Dave Cullen - Columbine

Dylan joined the theater group. He was too shy for the stage, but he worked lights and sound. Eric had no interest in that. They got close with Nate Dykeman and Chris Morris, too. Mostly they hung at Dylan’s. “His parents were so nice to me,” Nate said. “Either they’d get doughnuts for me or they’d be making crepes or omelets.” Dylan also looked after his houseguests, worried about whether they were having a good time.

At Eric’s, it was totally strict when the major got home, but until then Eric had free rein down in the basement, where he’d set up his bedroom. They had girls over, and showed off how they nailed garden crickets with the BB gun.

Friendships came and went, but the bond between Zack and Dylan grew stronger. They were snarky, clever, and seething with teenage anger, but way too timid to show it.

Dylan and Zack needed Eric. Someone had to do the talking. Eric needed an audience; he also craved excitement. He was cool and detached, tough to rattle. Nothing seemed to faze him. Dylan was an unlit fuse. Eric led the parade. Perfect fit.

They were a threesome now.

Eric kept improving his Doom skills. When he got bored with the images id Software provided, Eric invented his own, sketching a menagerie of heroes and villains on his notepads. He hacked into the software and created new characters, unique obstacles, higher levels, and increasingly elaborate adventures. He created muscle-bound mutants with aviator-sunglass eyes, and hulk-sized demons with ox horns, claws, and fangs. Many of his warriors were decked out in medieval armor and submachine guns; one was blessed with flamethrowers for forearms. Victims were frequently on fire or freshly decapitated; sometimes they held their own head in their hands. Eric’s creations were unparalleled, in his view. “In this day and age it can be hard to find a skill that can be completely dominated and mastered,” he wrote in one assignment. “But I believe that I will always be the best at Doom creativity.”

Eric enjoyed the act of creation. “I often try to create new things,” he wrote in a freshman English paper titled “Similarities Between Zeus and I.” He hailed both of them as great leaders, finding no fault in their pettiness or malice but identifying common inclinations. “Zeus and I also get angry easily and punish people in unusual ways,” he wrote.

Dave Sanders’s daughters were angry. Before they got confirmation that their dad was dead, they heard disturbing stories about his final hours.

“My concern is that my dad was left there,” Angie Sanders told an Australian newspaper. “[He] was still alive and not helped.”

The impression her family was getting was that twelve victims had been goners once the bullets left the chambers, but Dave Sanders had held on for well over three hours. From what Angie understood, her father could have been saved.

Dave’s daughters began looking into the reports but kept their mouths shut around their mother. They had to keep the TV off when she was awake. They snatched newspapers off the doorstep and magazines out of the mailbox. They had to protect Linda. She was already a wreck.

Dave Sanders was just a few feet from safety when the first shot hit him. He saw the killers, spun around, and ran for the corner, trying to save a few more students on the way there. One bullet got him in the back. It tore through his rib cage and exited through his chest. The other bullet entered through the side of his neck and came out his mouth, lacerating his tongue and shattering several teeth. The neck wound opened up one of his carotid arteries, the major blood routes to the brain. The shot to his back clipped his subclavian vein, a major vessel back to the heart. There was a lot of blood.

Everyone had been guessing which way was the safest to run. Rich Long, who was head of the technology department and a good friend of Dave’s, had chosen an opposite route. He first heard the shooting from the library, told students to get out, and directed a group down the main stairway right into the cafeteria, unaware that hundreds had just fled from that location. Toward the bottom of the stairs, they saw bullets flying outside the windows and reversed course. At the top of the stairs, they turned left, away from the library and into the science wing, which also included the music rooms. They arrived just in time to see Dave get shot.

Dave crashed into the lockers, then collapsed on the carpet. Rich and most of the students dove for the floor. Now Dave was really desperate.

“He was on his elbows trying to direct kids,” one senior said.

Eric and Dylan were both firing. They were lobbing pipe bombs down the length of the hall.

“Dave, you’ve got to get up!” Rich yelled. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Dave pulled himself up, staggered a few feet around the corner. Rich hurried over. As soon as he was out of the line of fire, he ducked his shoulder under Dave’s arm. Another teacher got Dave from the other side, and they dragged him to the science wing, just a dozen feet away.

“Rich, they shot me in the teeth,” Dave said.

They moved past the first and second classrooms, then entered Science Room 3.

“The door opened, and Mr. Sanders [comes] in and starts coughing up blood,” sophomore Marjorie Lindholm said. “It looked like part of his jaw was missing. He just poured blood.”

The room was full of students. Their teacher had gone out to the hallway to investigate. When he came back, he told them to forget the test and ordered everybody up against the wall. The classroom door had a glass pane. To shooters who might be stalking through the halls, the room would appear empty if everyone huddled along the interior perimeter.

That’s when Dave stumbled in with two teachers assisting. He collapsed again, face-first, in the front of the room. “He left a couple of teeth where he landed,” a freshman girl said.

They got Dave into a chair. “Rich, I’m not doing so well,” he said.

“You’ll be OK. I’m going to go phone for help.”

Several teachers had arrived, so Rich ran back out into the melee, searching for a phone. He learned that somebody was already calling for help. He went back.

“I need to go get you some help,” Rich said. He went back into the smoky corridor and tried another lab. But the killers were getting closer, apparently right outside the lab’s door this time. Rich finally took cover. Dave had several adults with him, and plenty of calls had been made about the shooting. Rich had no doubt that help was on the way.

Kent Friesen, another teacher with Dave, went for immediate assistance. He ran into a nearby lab, where more students were huddled. “Who knows first aid?” he asked.

Aaron Hancey, a junior and an Eagle Scout, stepped up.

“Come with me,” Friesen said. Then all hell seemed to break loose out in the hallway.

“I could feel it through the walls,” Aaron said. “With each [blast], I could feel the walls move.” He was scared to go out there. But Friesen checked for shooters, bolted down the corridor, and Aaron followed.

Aaron ran through a rapid inspection of Dave’s condition: breathing steady, airway clear, skin warm, shoulder broken, gaping wounds, heavy blood loss. Aaron stripped off his own white Adidas T-shirt to stanch the flow. Other boys volunteered their shirts. He tore several into bandage strips and improvised a few tourniquets. He bundled others together into a pillow.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” Dave said. He tried to stand, but failed.

Teachers attended to the students. They flipped over tables to barricade the door. They opened a partition in back to an adjoining science lab, and several kids rushed to the center, farthest from the doors. The gunfire and explosions continued. A fire erupted in a nearby room and a teacher grabbed a fire extinguisher to put it out. Screams filtered down the hall from the library. It was nothing like screams Marjorie Lindholm had heard before—screams like “when people are being tortured,” she said.