Chapter 3 Sirens #2
Darius is faster, or maybe he’s just better at ignoring the impossible. He grabs my sleeve, and it’s not gentle.
His fingers dig in, right above the elbow, and for a second it’s like being yanked out of a dream. But it’s not a dream; it’s so much fucking worse.
He pulls me forward, and I follow, because the alternative is standing here forever. We have to step over Cap’s body.
My foot lands half in the blood and I almost lose it, knees buckling, stomach revolting, head spinning like I’ve just been spun upside-down for a hundred years.
Behind us, a door bangs open and Coach Vasquez stumbles out, one hand clutching her hip. Her hair is matted to her forehead, eyes wild.
She sees us, and the look on her face is pure murder. “Go!” she spits. “Don’t look, just GO!”
We go.
The next corridor is longer, unlit. I can’t see my own hands, but I can hear Darius breathing, every inhale ragged and hard.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, gunpowder, and something even more primal, shit, piss, terror, all of it baked into the cinderblock walls.
We’re almost to the end of the hall when I slip again, this time going down hard on one knee.
There’s something wet on the floor; I don’t want to know what. My whole body shakes. I push up, teeth gritted, and see Darius’s hand waiting for me.
He doesn’t say anything, but his grip on my forearm is hard enough to leave a mark.
He doesn’t let go until I’m upright. I want to thank him, or maybe just scream at him for not letting me stay down, but there’s no air in my lungs for talking.
We lurch forward, together, like a two-man chain gang.
We hit the door at the end of the hall, slam through, and find ourselves in a utility room, the kind they use for cleaning supplies and ice bags.
The rest of the team is in here, a huddle of bloody, shivering shapes, all silent, all stunned.
We collapse into the crowd. The door slams shut behind us, and for a moment, everything is absolutely, perfectly silent.
Nobody speaks. Nobody moves.
I feel Darius’s breath on my neck, hot and unsteady. I look down at my hands; they’re covered in red, and I don’t know if it’s mine or Cap’s or O’Doul’s or just the byproduct of survival.
I hear a faint whimper. It might be me. It might be everyone.
And just like that, the world changes.
———
We’re packed so tight in the equipment room that I can feel every rib of Darius’s cage through our jerseys.
Sweat and fear mingle, making the air taste like copper and salt. The overhead light flickers, painting everyone in a sick, greenish tinge. Nobody says a word.
The first thing we do is barricade the door.
There’s no discussion, no hesitation. Darius and I drag the heavy canvas bags, weighted with spare gear, pucks, and what feels like bricks, right up against the seam.
O’Doul wedges a stick through the latch. The rest just press themselves against the far wall, a mess of knees and elbows and helmet hair, all eyes wide and unfocused.
Gunfire stutters from down the hall. Each shot is less a noise and more an impact, a pressure wave that rattles my teeth.
It’s farther away now, but every time it cuts out I flinch, waiting for it to return.
Someone starts praying, low and slurred, might be Raz, might be one of the juniors who got the call-up this week and now wishes to fuck he’d stayed home.
I look for Coach, but she’s not here, she must have doubled back, maybe trying to drag more guys to safety.
Darius still has his hand on my arm. It’s clamped so tight I can’t feel the skin beneath his grip.
He’s not looking at me, just staring at the door like he can will it to be bulletproof.
I try to control my breathing, but it comes in little yips, like a dog on a choke chain.
My whole body is shaking. I think it’s from cold, then realize it’s pure adrenaline, the kind that burns every thought out of your head.
For a minute, there’s nothing but the wet sound of guys trying not to cry.
I taste blood in my mouth, but I don’t remember being hit. I wipe my face and my hand comes away streaked with red and snot and sweat.
The humiliation of it is instant, but then I look at the others, everyone is leaking, everyone is stripped raw. Whatever dignity we brought in here was left on the ice, probably somewhere near Cap.
Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time isn’t working right.
There’s a crash, closer, maybe just outside the door. I hear footsteps, boots on tile, something heavy being dragged. Then silence.
I want to vomit. I want to scream. Instead, I fixate on the pattern of the floor tiles, count each black fleck like it matters.
Darius finally speaks, barely a whisper. “Stay behind me,” he says.
It’s so fucking unnecessary I almost laugh, but the sound comes out strangled. Still, I nod, because it’s what you do when a goalie tells you to cover the net.
We wait.
And wait.
At some point, the gunfire stops. The only sound now is distant sirens, and the occasional whimper from the huddle.
Then the sirens get closer, a new chaos layered over the old.
Someone yells outside, maybe a cop, maybe not. The pounding on the door comes sudden and loud.
“Police! Hands where I can see them!”
For a split second, nobody moves. We’re too fused to the ground, too used to hiding.
Then Darius stands, pulling me with him. He’s taller than the rest by a full head, so when the door finally gives way, it’s his chest and my face that are first in the line of fire.
The SWAT guy is enormous, in black armor and a helmet, gun up, eyes blank.
He scans the room, the terror in his face so out of place that it makes everything more real, not less.
“We’re clear! Got survivors!” he shouts, and the words hit harder than any bullet.
I look at Darius, expecting relief, or maybe gratitude, or maybe just the old, reliable indifference.
But what I see is something else, pure, undiluted emptiness, like the inside of a spent shell. His grip on my arm tightens, not out of fear, but as if anchoring himself to the fact that we’re still here.
I want to say something.
I want to tell him it’s over, or that we did good, or that I’m sorry about Cap, or that I’m glad he was the one next to me. But nothing comes out.
The rest is a blur, more officers, paramedics, questions I can’t answer. Darius lets go of my arm only when forced, only when they physically pull us apart to check for wounds.
We stand in the hallway, blinking against the emergency lights, and everything smells like ammonia and scorched rubber and smoke.
I’m still shaking, maybe forever.
There are news crews outside. There are more sirens.
They say one shooter is dead, but there's a second, still out there, still unaccounted for.
They say help is here, but their eyes keep scanning the hallways like they don't believe their own words.
But Darius and I lock eyes one last time, and we both know it’s not over. Not by a mile.
———
When they ask how we survived, I tell them the truth, we ran. We ran as fast as we could, and we didn’t look back.
The reporters want a hero, but there isn't one.
Only the memory of a captain we couldn't save, a handprint on my arm that I know will never go away, and the knowledge that somewhere out there, the second shooter is still breathing.
We made it out. That’s all.
Tomorrow, there will be therapy. There will be a team meeting, and more questions, and maybe even another practice.
But tonight, it’s just me and the silence, and the memory of how it felt to be wanted alive, even for a second.
And for now, that’s enough.