Erik moved into the lounge, cautious. Like a hunter approaching a kill he wasn’t sure was quite dead. Something was going on. Something big. He gazed at the anchorman on the screen, began assembling a picture from the fragments.
Some of the students released from the high school have been reunited with their parents. Now let’s take a look at the live coverage from Littleton where an arrest has been made.
Officials are preparing a briefing there for parents.
I wish I could give you more information but we don’t know. It’s extremely chaotic out there.
A graphic flashed up, the state of Colorado. A dot for Denver. Across the top of the screen: School Shooting.
No confirmed fatalities as of yet as police have not completely secured the building.
Continuing to find victims throughout the school.
We have to point out the gunmen have not yet been found.
These gunmen, wearing black trench coats.
Columbine.
A hand in his, cold fingers and rough, dry skin. He turned his head. It was Melanie, her eyes enormous, her lips pressed into a tight line.
On the screen, groups of students being shepherded by police across a parking lot, their hands on their heads.
Helicopters. SWAT teams. Dogs. Ambulances.
You may have noticed the word on your screen “Lockdown.”
SWAT teams in position.
Students still trapped inside.
“Unbelievable,” Melanie whispered. She moved closer into him, seeking comfort. He stayed motionless. A small trickle of sweat dripped down his back.
Conflicting stories.
Calls from within the building.
The gunmen have not yet been found.
His legs were prickling now. Maybe he should sit down.
Students inside.
Sound of gunfire.
The edges of his vision began to fade out. He was looking at the TV through a pinhole.
911 call from the library.
Still trapped inside.
The gunmen.
Erik opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in a forest of legs, Melanie kneeling beside him. “Get back,” she said. “Get back, give him some air.”
Her fingers unzipped his jacket and undid some of the buttons on his flannel shirt. She laid her hand flat on his chest. His heart pounded against it. He was on fire. His blood had turned to electric, molten lava, crackling along his limbs.
I’m dying, he thought.
“Erik.” Melanie’s hands on his face now, smoothing his forehead. “Talk to me. Are you having chest pains?”
It wasn’t pain, exactly. More a slow, ripping sensation. Something had a hold of his heart and was pulling it through his ribcage. But he wasn’t in pain. He was just quite exquisitely terrified.
Someone knelt by his other side and put a hand on his shoulder. “Erik.”
It was Miles. He was pale behind his horn-rimmed glasses, but his melodious voice was calm and unwavering. He shifted to sit down, cross-legged, and took Erik’s hand in his. “Erik, look at me.”
Erik struggled to focus.
“Fish, it’s Miles. Look at me. Come back to me.”
“It’s happening again,” Erik whispered.
“But not to you,” Miles said. “You’re not there. You’re here with me. Look at me.”
“What’s the matter with him?” Melanie said, her voice cracking with fright.
“He was at Lancaster,” Miles said.
A murmuring gasp of recognition rippled through the lounge.
“Oh, Jesus,” Melanie whispered.
“Daisy,” Erik said. The panic intensified. It had happened again. No known fatalities, the news said. But in his constricted, writhing heart, Erik knew it wasn’t true. Someone’s son died today. Someone’s daughter would die tonight. Kids would lie in hospital beds. Blood would be all over their lives. Dreams and fairytales in bloody pieces on the floor.
“Squeeze my hand,” Miles said. “Stay with me.”
Erik nodded, breathing hard through his mouth, squeezing Miles’ fingers hard. He started to shake.
Squeeze my hands, Marge. Go ahead and break my fingers…
“I’m cold,” he whispered. How could he be cold with this fire in his veins?
“Let’s get him off the floor,” Melanie said.
“No,” Erik said. “No, don’t.” Though cold, the floor was good, pressed all along the backs of his legs and shoulders and head, grounding him.