave, the day was turning to shit. God, it was barely midmorning, just ten minutes to nine, and already Principal Myers had called about his daughter. The last thing Striker wanted to do was pull himself and his partner, Felicia Santos, from the road, but Principal Myers had been adamant. Striker had no idea what Courtney had done this time. Or what punishments her actions would merit.

But whatever the outcome, it wasn’t going to be good.

Striker steeled himself for more bad news as he marched down the mahogany-walled corridor to Caroline’s office — yes, they were on a first — name basis now, he and Principal Myers — passing under the fighting gold gryphons of the St Patrick’s High School banners.

All around him roamed ghosts and goblins and Jokers and Batmen — a sea of eerie spooks getting ready for the festivities. Most of the students were taking the opportunity to dress up for the occasion, though a few still wore their school uniforms. The kids, ranging from thirteen to seventeen, were loud and boisterous. Their overlapping conversations mutated into one loud din in the high-ceilinged antechamber of the walkway.

Excitement was in the air. Striker could feel it.

Halloween was coming.

He stopped and looked back at his partner, who followed a few steps behind. Despite his annoyance at being summoned here again, he tried to keep things light.

‘That guy over there with the hockey mask,’ he said. ‘Looks a lot like your last boyfriend.’

Felicia brushed back a few wayward strands of her long brown hair, and smirked. ‘Technically, you were my last boyfriend.’

‘Like I said, good-lookin’ dude.’

Felicia let out a soft laugh, and Striker felt an uncomfortable moment envelop them. It had been this way since their breakup a few months back. He looked away from her stare and led her on through the mob of Grade Eight to Twelve students.

Principal Myers was waiting in her office. Her chic, cream-coloured business suit looked out of place with her Sally Jessy Raphael, Coke-bottle glasses that were barely a shade redder than her short curly hair. She held a manila file in her hands, a thick one — Courtney’s student file, no doubt — and upon seeing Striker, she offered a forced smile.

He cleared his throat. ‘I heard you needed tickets to the Policeman’s Ball,’ he joked, and when she didn’t laugh, he dropped the act. ‘Oh Christ, Caroline, what’s she done this time?’

‘What do you think she’s done?’ the Principal responded. ‘She skipped out. Again. Fifth time this month.’

Striker felt his jaw tighten. ‘Any ideas where she went? Or who she was with?’

Before the woman could respond, a series of loud bangs came from somewhere down the hall, near the school’s assembly hall or cafeteria. Principal Meyers stiffened at the sound like she’d been slapped.

‘Halloween is two days away,’ she said, ‘and I can’t wait till it’s over. All day long, the firecrackers. They never stop.’

As she finished speaking, another series of explosions rocked the room. This time, the sounds made Striker stop cold. The explosions were sharp — like the crack of a bullwhip.

Ka-POW-Ka-POW.

Ka-POW-Ka-POW-Ka-POW.

He spun around and found Felicia in the doorway. One look at her hard expression and he knew he’d heard it right.

Not firecrackers.

Gunfire.

Something heavy and automatic.

‘Jesus Christ, we got an Active Shooter.’ Striker turned to Principal Myers. ‘Call it in, now!’

But she just stood there with a look of disbelief on her face. Striker snatched up the phone, dialled 911 and thrust the receiver into her hand.

‘Tell them we got a shooter in the school!’

He reached into his shoulder-holster, left side, and found the grip of his gun. Sig Sauer, forty cal. Twelve rounds in the mag, plus one in the chamber. He looked at Felicia, saw that she had already drawn her gun, and gave her the nod.

‘On me,’ he said.

‘Just go.’

With his partner at his side, Striker aimed his gun to the low ready and left the cover of the office. He swung into the hall. Kept close to the wall. Turned right at the first corner. Stared down the long corridor.

For the briefest of moments, there was only silence. No gunfire. No explosions. No screaming. Just nothing. And everything felt oddly surreal. Previous nightmare incidents flooded him — the Active Shooter situations everyone had seen on their TV screens a million times:

Dunblane.

Virginia Tech.

Columbine.

But St Patrick’s High?

Somehow it didn’t ring true for this peaceful community. He wondered if he’d heard the noise wrong. After all, it was his first day back to work in six months. Maybe he was out of sync. A little rusty. Maybe The explosion echoed through the hall, killing Striker’s doubts. The blasts were deep-based, heavy enough to feel in his bones. They resonated with power. Combat shotgun. Every cop’s worst nightmare in a close-quarters gun battle.

And it sounded close.

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Shoot on sight.’

‘Take left, I got right,’ was all she said.

So Striker took left, and together, the two of them swept down the hallway, clearing each room as they went. They’d barely turned the first corner when they heard the screams — high-pitched, frantic wails.

Just ahead. On the left.

The cafeteria.

Striker checked his grip on the Sig and took aim on the double doors. They were wooden, painted in a cheap latex blue, and had inset wired-windows. As if on cue, the doors swung open and teenage kids came running out. Streams of them. Dressed as Iron Men and Jack Sparrows and cheerleaders and princesses. They were screaming. Crying. Hysterical. One girl, a small blonde all of fifteen, stumbled out. Her white school shirt was splattered with blood and she had peed down her legs. She wobbled towards them on clumsy feet, stopped, and found Striker’s eyes.

‘They’re shooting. They’re killing everyone…’

Her left knee buckled and she collapsed, landing face down on the beige tiles of the hallway floor. Striker looked down at her twitching body, saw the red meaty exit wounds on her back.

Hydra-Shok rounds.

‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ Felicia gasped.

She went for the girl, but came to an abrupt halt when the firing started again. Striker yanked her back. Bullets exploded through the steel-wired glass of the cafeteria doors, sending glass and steel fragments everywhere.

‘Down, stay down!’ Striker ordered.

A second later, when the shooting lulled, he gripped Felicia’s shoulder, then pointed to the door on the far side. She nodded her understanding, and the two of them took sides. Once set, Striker readied his gun, eased open the nearest door and scanned inside the cafeteria for the gunman. To his horror, he didn’t find one.

He found three.

Gunsmoke owned the cafeteria. It floated through the air in thin waves. The greyness brought with it the stink of burned gunpowder. And urine, and blood, and shit.

The smell of fear.

Striker blocked it all out. With beads of sweat rolling under his collar, he scanned the rest of the cafeteria for any other immediate threats, found none, then focused on the ones he had already located.