Shots Fired!

Prologue: Shots Fired

"Christopher! Slow down!" My words sputter out in a low chuckle. The boy stumbles forward a few paces before registering my pleas. He turns, smiles, and lifts his cane to wave. I wave back. "Your father will kill me if you fall!" I continue. "You know how crazy he can be!"

"I'll be fine!" The busy playground makes it hard for me to catch his voice, "Watch this!" He wiggles his brows and speeds after three friends in a clumsy gallop, his metal arms clanking rhythmacally as he chases them. 

This should be a happy moment. Watching my students bond and play. But I can't quite let myself fully relax. I keep feeling out the smile slowly slipping across my face, trying to make it fit just right. Soon enough, Christopher catches up. They exchange words, and then slowly the young boy hobbles across the mulch towards the swings. His classmates patiently waiting to push him as he lowers himself down. Any other day, I'd be gushing. But something about this expression is wrong. There's this ugly feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

It expands.

Swells and dives.

Seeping anxious notions into my bloodstream.

"Ms. Peters! Look at me! Look at me!" Two days ago, Chris' sweet voice would've eased my fidgeting fingers, and keep them from nervously playing with my locket. 

I drag myself forward, to the edge of where the track meets the mulch. Just a touch closer to my students. I force a happy look at Chris and begin scanning for the playground for some common mishap in a vain effort to make sense of my anxiety. Maybe there's a group of kids fighting? Or, perhaps, a scraped knee from tripping over untied shoelaces. Anything. Anything to make sense of this weird teacher spidey-sense I've got going on.

But there's nothing. The playground is unusually calm. Peaceful. Full of laughter and joy.

What is going on?

"Ms. Peter's, did you see me? Did you see me jump off the swings? Pretty cool, right?"

I turn to face Christopher, but just as I open my mouth to respond something sounds off and clips my left shoulder sending a string of pain jolting through my arm. Instinct kicks in. I slap my palm over the wound and freeze. Warm. Warm liquid puddles up into my hand.

My brain scrambles, slowly knitting together the bigger picture when another shot rings out, this time hitting the slide just ahead of me. A few kids react, their confusions welds them into place. The laughter turns to low murmurs.

I grab Chris roughly by the arm and pull him close, "Ms. Peter's class, let's go! Come on, line up!"

My students timidly weave through the huddle of kids frozen in place to get to me. I waste no time herding them back towards the school, noting a few other teachers doing the same as my aide, Wendy Garrison, reaches us.

The worried look on her face confirms what I already know: someone's shooting at us. Two shots so far. Maybe it was an accident, some redneck hunters wandering off their trail, but I'm not willing to take that risk. I can't any of these students get hit by a renegade bullet. I can't let them know. I refuse to let thems panic.

"Hurry up! Let's go!" Something serious touches my tone. My line straightens, Wendy squirms.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three more shots ring out. The stillness turns to screaming and the herd rushes the door. Pushing and shoving, the chaos making it impossible to identify anyone who might have been shot.

I whip my head around, counting off my students again. One... Two, three, four, fivesixseveneight, nine... Ten... Eleven... Tweleve, thirteen.

All huddle inside a pit of shrieking people. The crowd is forcing us towards the entrance, but too many bodies are trying to get inside all at once. We won't make it, especially since the shooter hasn't stopped. We're up to eighteen rounds now, and the steady pace isn't letting up. I can't tell if anyone else has been injured, the screams are piercing. And this stampede we've made isn't helping the situation at all. All the shoving, the tramping. Small, scared children fighting for safety.

I can't see anything. Standing in a mass is making us easy targets. The shooter will have no issue hitting us like this, we're not thinking straight. We're primal. Reactionary.

We need to get us in another way.

Now.

I stand on my toes, keeping Chris close to my side as I try peering over the heads. The gym doors are abandoned. Maybe if we bang on them they'll open? And once inside, I'll have Wendy make a call as I get as many students inside as possible.

"This way!" I don't have the luxury to hesitate. We have to move quickly. I push through the barrier and urge everyone around us to follow me. The student catch on quickly. We take to the large metal doors and start banging and screaming. Hoping against hope someone is inside.

Eight more shots ring out.

A girl next to me falls back. A teacher drops down to tend to her as more students surround and mimic me. I keep wailing on the door, my heart racing. Tears blurring my vision. Grip tightens on Chris until finally Coach Harris opens.

He's opened the floodgates. The masses rush past him, forcing in back as they stampese. I haven't let go of Chris, and the rest of my students are on my heels. All we can do is move out of the way.

"Wendy, I-" She's gone. And the mass of bodies keeps oozing in a formless blob, my students file in behind me and take up a line across the back wall. I swallow hard. "Where's Mrs. Garrison?" My voice breaks. No one answers. I nod and fish into my pocket for my phone. "I'm making the call."

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