Quiet Is Violent
Eight Thousand Club
It’s twelve twenty three, the period is almost over. I’ve already packed up, burying my half-finished homework under folders and journals.
“LOCKDOWN. LOCKDOWN THE SCHOOL. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” the intercom bursts in, then cuts off. My classmates panic, even Karia, and they duck into the corner. Even the teacher hides. I’m different from them, and this realization hits me suddenly. Instead of running from the danger, I run to it. I’m out of the classroom before anyone can stop me.
My feet fly down the stairs before I stop to consider why. It occurs to me that my instincts think faster than my head, because after a moment, I understand that the man will only be on the first level, searching through the office. By now, though, the people in the office would be outside, safe from the attacker. It should take at least two minutes for him to realize. I’m in the hall by that time, when he comes out of the office. His back is to me.
The man is tall, with buzz cut hair that is dyed red. His chest is broad, with strong shoulders and a wide ribcage. Compared to my short scrawny stature, he is a giant. An armed giant. Without a thought, I call out, “Hey! Over here, you fat lug!” He turns quickly and a bullet whizzes past me, a miss by a couple inches. The bullet drills into a wall. A short, sharp curse escapes me when it fires. I didn’t expect that. I should have, but I didn’t. My instincts kick in and I close the gap between us, ducking when he fires twice more. Three bullets gone. He will only have two left in the cartridge. My brain is off in gun land as my body disarms the man swiftly, breaking his left arm and scooping up the gun when he drops it. That was easy.
My hand doesn’t shake when I point the gun levelly at the man, and when he lunges for me, I trip him and shove him to the ground. Now he must know his position is hopeless. I dial the cops quickly, telling them the situation as quickly as I can. I try to keep my eyes on the man, but I look away for a second.
I hear metal on metal, and explosion in a small tunnel, and then my own voice crying out. A couple more crashes, and another voice screaming. My own cries cease when I realize what happened. My leg is a bloody mess, he shot me. He had another gun that I didn’t see. He’s also bloody, and considerably more so. I shot him twice, I realize slowly, once in the chest, once in the knee. The gun I’m holding is useless now. I cast it off, struggling to pick up the second gun. A much less accurate model, a safety gun no doubt. The police officers are asking what happened, and though my voice reflects silent tears I can’t help, I am able to explain, “I’ve been shot, but I think I will live. It hurts really badly. The man.. He’s also been shot. That was my fault, sorry. It was a reflex.” I struggle to the wall, propping myself up against it. The bone in my leg must be shattered, after all, it was hit point blank.
“Police officers are on their way. How long do you think you can hold up?”
“Ten minutes if I’m lucky.”
“Can you walk?”
I try to stand, but I fail miserably. “No, no, I can’t even stand.”
“Okay, that’s fine. What is your name?”
“Hale, Hale Nason.” I hear footsteps and I look around. Two more men enter the school, bandanas covering their mouth and nose and each holding a handgun. “There are two more men.”
“What? Are they armed?”
“Yeah, I need to get out of here.” I hang up the phone and force myself to my feet, crying out as pain lances up my leg. Moving quickly, I snake behind the two men and call out, “Hey!” They both whip around, but don’t shoot. I take a picture with my phone before running out the door, limp evident and very heavy. They follow me, shooting at my head and barely missing. I lure them out into the open parking lot, where I fall and curl into a ball despite my first instinct to confront them. Bullets spray around me until they stop. I have several cuts where bullets grazed me, but no major injuries from the second wave of assailants. With a lot of effort, I prop myself up and look around for the men. This was a bad idea. The sound of guns preludes a sharp, blinding pain in my shoulder. A scream wrenches itself free as I fall back down, head hitting the pavement hard. A siren pierces through the vague muddy mess that is my mind, then more guns, people shouting in a language that sounds almost recognizable. Then the shots cease.
A hand scoops under my back gently, helping me sit up. My moan comes out soft and strained, pitiful to say the least. This language that people are using almost makes sense, but I can’t quite grasp onto their words. A cloth presses against my bad shoulder and I cry out, the protest trailing into a sob. It hurts much more that my leg did somehow. I open my eyes to brightness I can’t handle, and I turn my face away, closing my probably bloodshot eyes. My head feels like it is filled with lead; dense, thick lead. Paramedics. That is who is holding me right now. A paramedic. More come and start to work on my leg. The flannel gets untied and cast off, leaving my wound exposed. I hiss and jerk back when one of the paramedics touches the skin near the bloody hole in my leg. The hold on my abdomen tightens slightly, but the pressure on my shoulder remains the same.
“Hold still, kid.” A feminine voice whispers in my ear. I nod quickly, shaking slightly in pain and fear. “Don’t be afraid, you are going to live through this.” Three fingers touch either side of the wound and I scream, back arching against the woman holding me. “Hey! Hey, kid, calm down, please, you are going to be okay…”
“Make them stop, please, I can’t, I can’t…” Another screech, this time when a metal something implores into the wound. “Please!” Tears flow freely down my face, mostly because I don’t have the energy to hold them back. I’m already fighting for consciousness, and holding back tears would be a waste of energy. Not to mention nearly impossible.
“Don’t we have any pain meds to give him?” The woman asks.
They take out the tool in my wound and I scream again. “Please, please, just kill me, please…”
“Not an option kiddo.” She takes the cloth off my shoulder and I sigh, crying out again when she puts a clean one on. “Damn. You won’t stop bleeding will you?” A sharp prick in my arm makes me whimper, then almost sob in relief. My injured arm has gone completely numb, and its creeping down me to my leg.
“Thank you…” I whisper, head rolling back onto the flat of the woman’s chest.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.” A few minutes later, she tells me calmly, “We are going to give you sedatives and put you in the ambulance, okay? Try not to panic or flip out, okay?” I nod, and she lifts my chest as someone else lifts my legs, and they place me on a stretcher. I’m belted down, then given a second IV. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I fall under a shallow sleep.
“LOCKDOWN. LOCKDOWN THE SCHOOL. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” the intercom bursts in, then cuts off. My classmates panic, even Karia, and they duck into the corner. Even the teacher hides. I’m different from them, and this realization hits me suddenly. Instead of running from the danger, I run to it. I’m out of the classroom before anyone can stop me.
My feet fly down the stairs before I stop to consider why. It occurs to me that my instincts think faster than my head, because after a moment, I understand that the man will only be on the first level, searching through the office. By now, though, the people in the office would be outside, safe from the attacker. It should take at least two minutes for him to realize. I’m in the hall by that time, when he comes out of the office. His back is to me.
The man is tall, with buzz cut hair that is dyed red. His chest is broad, with strong shoulders and a wide ribcage. Compared to my short scrawny stature, he is a giant. An armed giant. Without a thought, I call out, “Hey! Over here, you fat lug!” He turns quickly and a bullet whizzes past me, a miss by a couple inches. The bullet drills into a wall. A short, sharp curse escapes me when it fires. I didn’t expect that. I should have, but I didn’t. My instincts kick in and I close the gap between us, ducking when he fires twice more. Three bullets gone. He will only have two left in the cartridge. My brain is off in gun land as my body disarms the man swiftly, breaking his left arm and scooping up the gun when he drops it. That was easy.
My hand doesn’t shake when I point the gun levelly at the man, and when he lunges for me, I trip him and shove him to the ground. Now he must know his position is hopeless. I dial the cops quickly, telling them the situation as quickly as I can. I try to keep my eyes on the man, but I look away for a second.
I hear metal on metal, and explosion in a small tunnel, and then my own voice crying out. A couple more crashes, and another voice screaming. My own cries cease when I realize what happened. My leg is a bloody mess, he shot me. He had another gun that I didn’t see. He’s also bloody, and considerably more so. I shot him twice, I realize slowly, once in the chest, once in the knee. The gun I’m holding is useless now. I cast it off, struggling to pick up the second gun. A much less accurate model, a safety gun no doubt. The police officers are asking what happened, and though my voice reflects silent tears I can’t help, I am able to explain, “I’ve been shot, but I think I will live. It hurts really badly. The man.. He’s also been shot. That was my fault, sorry. It was a reflex.” I struggle to the wall, propping myself up against it. The bone in my leg must be shattered, after all, it was hit point blank.
“Police officers are on their way. How long do you think you can hold up?”
“Ten minutes if I’m lucky.”
“Can you walk?”
I try to stand, but I fail miserably. “No, no, I can’t even stand.”
“Okay, that’s fine. What is your name?”
“Hale, Hale Nason.” I hear footsteps and I look around. Two more men enter the school, bandanas covering their mouth and nose and each holding a handgun. “There are two more men.”
“What? Are they armed?”
“Yeah, I need to get out of here.” I hang up the phone and force myself to my feet, crying out as pain lances up my leg. Moving quickly, I snake behind the two men and call out, “Hey!” They both whip around, but don’t shoot. I take a picture with my phone before running out the door, limp evident and very heavy. They follow me, shooting at my head and barely missing. I lure them out into the open parking lot, where I fall and curl into a ball despite my first instinct to confront them. Bullets spray around me until they stop. I have several cuts where bullets grazed me, but no major injuries from the second wave of assailants. With a lot of effort, I prop myself up and look around for the men. This was a bad idea. The sound of guns preludes a sharp, blinding pain in my shoulder. A scream wrenches itself free as I fall back down, head hitting the pavement hard. A siren pierces through the vague muddy mess that is my mind, then more guns, people shouting in a language that sounds almost recognizable. Then the shots cease.
A hand scoops under my back gently, helping me sit up. My moan comes out soft and strained, pitiful to say the least. This language that people are using almost makes sense, but I can’t quite grasp onto their words. A cloth presses against my bad shoulder and I cry out, the protest trailing into a sob. It hurts much more that my leg did somehow. I open my eyes to brightness I can’t handle, and I turn my face away, closing my probably bloodshot eyes. My head feels like it is filled with lead; dense, thick lead. Paramedics. That is who is holding me right now. A paramedic. More come and start to work on my leg. The flannel gets untied and cast off, leaving my wound exposed. I hiss and jerk back when one of the paramedics touches the skin near the bloody hole in my leg. The hold on my abdomen tightens slightly, but the pressure on my shoulder remains the same.
“Hold still, kid.” A feminine voice whispers in my ear. I nod quickly, shaking slightly in pain and fear. “Don’t be afraid, you are going to live through this.” Three fingers touch either side of the wound and I scream, back arching against the woman holding me. “Hey! Hey, kid, calm down, please, you are going to be okay…”
“Make them stop, please, I can’t, I can’t…” Another screech, this time when a metal something implores into the wound. “Please!” Tears flow freely down my face, mostly because I don’t have the energy to hold them back. I’m already fighting for consciousness, and holding back tears would be a waste of energy. Not to mention nearly impossible.
“Don’t we have any pain meds to give him?” The woman asks.
They take out the tool in my wound and I scream again. “Please, please, just kill me, please…”
“Not an option kiddo.” She takes the cloth off my shoulder and I sigh, crying out again when she puts a clean one on. “Damn. You won’t stop bleeding will you?” A sharp prick in my arm makes me whimper, then almost sob in relief. My injured arm has gone completely numb, and its creeping down me to my leg.
“Thank you…” I whisper, head rolling back onto the flat of the woman’s chest.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.” A few minutes later, she tells me calmly, “We are going to give you sedatives and put you in the ambulance, okay? Try not to panic or flip out, okay?” I nod, and she lifts my chest as someone else lifts my legs, and they place me on a stretcher. I’m belted down, then given a second IV. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I fall under a shallow sleep.
