The Competition

1

10:45 a.m.

Principal Campbell’s voice blared through the classroom loudspeakers. “As you know, it’s Homecoming, and I’m sure you’re all as excited about it as I am. Pep rally starts at eleven a.m. sharp. Show your school spirit and greet our new cheerleaders. See you there! Go, Falcons!”

Groans went up in nearly every classroom as the students rolled their eyes and traded disgusted looks. The truth was, they didn’t mind the break. Any excuse to get out of class.

10:59 a.m.

The gymnasium buzzed with heat and raucous energy; the bleachers, designed to hold three thousand, were nearly packed to capacity. Girls’ high-pitched notes and boys’ hornlike, cracking bleats mingled and snowballed into a roar. Wincing at the din, geometry teacher Adam Levy leaned toward Hector Lopez, the Spanish teacher. “Bet you wouldn’t mind having library duty today.”

Hector sighed. “Yeah, no kidding. Sara totally lucked out.”

Finally, Principal Dale Campbell walked out to the center of the floor, the wireless microphone invisible in his large mitt of a hand. He still carried himself like the linebacker he’d been when he was in high school. The principal loved these rare opportunities to see all the kids together like this. To him it was a family gathering. He tapped the mic, waited for everyone to settle down, then thanked the crowd for coming-as if they’d had a choice-and read off the announcements: a bake sale for the Woodland Hills Home for the Elderly, the job fair next month, and the upcoming performances of the junior and senior orchestras and jazz bands.

“And since our fantastic jazz singer Sheila Wagner has graduated, it’s my pleasure to announce that her replacement will be Dimitri Rabinow-”

Girls shouted out in singsong tones, “We love you, Dimitri!” and “Dimitri’s so hot!”-sparking a wave of laughter.

Principal Campbell chuckled along with them. “Seems we’ve made a popular choice.” Then he pushed his hands down, gesturing for them to be quiet. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for: Fairmont High’s new, world-class varsity cheerleaders-I give you…the Falconettes!”

The locker room door at the far end of the gym opened, and a single line of girls in blue-and-gold pleated skirts and blue sweaters bearing the gold outlined image of a falcon in midflight came bursting out, cheeks shining.

They went into their V formation. Christy Shilling tilted her head and smiled at the crowd. Cheerleading 101. Captain Tammy Knopler, in position at the apex of the V, shouted the cue for their windup chant, “Hey! Go! Hey! Fight!” They clapped out the rhythm for four beats, then started to yell the words. The students joined in, stomping and pounding the wooden bleachers as they shouted, “Go!” and “Fight!”

After a few rounds, the squad threw their arms straight up in the air and called out, “Go, Falcons!” The crowd obediently roared back, “Go, Falcons!” The V stretched out into a line, and Christy took the brief run to start her first tumbling pass. Just as she launched into her handspring, the double doors behind the top row of bleachers flew open. At first, no one noticed the two figures who stood there, rifles in hand. The crowd continued to clap and shout; Christy went into her roundoff. As she turned in the air, the shorter of the two figures raised an assault rifle and fired off four rapid shots. The blasts ripped through the noisy gym. A hush fell, and for an instant, wide-eyed students turned to stare at one another. Christy landed heavily and stuttered backward on her heels.

Heads craned, searching for the source of the foreign sound. They found it at the top of the bleachers. Two figures clothed in camouflage coats and black balaclavas, assault rifles held high. Shrieks rang out.

“Time to die, motherfuckers!” The shout came from the shorter figure on the right. The taller figure yelled, “Run, assholes! Run!”

One of them gave a weird, high-pitched laugh. Then they both aimed their weapons down at the crowd. Staccato gunfire pierced the air. Screams of terror filled the gym as students hurtled down the bleachers, pushing, falling, trampling over one another as they desperately searched for cover. The acrid smell of fear mingled with panicked shouts as the black-hooded gunmen fired into the sea of bodies. Bullets tore through arms, legs, torsos, sending bright-red sprays of blood through the air.

Tammy ran toward the locker rooms. Christy knew she should run too, tried to make her feet move. But her body and brain felt disconnected. Run! Run! Christy sobbed to herself, even as she thought, This can’t be real, it has to be a nightmare. Finally, feeling as though she were moving underwater, she began to follow Tammy. As she reached the locker room door, Christy stretched out a hand. She started to push the door open. She was nearly inside, nearly safe, when the shorter of the two gunmen turned to his left and fired. Christy’s head exploded in a red mist as she dropped to the gym floor.

Somewhere, someone had pulled a fire alarm, and the shrill clanging underscored the frenzied screams of the crowd.

The killers moved down the bleacher steps in tandem at an almost leisurely pace, shooting into the crowd below as they went. They yelled at the students with a vicious glee, “Fuck the jocks!”

When the gunmen reached the gym floor, a bloodied hand groped the air blindly. “Help me, please…,” the boy whimpered.

One of the killers laughed. “Sure, no problem.” He put his gun to the boy’s temple and pulled the trigger.

The bleachers had turned into a battlefield. Bodies everywhere-flung over benches, splayed out on the steps, curled under the seats, crumpled in heaps on the gym floor. Blood, bone, brain matter, splashed the walls, the bleachers, the floor.

The shorter killer gave a sign to his partner, and now they began to move more quickly, heading for the gym entrance, which was clogged with teenagers clawing and scrambling over one another to reach the doors.

Angela Montrose, the girls’ soccer coach, threw her arms around as many students as she could, shielding them with her wide, sturdy body. Then came another barrage of shots. Just ten feet to her right, three boys and a girl spun and fell to the floor. Angela stretched her arms to the breaking point and pushed the students forward with all her might. If she could get them past the bottleneck, out to the open hallway, they’d have a chance.

She’d just crossed the threshold when another wave of shots rang out. Searing fire spread through Angela’s right side. Suddenly, her knees buckled. She stumbled as black spots swam in her eyes. Mustering her last ounce of strength, she shoved the students out from under her wing and yelled, “Run!” Then, clutching her side, she crumpled to the ground. One of the gunmen walked over and looked down at her. They locked eyes. He raised his gun and pointed it at her face. Angela closed her eyes and silently said good-bye to her sister, her partner, their dogs. Bracing for the shot, she startled at the sound of an empty metallic click. The gunman cursed. Something heavy clattered to the floor next to her. Angela opened her eyes and looked up. He was gone. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Students screamed as they poured out through the double doors of the gym. The gunmen moved behind them like deadly sheepherders and took in the chaotic scene. Another high-pitched laugh, then the shorter one calmly took aim at a group of girls running for the main entrance, fired a few shots. Without looking to see if anyone was hit, he gave another signal to his partner.

The taller figure nodded and fell in behind him, pulling a handgun out of his jacket as they headed for the wide staircase that led to the second floor and the library. At the foot of the stairs, they stopped and fired at the students fleeing up the steps. Hector Lopez, who had just cleared the landing, cried out, “No!” He’d led a group of students to the stairway, hoping the gunmen wouldn’t come this way. He dropped back and pushed the two girls nearest to him up the stairs. “Go! Go!” Hector deliberately slowed, praying that the gunmen would take him, the easiest target, giving the girls more time to escape. More shots. Hector’s back muscles went rigid, anticipating the sting of bullets, but he kept moving forward.

Up ahead, he saw that the girls had made it to the top of the stairs and were sprinting down the hallway to the right. As he reached the last step, he heard another set of shots. Closer, much closer. Hector grabbed the handrail to pull himself up, but his fingers slipped off and he nearly tumbled backward down the stairs. He teetered, arms windmilling to regain balance. At the last second, Hector managed to seize the handrail and climb the last step. Only then did he notice the blood running down his side. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the gunmen had reached the landing. He took the hallway to the left, hoping to draw them away from where the girls had fled. Hector’s stomach lurched, and he felt bile rise in his throat. Stumbling past the library, headfirst, body almost parallel to the ground, he held the wall for support. Had they followed him? Where were they?

As he neared the boys’ restroom, he risked another glance over his shoulder. Saw them behind him, heading toward the library. Hector leaned into the lavatory door and fell to the floor inside. Using his left hand, he slid his cell phone out of his pocket and pushed 9-1-1. He managed the words “Fairmont…shooting.” The last thing he saw before blacking out was the time on his cell phone: 11:08.

Harley had been in the library for the past hour, head down, desperately cramming factoids on the War of the Roses, when the fire alarm began to ring. He’d ignored it. Probably just a prank or an accident. But the shrill clanging persisted. Harley looked around, sniffed the air. No smoke. He got up and headed toward the windows that looked down on the front of the school to see if they were being evacuated. He’d gotten only halfway across the library when he heard screams, pounding footsteps-and then a voice bellowing from somewhere out in the hallway. “Hey, assholes, have a nice day!”

A series of loud pops-they sounded like firecrackers, but…were they shots? Then laughter, ugly and brutal. Another shot. Then another. Closer this time. Just outside the library door. Harley frantically turned to Ms. Sara Beason, the teacher on duty. She stood at the front counter, staring wide-eyed at the doorway. He started to move toward her, when she suddenly screamed, “Hide!”

Harley quickly scrambled behind a bookcase and ducked down. A blonde girl was standing near the storage cubbies at the front of the library, frozen, mouth hanging open.

“Get down!” Harley whispered to her. “Down!” He gestured to her wildly.

She stared at him, uncomprehending at first. Harley crawled over to her and yanked at her hand, pulling her to her knees. She dropped woodenly to all fours and curled up under a nearby desk. Harley scurried back to his hiding place.

Seconds later a mocking voice came from the doorway. “Where’re all the good little kiddies? Helloooo?” Footsteps, then the same voice, closer now. “Hey, who’s got library duty? Guess what? It’s your lucky day!” Harley heard Sara Beason scream. Then, the boom of gunfire. It rattled the windows, shook the desks.

Harley thought only a bomb could be that loud. More footsteps, Harley couldn’t tell exactly where, and more shots. How many? It was impossible to know. It all blended together in one continuous deafening roar. From the other side of the library he heard moaning, then a low swishing sound. What was that? Harley heard a weird, high-pitched laugh. Someone-one of the killers?-snickered and said, “Losers.” Again footsteps, this time moving his way.

Harley swallowed hard, pressing his lips together to keep from screaming. He peeked through a gap in the books and saw someone-A killer? It had to be-walk over to the desk where the blonde girl had hidden. Shaking with terror, Harley tried not to breathe. He couldn’t think beyond the words Go away, go away, go away that ran through his brain on a continuous loop. The killer moved past the desk. Harley briefly closed his eyes in gratitude and dared to take a shallow breath. Then, without warning, the killer doubled back and rapped sharply on the desk.

“Knock, knock, anybody home?” He laughed, leaned down, and looked at the girl cowering on the floor.

The girl sobbed, “No! Please! Please don’t-”

“Please don’t,” the killer mocked in a high falsetto. “Well, since you said please.” He took two steps away, then abruptly turned back. “Then again, that’s a stupid, bullshit word.” He swung the barrel of the gun under the desk. Fired point-blank into her face. Blood and brains splashed the wall behind the girl.

Harley jammed a fist into his mouth and clutched his chest with the other hand to muffle the pounding of his heart. Ears ringing from the deafening sound, he squeezed himself into a ball and took shallow little breaths. He knew he was next. A warm, wet trickle made its way down his right leg.

He heard footsteps, the brush of pant legs. It sounded like they were near the windows, but he couldn’t be sure. Could they see him from there? Harley didn’t dare turn his head to look. He thought of his mom, his dad, pictured them during one of their last happy dinners together, and squeezed his eyes shut to hold on to the memory. One of the killers was speaking. The voice seemed very close. Just feet away. Harley willed the ringing in his ears to stop as he strained to make out the words.

One of the killers spoke again. “Ready?”

An affirmation. “Yeah.”

Then both voices. “Three…two…one.”

A beat of silence.

This is it, Harley thought. He curled up knees to chin, wrapped his arms over his head, and sobbed silently into his chest.