Active Shooter

FICTION FRIDAY (Short provocative originals.)

“Nothing really at stake here, a facetious thought. Only their lives if they don’t ‘kill their babies’ and only their futures if they do.”

Baby Bobby sabotaged Rita’s sleep, made her back ache, and sweat-stained her favorite concert tees with the stroke-inducing effort it took to haul his ten-pound, Temu mail-order ass from one end of the school to the other.

But worst of all, Baby Bobby killed her cool.

When Rita walked the hallways of Thomas Wolfe Senior High School with Baby Bobby in the front-facing carrier, it looked like a Chucky doll had burst from her chest.

At two and a half feet tall, he was exactly half her size. Had a head the size of a volleyball with LED eyes that flashed green or red, depending on his mood. His stamped-on, ginger hair looked like the lit end of a cigarette, and his pink, keloid mouth was stuck in a permanent grimace.

But it was his arms, his arms that carved out his pugilistic personality. A doll with a human-sized chip on its shoulders. They were bowed and ended in stumpy little fists telegraphing that Baby Bobby was ready for a glass-breaking bar fight with anyone who might glance at him sideways. The legs were dead ringers for turkey drumsticks. To such a degree that Rita felt it was all but inevitable that she’d wake up one morning and her family’s pitbull, Brad Pitt, would’ve ripped off and swallowed one.

Christ, if she ever had a baby this disagreeable looking, she was certain her first stop would be the dark doorway of a church or fire station. She’d leave him there in a basket like a modern baby Moses. Someone else’s problem. Wished she could do that with Baby Bobby.

And yet that would mean a big, giant ‘F’ in Life Arts – a class she’d only taken because she’d been assured by friends it was an easy ‘A.’ She’d been misinformed. Just like Rick in her fave black-and-white film, Casablanca. An ‘A’ was something Rita desperately needed. Had to bring her total GPA up to a 2.0 to have a chance to graduate, to get out of suburban Asheville—and hopefully out of America.

None of it, not the school, not the town, not the country, none of it was a good fit. She had a wayfarer spirit, so everyone told her, and European sensibilities. Well, the ones cool enough to see it. She longed to live in a place where the answer to the tasting menu of life was always yes. Majorca?

But she knew that in this moment, the one thing that stood in her way, the one thing strapped in her way, was the giant, plastic Tamagotchi faux baby she had been assigned to keep alive for one full week.

On the day they were first issued, Rita had asked Mrs. Maryjane O’Meara why she and the six other ‘Baby Mommas’ that Spring semester couldn’t just turn off their Baby Bobbys or Baby Bettys when their digital crying, laughing, or other hysterics became too much.

“Because that’s the whole point. You just can’t turn off a real baby,” said Mrs. O’Meara, the weary and dry-witted Life Arts teacher whose tenure stretched back to a time when it was just plain old Home Ec. “And as far as you’re concerned, Baby Bobby is just as much living flesh as Big Arnold over there.” She pointed to another of the ‘Baby Mommas’ slumped over his desk in the front of the Life Arts classroom, which was heated by oven-warmth to a perfect somnolence, with the aroma of baking peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies.

“Wait, IS he living? Jessica, check his pulse!” Mrs. O’Meara said with feigned urgency to a student seated next to him, her mischievous smile momentarily giving her the appearance of an overgrown elf.

Big Arnold was a 6’3, 250-pound senior and standout linebacker for the Thomas Wolfe Senior High School Angels football team. His black hoodie was pulled over his head, and he was softly snoring. His Baby Betty was slung over his apex predator shoulders in a mini backpack carrier. Baby Betty had spiky, plasma-colored hair partially covered by her own red hoodie and a painted unibrow on her forehead in the shape of a flying seagull. Peeking out over the lip of the carrier, which rose and fell with each of Big Arnold’s breaths, she looked like an angry Puritan child ready to accuse some innocent milkmaid of witchcraft.

Big Arnold’s kid should’ve been born a Sasquatch, Rita thought. She had a breezy friendship with the easy-going dude based on mutual desperation. Because like her, Big Arnold was very much in need of an ‘A.’ The grade that could inch him over the academic goal line to graduation. That would mean a full ride to play ball at West Virginia Methodist Community College. But he needed the diploma first.

Rita felt more than a little concern for him. She’d been the one, after all, who convinced him to take Life Arts, along with another supposed, easy ‘A’ -- the Musical Theater class. It was a double Hail Mary of electives. If they succeeded, they could leave their last four high school years in the rear-view mirror. If not … Rita didn’t even want to think of the alternative.

“What happens when … if you shut him down,” Rita asked, truly curious.

Mrs. O’Meara gave her a gratified look. “I thought you’d never ask. But this is a better show-and-tell. Give me that little rug rat,” she said, taking Baby Bobby from Rita.

“Okay, gather round all you Baby Mommas. Jessica, wake up, Big Arnold. He needs to see this, too,” she said.

When Jessica succeeded in finally waking up Big Arnold, he yawned loudly and wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth with his hoodie sleeve. The Baby Mommas, now all present, formed a semi-circle around Mrs. O’Meara. When she was sure she had everyone’s attention, she began:

“Rita just asked me what happens when you hit the off button. What I like to call ‘killing’ your baby. Well, aside from failing this capstone assignment and probably the class…,” Rita and Big Arnold looked at each other apprehensively, “…these little bundles of joy will exit their digital worlds. But just like a real child, saddle you with a guilt trip that will haunt you for the ages.”

With that, Mrs. O’Meara pulled up the back of Baby Bobby’s red and white striped shirt. She depressed a switch that unlatched his back like a battery compartment. She held him up so everyone could see. There in the middle of his electronic innards was a round, rubber diaphragm.

“If you depress your finger into this diaphragm for three continuous seconds, you will ‘kill’ your baby. Or more accurately, it’s a one-week, digital lifespan specifically assigned to you. This will shut off all of its mechanical functions and, most critically, its recording data. It cannot be reset without the LifeKey, which I have the only copy of. Is that clear?”

Yes, Mrs. O’Meara, the Baby Mommas all murmured in the affirmative.

“But exactly how does your Baby Bobby or Baby Betty mark their moment of demise and your failure as a Babby Momma,” she looked to Big Arnold, “or Baby Daddy?”

“Like this,” she said, answering her own question. She depressed the red button. “One, two, three,” she counted and then turned Baby Bobby forward so they could see his face. Immediately, the doll’s arms and legs stretched out from its body forming an ‘X.’ Then it began vibrating as if it were being electrocuted.

The spectacle was so disturbing that three of the Baby Mommas, including Big Arnold, took a step back. But the show wasn’t over yet. Baby Bobby began swinging his ginger head back and forth, crying, “Why, Momma? Why? Why Momma? Why? Why Momma? Whhhhhhhhhy?” In the last refrain, the sound trailed off. Baby Bobby’s head slumped to his chest, his arms limp at his sides, his legs dangling lifeless, as if he’d just been dropped from the hangman’s noose. Most of the Baby Mommas all stared, eyes agog. But Rita cupped her hand to her mouth, hiding a smile. The little demon had finally returned to hell, where he belonged, she thought.

Rita tried to hold it in, but then a laugh burst out between the fingers of her hands, making it sound more like a snort. This was the release. Everyone else, joined in. Even Mrs. O’Meara smiled. Rita moved forward and wrapped the soft, doughy teacher in an unexpected bear hug, the body of Baby Bobby sandwiched between them.

“A little dramatic,” Rita said, “but thank you, Mrs. O’Meara! Thank you! Thank you! You just saved me from a lifetime of regret.”

Mrs. O’Meara pulled her in for a moment, returning the hug.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she said, then paused to fish inside the side pocket of her apron. This broke the embrace. “But you forget that in Life Arts, I am the goddess of all that dwells and smells of home. Baby Bobby will be born again,” she says, triumphant. She waved something, a blur of yellow plastic, in front of them. “Behold the LifeKey!”

~ ~ ~

On her fourth day as a Baby Momma, Rita was on her last friggin’ nerve. Baby Bobby had woken her up three times in the middle of the night. Each time she had to turn on the electronic ‘milk bottle,’ wait three minutes until the word ‘warm’ glowed at its base.

Then she had to insert the bottle’s sensor nipple into his mouth. It took another three minutes for the base of the bottle to glow, ‘empty.’ After, she’d need to walk around her room rocking him for another five minutes or until his LED eyes flashed green.

That was the signal he was going back to sleep—and then, so could she. When they flashed red, it meant he was awake, unhappy, and that a crying fit was imminent. She did the math in her head as she zombie-walked to second period. Three plus three plus five equals eleven times three. Thirty-three minutes! The plastic monster had kept her up for more than half an hour in the middle of the night, plus all the time after each ‘episode’ it took her to fall back to sleep.

Ridiculous rituals to keep their ridiculous fake babies from fake infant mortality. Wasn’t like she was planning on being a mom, any more than Big Arnold Demitrio. She was going to be an EDM DJ. Probably live in Ibiza. Party on the beach all day and spin raves all night.

She’d seen what having kids could do to you. Her Pops had wanted to play bass in a jazz band but ended up as a night supervisor at the municipal water plant. Her mom was a cashier at Costco. She’d dreamt of being a costume designer in Hollywood.

She appreciated their sacrifices but learned more from the lessons their failures had taught her. To emphasize them, she stenciled Sin venta! Sin rendicion! in giant black letters on posterboard. Hung it opposite her bed so it was the first thing she saw when she woke up each morning. The last thing she saw before she went to sleep at night. Aside from Baby Bobby's hideous face.

The third period bell rang. Rita needed to navigate in just five minutes from Algebra II at the school’s east end, all the way to the auditorium on the west end for her Musical Theater class. It was challenging even if she didn’t have Baby Bobby blocking her view like a dead deer on the hood of a pickup. She was panting and pissed by the time she got there – just beating the final bell. Everyone else was already in their places. Even Big Arnold, who was on the set crew.

On this day, they were rehearsing for the school’s spring production of Mamma Mia. The next setup was for the song Voulez-Vous and that weird disco scene. Big Arnold stood on a ladder at the center of the stage, hanging a disco ball from a hook on a monofilament line.

Rita wished he’d be more careful. She imagined him slipping from the top rung, plunging to the floor, and crushing Baby Betty under his freight train mass. Killing your baby with body weight would be a likely first in the Life Arts class. A theatrical exit for Baby Betty, but a sad, slapstick ending to Big Arnold’s lifelong dream.

The principal, Dr. Ferryman, had considered cutting the disco scene from the play, too suggestive, he’d said. But relented when the Musical Theater instructor and show director Ms. Dolores Riggenbach assured him that whole production would be rated ‘G,’ for Godly.

Rita was already sick of every song in the show. But thank god she didn’t have to sing or act. She worked the soundboard. Cueing up and playing soundtracks, opening and closing the microphones, and fading foley snippets in and out.

It was a natural fit for her temperament and skills. If she could only fade Baby Bobby out the same way. She put on her headphones and adjusted the levels on the soundboard when his eyes flashed red. He began the tinny stirrings of sniffles and short whines that preceded his full-on crying fits.

This could only be circumvented if Rita picked him up immediately and rocked the evil little lump back to neutral. But with the over-ear cans, she missed the early warning signs.

What followed was two uninterrupted minutes of “mamma, mamma, mamma” threaded together with intermittent wailing that would continue now as a penalty cry, no matter what she did to calm him.

Tanya and Austin were on stage and mid-verse when Baby Bobby’s nerve-jangling abandoned-child-in-a-Wal-Mart-shopping-cart-wails broke the magic.

The guy sitting next to Rita doing lights was a goth, robotics nerd named Jalani. Anything dark, death-ish, and filled with misery was sure to capture his attention.

He used the interruption to create a seizure-inducing Fall of the House of Usher light display to accompany Baby Bobby’s anguished throes.

It brought the whole rehearsal to a crashing halt and Ms. Riggenbach to her feet. Her hands on her pear-shaped hips silhouette appeared from the first row, where she was directing. She looked back toward the light and sound booth.

“Sorry!” Rita said over the PA system. “Satan’s spawn is at it again.”

“Thank you!” Jalani said appreciatively.

“Didn’t mean you num-nuts,” Rita said, futilely rocking Baby Bobby in her arms, a profound look of resignation on her face.

Ms. Riggenbach turned back to her leads. Before she could finish her sentence about starting over from the top. Another sound filled the auditorium.

“OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Ms. Riggenbach sighed. “What now?”

Rita’s cans were down now while she was rocking Baby Bobby back into the 9^th circle of hell. Her finely tuned ears knew immediately what she was hearing: the Active Shooter Alert.

“OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree.”

A pulsing blue flasher activated over all the entrance and exit doors, confirming. She looked over at Jalani.

“Coooooool,” he said, mesmerized by the show, a big smile spreading across his face.

“OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree, OOO-ree.”

~ ~ ~

Even though it was the middle of the school day, the hallways of Thomas Wolfe Senior High were empty. The alarm triggered a practiced response: students sheltered in place, barricading themselves in their classrooms, lunchrooms, and bathrooms, wherever they were. In the case of the Musical Theater class, the auditorium.

Rita’s voice came over the PA again. “Need to lock the doors, Ms. Riggenbach,” she said calmly. “That’s the active shooter alert.”

Ms. Riggenbach signaled Austin and Tanya toward the entry and exit doors. They pulled up on the metal bar handles of each, locking them. Without being told, Big Arnold followed. He carried four high-back chairs from the set, two looped through each arm, as if they weighed no more than Easter Baskets. He wedged one under each bar of the entry doors, then did the same with the two exit doors. They all gathered at the lip of the stage riser. What now?

~ ~ ~

A single individual appeared in the main corridor. He wore woodland camo from head to toe, including a backward ball cap and a neck gator that covered his face up to his eyes. He carried a Desert Tan Colt AR-15 in low ready. A Ruger 9mm semi-automatic pistol in matte black was holstered around his waist by a green army surplus molle belt. His head swiveled back and forth from the doors on his left and right.

He seemed in no particular hurry. No particular worry, despite the flashing blue lights and the foreboding echoes of the school alarms. He stopped at a door to his right. He reared back and punch-kicked the handle with the sole of his boot. When it flew open, he swept the room with the muzzle of the AR.

He tilted his head to the side to look in. It’s the way his avatars did it in HALO and Call of Duty. It’s the way he’d seen it done in CQCB in a million war films. It was how he did it, playing paintball with his buddies.

Inside, he saw a dash of movement. His finger instantly slid from the trigger guard onto the trigger. A slow, steady pull, a crack, and a whiz. The round supersonic flattened against the far wall without finding its target. He didn’t care. It wasn’t her. Just marking his territory. He moved on.

He glanced at his watch; 11:45. He knew her schedule by heart. Always memorized her schedule. That way, he could tell if she was where she was supposed to be. Or maybe she was slow-walking to class, talking and flirting with other boys like she always did. This made him insane. Couldn’t she see how much he loved her? Worshipped her?

She’d given him an 8X10 print of her senior picture. Drew a little heart, wrote next to it ‘you Colby.’ He taped it to one of his bed pillows. On nights when he wasn’t with her, talking on the phone or texting her, he held the pillow close to his face, stared into her sharp green eyes and porcelain skin, framed by a silky mane of straight red hair parted down the middle. Her parents had come from Ukraine, so he called her his Slavic Princess. My Slavic Princess this, My Slavic Princess that.

Talked to her about their future plans together. Or -- if she’d done something wrong, wasn’t where she said she’d be, or had acted weird when she saw him, he’d later confront the image. Ask why she couldn’t see how much she hurt him when she acted like a whore. And last night, last night, he slapped it, straddled the pillow, and pounded the photos with his fists until it was ripped and crumpled beyond recognition.

His Slavic Princess had sent him a long email. Didn’t have the courage to tell him to his face or even call him. Said she’d had enough. Said she’d felt like he was trying to control her. That she couldn’t be herself around him anymore. Said she’d always care for him, but she didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. He needed to deal with his issues, his anger, his jealousy, his … what did she call it? Possessiveness. All her big words. Maybe, she said, he should talk to someone. You know, about his mom leaving him and his dad. Maybe that was the problem.

Then she just signed off, ‘T.’ No usual XXX’s and OOOs at the end like she always typed. Or used to. She’d stopped a week into the new semester. She’d stopped when she started rehearsing for that play with that guy Austin. He looked like one of the Hemsworths. Played lacrosse. Wore $100 jeans, ripped waffle thermals, and Doc Martens. He hated the guy.

But now, looking at his watch again, he realized he knew where they both were. He ambled down the long hallway toward the auditorium. No need to rush. The entire school was in his hands now.

With all the noise and commotion, both Rita’s Baby Bobby and Big Arnold’s Baby Betty got the fire eyes, as the Baby Mommas called it. Their red LEDs lit up, creating a demonic glow. They were about to howl.

Rita and Big Arnold were frantically rocking them, trying to calm them before their crying jags gave away their positions to the shooter or, god she hoped not, shooters.

With the doors locked, they might think the auditorium was empty and pass them by. Tanya’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, looked at the screen, and saw the text:

Coming for you and your new boyfriend
My Slavic Princess
You said you loved me, but you lied
Now you’re going to die

Just as she finished reading the message, they all turned to face the direction of a young, male voice on the other side of the auditorium doors.

“Tanya, Tanya. I know you’re in there, T,” he taunted in a sing-songy tone. “You and Ass-ton,” he laughed at his play on the name. “No use hiding. You make me work too hard, you’re both gonna die slooooooow.”

The other students and their teacher looked at the two. Even in the darkened space, they could see Ashton’s face blanched of color. Tanya shook her head, seemingly more angry than afraid.

The gunman continued. “I’ll start by shooting your feet, then your knees, and just keep working my way up until I get to your faces. No open caskets for either of you,” another laugh.

“Now, if you let me in, maybe we can work something out,” the gunman’s voice sounded casual, parental even. Like he was talking to children who had done something wrong and needed to accept their punishments.

“Who is that?” Rita whispered to Tanya.

She held out her phone screen so everyone could read it.

“No way we’re opening up those doors,” Austin said. The group nodded.

“And you two need to shut those things off,” he continued, pointing at Rita and Big Arnold, still rocking their fake babies. Rita and Big Arnold looked at each other, uncertain. The same thought was going through their minds.

Would Mrs. O’Meara accept they had no choice but to ‘kill their babies’ to save not only their own lives, but everyone else’s in that auditorium? Rita hoped so, but feared she might just view an active-shooter incident as the ultimate Life Arts test.

‘You wouldn’t kill real babies in this situation. Would you?’ She imagined her saying. ‘And as far as you’re concerned, Baby Bobby is just as much living flesh as Big Arnold over there,’ she remembered her saying.

Rita looked to Big Arnold again; he was as confused as she was. Nothing really at stake here, a facetious thought. Only their lives if they don’t ‘kill their babies’ and only their futures if they do. Her inner exchange was interrupted by the doors being kicked, followed by angry shouts.

“Going to count to ten,” the gunman’s voice again, shouting above the din of the alarms. “Then I’m going to shoot open the doors—and then everyone inside. Your choice.”

“What are you guys waiting for?” Tanya said, irritation in her voice. “Shut those fucking dolls down before they get us all killed.”

“The dolls aren’t going kill us,” Rita whispered back, angrily. “Your armed psycho ex-boyfriend is! Way to pick ‘em, Tanya,” Rita said, indignant.

That made Jalani laugh. The rest looked to Ms. Riggenbach for guidance. She took a deep breath and tried to find a reserve of courage.

“All lives are precious,” she said. “What if those weren’t dolls but actual children. You couldn’t just smother them. This is a teachable moment.” She smiled and looked around at each of them with the confidence that she’d been inspired with the perfect solution. “Take the hand of the person next to you. Let’s form a circle and pray to Jesus. With God’s grace, no harm will come to us.”

They all looked at her as if she’d had her head so far up Jesus’s ass, even he would find her words hard to swallow.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Rita said. “Everyone, huddle up and listen.”

~ ~ ~

The gunman was out of patience. He began a slow, but menacing count.

When he reached ONE, he fired two rounds into the entrance door handles and used a backward mule kick to knock them open. A pall of smoke floated in the open doorway. The muzzle of the AR-15 poked in first, then the gunman. He peered left and right again, like he was clearing the room. With the exception of the blue flashers, the auditorium was dark.

The alarm still blared, but now it had been long enough to become background noise. The stage curtain was drawn, and the auditorium appeared empty. The gunman walked cautiously toward the front of the stage, sweeping the gun barrel back and forth. Suddenly, a voice over the PA system made him jump and point the rifle in multiple directions.

It was Tanya’s voice, disembodied. “Just because I broke up with you, Colby, you think you have the right to kill me—or anyone else. What kind of shit-for-brains entitlement is that?”

“Come out, lying bitch,” the gunman shouted, still waving his rifle.

“I didn’t lie,” Tanya’s voice continued. “I just changed my mind. Normal people accept disappointments in their lives without shooting up a whole school.”

From the pitch-black sound booth, Rita’s fingers pushed up the faders on the sound board. The sound of Voulez-Vous pumped in behind Tanya’s voice. Mixed with the alarms, it created a disorienting, auditory hallucination.

“You know what the difference is between men and women, Colby?” Tanya asked. “Men fear women will reject them. Women fear men will kill them. That seems fair to you. What you’re doing is just sick.”

“What’s sick is leading someone on and then dumping them with an email,” the gunman shouted above the building crescendo of noise.

“Boo Hoo! You little baby,” Tanya continued. “Because that’s what you are. Someone hurts you, and you just take it out on the world.”

Rita pushed up another set of faders, amplifying the sounds of a baby crying behind the curtain. As she pushed the faders further up the board, the sound became louder and more violent, ‘Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!’ Soon, it dominated the entire auditorium.

“Hear that?” Tanya’s voice pierced the air. “That’s you – a baby with a gun calling for his mommy because some mean girl hurt him. Now he wants to kill her.”

“Fucking, bitch,” the gunman murmured, still not sure where to turn. Then, in a quick draw, the stage curtain was pulled back.

Emerging from within, riding a sparkling disco ball, Baby Bobby swung toward the gunman’s head, fire eyes a blazing and screaming at the top of his mechanical lungs.

The gunman pivoted toward the mind-fracturing apparition, raised his AR-15, and fired. The disco ball shattered into a thousand points of light while Baby Bobby fell to the floor at his feet.

When the crying didn’t stop, the gunman raised his AR and fired another round, point-blank, causing Baby Bobby’s ginger head to explode. The gunman turned away and scanned for other threats. But the crying didn’t stop. He pivoted and sent another round into the doll, cratering its torso. Finally, the cries ended.

Before he could reorient himself. Rita turned off Tanya’s mike and slid all the soundboard faders into the red. Voulez-Vous blasted at maximum decibels from all the speakers in the auditorium. It even drowned out the alarms. The gunman dropped his grip on the AR-15 to cover his ears. It drooped on its sling over his shoulder.

Seated next to Rita in the dark, Jalani manipulated his own board, hitting the gunman with the 10,000 lumens stage spotlight. This blinded him long enough to give Big Arnold a running start downstage, where he launched himself off the lip and into the air. The linebacker landed on the gunman with a sickening crunch, laying him out at the foot of the stage.

He was stunned but reached for the Ruger 9mm in his hip holster. Before he could get to it, Big Arnold reached back and pulled Baby Betty from her backpack. Holding her by the arms, he swung her overhead, pummeling the gunman with the doll. Her eyes flashed read and she wailed like a banshee. This was obviously not the way to get her to go back to sleep.

The cries grew louder and more anguished with every wallop until the gunman raised his hands in surrender. One of his eyes was already swollen shut, and his nose flattened. A gush of blood seeped onto the woodland ammo neck gator, now pulled down to reveal his face.

Austin, who had crouched in one of the rows nearby, raced in to pull the rifle sling off his shoulder. Big Arnold dropped Baby Betty, finished unholstering the pistol, and turned it on the gunman while kneeling on his arms.

The sound of police sirens filled the distant air. Closer, on the ground next to the young man that might’ve killed them all, a tinny, cracked recording played, now only at a fraction of its volume because of internal damage; ‘Why Momma? Why? Why Momma? Why? Why Momma? Whyyyyyyy?’

-END-

[Note: this story is fiction, but inspired by a true story shared with the author by Cami Paul]

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