The Survivor

The black hockey mask exploded inwards and the gunman’s head snapped back. A spray of hair and bone and blood and brain painted the wall behind him. The machine gun flew from his fingertips, spun through the air and landed somewhere behind the serving counter. By the time his lifeless body hit the ground, Striker was already aiming his Sig at the second gunman. At White Mask.

But the gunfire had alerted the second shooter.

White Mask saw Striker. Raised his own pistol. Opened fire. And the gun went off with a heavy sound.

The wall behind them cracked apart, and white-painted brick exploded through the air, along with bits of dust and plaster fragments.

‘Shit, he’s got a forty-five!’ Felicia yelled from behind the cover of the doors.

Striker raced forward. He dropped low and left, slamming into the wall and taking shelter behind the nearest row of lockers. It was poor cover, and would never stop a forty-five. White Mask kept firing. The first round buried itself in the thick wood of the cafeteria door behind Striker; the second round penetrated the thin steel of the lockers and let out a shrieking metallic clatter as it ricocheted somewhere next to him.

‘Down, down, get DOWN!’ he heard Felicia yell, and suddenly, she was right there beside him, covering him, firing madly.

He dropped to one knee. Took aim on White Mask for the second time.

Opened fire.

His first three shots missed their target, flew somewhere high and wide, but the last round hit centre mass. Right between the pecs, base of the throat. And White Mask let out a strange, agonised shriek. The pistol locked tight in his spasming fingers, his arms dropped to both sides, and his body rolled forwards and plopped on the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

‘Two down,’ Striker said.

From the far end of the cafeteria, Red Mask let out an angry cry and levelled his shotgun at them. Striker grabbed hold of Felicia and dived right, pulling her into the kitchen area. The moment they hit the ground, a deafening boom filled the air.

‘You get hit?’ he asked Felicia. But she was already rolling left, reloading.

Striker let her go, then mirrored her. He rolled right, peered out the kitchen doorway into the cafeteria, and caught sight of Red Mask. The gunman was marching towards them. Closing in. Just a hundred feet away.

Time enough for an emergency reload.

Striker hit the mag release, ripped out the mag, and was in the process of reloading when he registered movement. He looked up and watched the gunmen do something that took his breath away.

Reloading, Red Mask sprinted up to the body of White Mask. He stood above him, aimed the single-barrelled shotgun downward, and blasted two rounds through the shooter’s face. He then racked the shotgun and pumped one more round through each of White Mask’s hands.

‘What the fuck?’ Striker heard Felicia say.

Before he could respond, Red Mask raised the shotgun and blasted off another round at them. Striker swung back into the kitchen, taking cover as the fluorescent lights above him shattered. Dust and smoke filled the air. He tasted blood. Kids were screaming.

He peered out again and located Red Mask – the gunman was fleeing, escaping through the exit doors at the far end of the cafeteria.

‘He’s ru

He jumped up and sprinted past the two dead gunmen, in between the huddles of terrified students, across the smears of fresh blood that now painted the floor. He raced up to the rear window and sca

Outside was the front of the school. In the parking lot, he saw Red Mask hop into a small green car. A mid-90’s Honda Civic, one of the many that dotted the parking lot. The engine started, and the vehicle accelerated down the driveway.

‘He’s mobile,’ Striker said.

He raced out into the parking lot with Felicia fast in tow. Already the Civic was pulling onto the main road and turning north. Striker ran into the middle of the driveway. He took aim and opened fire, and the rear window of the Civic shattered. The car swerved all over the road, almost losing control and skidding into one of the storm ditches that flanked Pine Street, then it managed to navigate the slide and regain control.

It straightened out and accelerated north.

Striker ran after it, firing until he could no longer make out the licence-plate. Firing until the vehicle grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared from view behind the tall sweeping hemlocks and firs of the nature reserve. Firing until his magazine had run dry and all he heard was the click-click-click of a goddam empty magazine clip.

And then, as quickly as the nightmare had started, it was over.

Only a horrible silence filled the air.

Without thinking, Striker automatically ejected the spent mag, let it fall to the wet asphalt of the roadway, and reloaded. A sheen of sweat masked his fair skin, and steam rose from his overheated body in the misty October air.

Away, Striker thought. Jesus Christ, he got away.

The gunman wanted to live – a highly unusual trait for an Active Shooter on a killing spree. To Jacob Striker, a ten-year Homicide Detective, that one action scared him more than anything else. It confirmed his greatest fear.

This nightmare had only begun.

Four

Damp wind blustered through the bullet-smashed windows of the Honda Civic, its wails as loud as those of the murdered schoolkids. Red Mask drove on, his attention focused on the road ahead. Blood saturated the black cotton of his kangaroo jacket; it bled from the open wound in his left shoulder and ran down his arm, across the black leather glove. He angled his body, trying to leave no blood on the seat.

When he reached the south lane of Ninth Avenue, he found what he was searching for – a narrow alley crammed with cars and garbage cans. The backyards lining it were padded with green sweeping trees.

Red Mask cranked the wheel hard, his left shoulder tearing, and felt the Civic shudder when its rear-end collided with a row of garbage bins. Despite the coldness of late fall, perspiration dampened his brow. Not far away, sirens wailed.

They would be here.

Soon.

Red Mask drove on down the lane. Halfway along it, he found a wider stretch of road that sat beneath the high overhang of a willow tree. He glanced at the tree. Backed by an ice-blue sky, the bark looked black.

The tree was dying.

Red Mask killed the thought. He forced his eyes away from the horrible tree, and backed the Honda up until the rear bumper banged into the tree trunk. His mind felt hot, overcooked, and a low hum buzzed in his ears – the leftover echoes of the shotgun blasts. Even his heartbeat sounded too loud, pulsing through his temples like a hammer on steel. He tried to think, but a mechanical grinding noise tore him from his thoughts.

At the next yard, a garage door was rising.

With his right hand, Red Mask snatched his Glock off the passenger seat. Pistol ready, he fought open the driver’s door and rolled awkwardly out of the Civic. He slipped in behind the willow tree.

Watched.

Waited.

An engine started inside the garage, then a black Lexus backed out. An expensive model. Golden chrome, shaded rear windows, glistening black paint. The driver, a small old man, seemed oblivious of Red Mask’s presence. He was fidgeting with his mirrors as he reversed.

Red Mask stepped into the centre of the road, shouting, ‘Do not move!’

The old man looked up. Confusion filled his eyes.

Red Mask gave him no chance to think; he moved forward and pointed the pistol. In response, the old man raised his hands, slowly, cautiously, keeping his trembling palms facing forward. The bright gold of his wristwatch shimmered against his ta